Forget darts – I’ve become snooker loopy. Here’s why it’s the perfect January spectator sport

The darts crowd may finally be shaking off their collective hangovers following Luke Littler’s victory at the World Championship earlier this month, but in my house, January brings forth a much more sedate sport that’s simply perfect for this cruellest of months.

While the darts is characterised by lairy booze sessions, questionable fancy dress and avid chaos, the Masters snooker tournament, which takes place over seven days every January, is the ultimate tonic for frazzled brains struggling to remember what they do for a living after three days leave over the festive period.

Discounting the welcome cheers that bookend the start and finish of a match, tournament snooker at this level is largely characterised by a reverential hush that’s only broken by the clack of the balls reverberating off each other, the dramatic gasps from the crowd after an easy shot is missed and the distinctive Dublin burr of commentator and former World Champion Ken Doherty (forget OnlyFans – I would legitimately pay money for weekly ASMR content from this man). In a world of excessive, unnecessary noise, the prevailing peace is the ultimate pacifier for my world-weary soul.

Don’t confuse the absence of clamour with a lack of drama, however. Out on the floor, there’s absolutely nowhere to hide. Getting whipped? Sit tight in your chair and focus on controlling your facial tics as the camera zooms in on the sweat gathering on your upper lip. In a game where mental control is as crucial as cue command, there’s no place for the histrionics that play out on championship football pitches up and down the country. Here, the poker face reigns supreme.

And for a sport where matches can last for hours – the 1985 World Snooker Championship Final between Steve Davis and Dennis Taylor famously concluded after an incredible 14 hours and 50 minutes – the tension that builds up to critical moments is genuinely electric. Watching players hold their nerve with so much to lose or gain, for hours on end, makes for weirdly scintillating television.

While snooker is a game that many people still associate with dark pub backrooms, there’s largely a diplomacy conveyed by players at the top that is often absent in a sport dominated by men. While the current scene has its characters – notably Ronnie O’Sullivan, whose charisma, complexity and white-hot talent make him the best in the game – off the baize, contenders tend to be reflective and quiet gents who speak out about their struggles with mental health, like Mark Selby, or body image, like Mark Allen. It’s refreshing – and it undeniably makes it easier for this female fan to root for them.

Compared with rugby union, tennis and golf, it’s also a rare sport where contenders from working-class backgrounds are well represented. Those with financial help and nepotistic connections undoubtedly accrue advantages in almost any sector, so those who succeed without this support are always worth celebrating.

It’s not perfect, however. In addition to the complete absence of women players competing at this top level (any gender is eligible to participate if they qualify) arguably due to the shocking discrepancies in prize pots and sponsorship which would allow women to come through, there’s also a disquieting lack of black professional players. Rory McLeod, the single black elite player on the circuit, described the sport as being “in the dark ages” in 2022 and accused snooker’s governing body of “doing nothing” to change this. There have also been several scandals around match-fixing.

But there’s simply no disputing the sheer skill and showmanship on display in the top tiers of this sport, with the Masters tournament only inviting the top 16 ranked snooker players in the world. From 147s – the highest possible score a player can achieve in a single frame – to exhibition shots (showy or “trick” shots), ambidextrous players, killer comebacks and a generous serving of luck, the Masters is a pure pleasure to watch for this lapsed pool player.

Couple this with the customs that fans have come to know and love – an inexplicable profusion of flying insects surrounding the table; Bulgarian referee Desislava Bozhilova’s repeated exhortations for audience members to be quiet and keep their phones on silent; commentators describing players as having “wonderful temperaments” as if they’re labradors or race horses; the generic lad-rock music that so many players select for their entrance into the arena; the Glastonbury-esque scramble to try and bag tickets for the Crucible – and it’s like settling down with a familiar and beloved family. Snooker may not offer the high-octane thrills and spills of tennis or Formula 1, but for this perimenopausal woman in her forties, it’s plenty.