NEVER KING WILLIE, BUT ALWAYS THE CAT’S WHISKERS Thorne missed his chance for greatness but that ‘tash made him No.1 with the snooker public

BENEATH that crested dome and Max Wall haircut, snooker legend Willie Thorne wore his Groucho Marx moustache like a crown.

Among sporting heroes, from cricketers Graham Gooch and Merv Hughes to Formula One’s Nigel Mansell and Craig Stadler, the former US Masters champion, Thorne’s enviable ‘tash’ was the cat’s whiskers.

Surfing the wave of snooker’s Pot Black era, when no other sport was more galvanised by the advent of colour television, Thorne achieved the contradiction of wearing the crown although he was never the king.

And if his descent into a gambling addiction proved a chronic weakness, public forgiveness was usually available on credit – just as unscrupulous moneylenders sustained his habit on the premise that a church debt was the devil’s salary.

Thorne, one of the first snooker players to hit a 147 maximum break in professional competition, has died at the age of 66 in Spain after his battle with leukaemia was complicated by respiratory failure.

If the national under-16 champion 50 years ago never converted his youthful promise into domination of the green baize, his charisma transcended sport. When a ballroom plodder with two left feet was required for light entertainment on Saturday evening prime-time TV, Thorne was a willing fall-guy on Strictly Come Dancing.

When Cockney geezers Chas and Dave churned out their hit Snooker Loopy with a motley band of backing vocalists from Barry Hearn’s Matchroom stable, Thorne’s cameo line – “Perhaps

I ought to chalk it” – raised a laugh. And, sadly, when one of Leicester’s most famous sporting sons, along with his lifelong pal Gary Lineker and Peter Shilton, had his chance to land a major title, he blew it.

Leading Steve Davis 13-8 in the UK Open final, he missed a straightforward blue when 59-50 ahead in the 22nd frame as his mind wandered towards the £24,000 winner’s cheque.

It was the turning point of his career.

Davis seized his reprieve to win 16-14. Years later, he reflected: “Davis was almost impossible to beat and I had outplayed him, destroyed him, up to that stage.

“It always hurt me that I let that match go because I could have gone on to become a top-two or topthree player in the world.”

If Thorne missed his stop on the path to greatness, his amiable nature always connected with the public.

Throughout his career, he used the cue his mother Nancy gave him for his 14th birthday – costing precisely £3, two shillings and sixpence – after his schoolboy exploration of the full-size table at Anstey Conservative Club in Leicester had revealed a gift for compiling century breaks.

Within six months, he was the best player at the club – and by 26 he had opened his own snooker hall in the city.

His friendship with Lineker extended to chauffeuring the England captain to games and, during one purple patch in the 1990s, it even became a superstition.

Every time Thorne drove his mate to White Hart Lane in his Mercedes with the snooker-customised number plate A147 PRO, Lineker would invariably score for Tottenham.

With the effortless charm that captured the heart of beauty queen Jill Saxby, the Miss Great Britain winner who became his wife, Thorne never lost his gift for selfdeprecation, saying: “My career started very quickly – and slowed just as rapidly.”

He was not the first sportsman who fell prey to the demons of addiction, and he won’t be the last. But when his gambling habit took root, he threw money around like “confetti” and blew up to £20,000 on a horse.

After his debts spiralled to £1million six years ago, he admitted planning suicide after leaving home with a knife and driving to a hotel, but his wife found him and saved his life.

He played the game with enduring good humour and later conveyed his enjoyment into our living rooms as a BBC commentator. And one of his last acts was to send Ronnie O’sullivan (above) a message – “I love you” – from his intensive care bed after the five-time world champion cultivated a lockdown moustache as a tribute to his stricken pal.

Pot Black? No – we will always wonder what might have happened if Willie Thorne had potted that blue.