The Wiltshire Wanderers

It all began in a backroom of  The King’s Chalk —a fading pub in  Calne , where the beer was warm, the cues were warped, and the air thick with bravado and bad habits. Tim,  The CueSlinger of Cymru , had arrived on two wheels and a mission. He wasn’t looking for fame, or trophies, or even a decent pint. He was looking for allies—people who understood that the game was bigger than the table. That every frame was a chance to make a statement. That you could pot balls and protect the planet at the same time. That night, the pub was hosting a charity doubles tournament. The prize? A crate of lager and eternal bragging rights. The catch? You had to pair up with a stranger. That’s when it happened. James, quiet and focused, caught Tim’s eye with the way he re-racked the balls—perfect geometry, no wasted motion. Dave, already offering people lifts home in his campervan before the first break. Anthony, running his mouth, but backing it up with impossible shots and a biodegradable...

Born in the shadow of the Black Mountains, raised among the coal tips and chapel echoes of South Wales, the CueSlinger wasn’t always a hero. His first cue was salvaged from a skip, his first table crooked and chalky—but his eye? Razor sharp. His real name is  Tim —but to most who cross his path on the felt, he’s simply  The CueSlinger of Cymru . At 30, he crossed the bridge into the West Country, not to leave his roots behind, but to plant new ones. There, amid cider orchards and secondhand bookshops, something changed. He realized the world was burning its candle at both ends—and someone had to pot more than just balls. He had to start potting problems. Now 53, The CueSlinger of Cymru is a legend whispered about in pool halls and community gardens alike. He plays with a custom cue made from reclaimed yew, waxed with local beeswax, and balanced like the scales of justice. His signature notebook isn’t just for shot diagrams—it’s a tactical manifesto of sustainability: pub sketc...