Saturday night, in an East London pub, a white enclave in a black area, self-conscious enough to have a bar billiards table. Two men with an abundance of hair play a game which they are pretending not to take seriously. One messes up his shot and curses. He marches with great purpose to the red pool table in another corner of the pub, and there, precisely, deliberately and with great thoroughness, chalks his cue. Satisfied, he strides back, flicks his hair from his eyes and resumes his game.
He still loses.
