In today's Britain, physical spaces patronised by only one gender are growing rarer. Inclusivity is the order of the day and discourse continues to break down the binary concept of gender. Moreover in today’s society predominantly male spaces tend to inherit a negative perception amongst scores of the younger generation, who see a future without them as the way to go forward. Discourse tends to assume that traditionally male-only spaces harbour antiquated ideals of British masculinity and the remnants of patriarchalism. Regardless of the validity of this notion, the single-gender subculture is on the decline in Britain, as are the physical spaces which house them.
While the evolution of cultural and social perceptions is never an unnatural occurrence, nor an inherently negative process, documenting the reality behind present perceptions of ‘the antiquated’ is an important undertaking; for posterity’s sake as much as the value of remembering objectively. This is especially true within traditionally gendered subcultures. Take for example the snooker player. A classic example of a male-designated, blokey subculture. The idea of the British 'bloke' inspires as much contempt as it is celebrated. Perhaps more. Despite this, the snooker club has historically served as a key community centre for men to socialise, relax and for lack of a better word, blokes.
The game enjoyed a mainstream cultural era in the 1970s and 80s when the BBC chose to televise the sport in a drive to best utilise the merits of TV's switch to colour. Hence the sport attracted the bulk of its fans forty-fifty odd years ago. This is the main reason for the perception of snooker, and cue sports in general, as a game for the older generations. With this, it goes without saying that during the 1970s and 80s, Britain was a much different place, as were the prevailing ideals of masculinity and the position of gender in society at the time. Snooker clubs, amongst other spaces, act today not only as a waning example of a predominantly male space, but as a palimpsest for the ideas and culture of generations gone by.
In terms of appearance and atmosphere, the hall of a snooker club is a highly liminal space, (also contributing to my interest in photographing them).There is a distinct synesthesia that one imagines when picturing a snooker/pool hall; the smell of old carpet, cigarette smoke and ale; combined with a scarcity of natural light, contrasted by harsh toplighting above the tables. The snooker/pool hall is one where stories of a Britain before my time are told by men who experienced being a British man in a far more different time. Stepping into the dim lighting and hearing the low but punchy smacks of cue on-ball is akin to stepping back in time. Being inside a snooker hall inclines you to believe that the price of a pint is no longer more than £1, and the term ULEZ is yet to be used by anyone other than marauding homophobes.
I did not take these photographs to judge the concept of gendered social environments. Nor do I wish to scrutinise concepts of British masculinity from the past or present. The focus is on the documentation of a cultural space with a finite remaining existence; the visual articulation of its receding nature. A secondary objective is that these photos can facilitate reflection and/or broach future consideration of both our era’s and the past's way of habituating places for men to be men.
Whilst seeking inspiration for this story, I visited Ludham Snooker Club. Ludham is a tiny village, tucked away near the coast in rural Norfolk. The first time I made the drive out there, a locked and deserted building met me, despite the opening hours listed on the website assuring me this would not be the case. Still, a local passerby assured me I would be able to take a look inside if I popped into the village and ‘gave Richard a shout’. Needing more context than this, I decided to come back another day.
The village hall, (the club’s HQ) was built in 1922. According to Richard Floate, the club’s current chairman, its snooker tables have been inside ever since, he showed me an inscription under the club’s tables proving their age. Floate tells me that in the hundred years of snooker since, generations of villagers have been socialising and connecting across age divides over the green felt. Folate himself, currently works in the village’s carpet shop and says he regularly sells carpets to pensioners who remember playing at Ludham town-hall ‘back in their day’.
Ludham is a microcosm of my thoughts on this subject; quaint, old-worldly and wonderfully genuine, the Snooker Club there, like so many others, has served as a place for men of the community to socialise and play. If Ludham Town Hall’s walls could talk, they would be fluent in a hundred years worth of masculine language and attitude. Sadly, the club’s membership is following the nationwide trend, declining. “Kids are doing other things these days… smartphones and whatnot.” says Richard, bisecting his sentence around his cue stroke.
I also visited ‘Pinches Cue Club’, a pool and snooker venue owned by former professional snooker player Barry Pinches. That Friday I attended the club’s weekly pool tournament. Players drink cheap pints of lager and play or watch from 6 until the bitter end. I did not stay to see the end of proceedings but I am told it usually takes until around midnight for a winner to be declared. Six hours of pool!
Before Barry stepped in to take ownership in 2021, the club was known as Clarke’s Snooker Club. locals contend that it was Norwich’s longest-established snooker club. The atmosphere that Friday was warm and friendly. I got the sense that the club’s membership was fairly close knit; every player seemed to be familiar with one-another, as if to suggest that they played together every week. There was no tinge of tensity to the competitiveness despite the cash prize on offer, again a testament to the cordial, community air of the club.
The age demographic there was, to be expected, on the middle to old-age side, though surprisingly there was a nine-year-old competing too. I find it interesting to suppose how much he will see the club scene change over the next couple of decades should he stick with it. Rest assured, if his parents and grandparents inspired his initial interest in cue sports, the scene of the future is not going to be one they would recognise.
There is a chance that all of the above is a product of my reading too deep into a stable if not perhaps stagnant subculture. Certainly, the gender-based discourse at the outset of this article is probably making the pretentious assumptions that A) snooker clubs don’t see female participation, and B) there is a decisive reckoning of the single gender subculture actually occurring. Nonetheless, to me, the Snooker Club currently occupies the same category of beloved though anachronistic British emblems as victorian sea-side towns, toilet condom dispensers and highstreet bookies. I wanted firstly to take photos in a way that I thought vocalised the aspect of finite remaining relevance and my fondness for the subject matter, and secondly use a brief moment to consider the wider context of this change to a British subculture and male institution.
