CAROLE WATTERSON is one of these people who never quite got the credit they deserved. Her husband Mike, a snooker player and promoter, probably wouldn’t have gone near the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield had it not been for the fact that his wife had recently seen a play performed there, and, more importantly, knew that he was seeking out a new venue to stage the World Professional Snooker Championship. The rest, as they say, is history.

I've often wondered what would have happened to the tournament, and snooker in general, had he opted to remain at the Wythenshawe Forum (where in 1976, Ray Reardon had beaten Alex Higgins), or had gone up market, to Middlesbrough Town Hall.

As it was, even the moniker "theatre" lent itself to the drama that would unfold over the years. Today, despite several attempts to move or hijack snooker’s biggest tournament away from the Steel City, the Crucible will celebrate its 40th anniversary hosting the sport’s blue riband event.

I was there to celebrate its 20th (and 21st) birthdays, albeit thanks to the sponsors more than the governing body at that time, who refused me entry. That may have been because of several writs flying around at the time. Thankfully 25 and 30 years passed without ban or incident. But, even though I have 17 days to aim for over the next few weeks, I don’t think I’ll be there.

It’s not that I no longer like snooker. In fact, reading through "The Crucible’s Greatest Matches," a highly recommended read from Hector Nunns, I realise just how many unprintable tales from backstage and beyond I have stored away. Who knows, I might reveal all some day, although we might find ourselves back in writ territory by page seven.

What has changed for me, as it has done for many of "the sweaty socks" (as Crucible veteran John ‘Tex’ Hennessy warmly and lovingly referred to those from north of Hadrian’s Wall), is that while for a couple of decades, you’d be virtually guaranteed having a story at the end of this potting marathon (ie. the winner), Scotland just hasn’t been at the races of late.

John Higgins was our last winner and finalist, in 2011. More damaging, however, is that the newspaper industry just doesn’t have the levels of staff it once did. There was a time when every paper had a dedicated snooker writer. Today, you couldn’t afford a writer to be off diary, spending 17 days in Sheffield. Imagine. It could be great fun, especially if your man was winning.

John Higgins and Graeme Dott kept interest levels high during the noughties, while in the 90’s the Crucible belonged to one man, Stephen Hendry, although even when he was winning his seven titles, he wasn’t one for kicking his heels in Sheffield.

In his pomp, Hendry would get his first-round tie over and done with on the opening Saturday, then head back to Scotland immediately to partake in another three or four days of solid practice, with his own creature comforts around him, before heading back down to Yorkshire to take on another victim.

I’ll be honest, there were times when I’d interrupt my stay to go and do other things closer to hand, like cricket, Manchester United, even the Rugby League Challenge Cup final at Wembley, just to stop the madness setting in, although occasionally it would come looking for you. 1996 being such a case in point.

Firstly Ronnie O’Sullivan played left-handed against Alain Robidoux, upsetting the French-Canadian, who sounded off at the press conference, which was picked up by a young, female BBC reporter, who asked Ronnie for his version of events, who cheekily inquired about what colour of underwear she was wearing. She then decided to tell the assembled press corps and duly made it on to the front page of several red tops the next day.

Ronnie, meanwhile, progressed to the semi-finals, by which time he’d assaulted the assistant press officer, been fined, and almost kicked out of the tournament. I was asked to give evidence at a hastily convened disciplinary meeting and told not to move or speak to anyone, even my fellow captive – chain-smoking referee John Street, who almost every minute would complain about not knowing why he even needed to be here. After four hours, even I was wondering what we were still doing there.

Eventually, I called downstairs, to be informed around 11.30pm, that the panel, Ronnie and his brief had left a good few hours earlier.

Next day, Ronnie gave a press conference, all cameras trained on him, with me just a few feet to the side. It was a good interview, a contrite O’Sullivan answering every question asked, honestly. Meanwhile at the back of the press room, two World Snooker officials were jumping up and down, waving, and signalling with their fingers across their throat, that they wanted the media interrogation ‘cut.’ An instruction, from my soon-to-be former employers, I was happy to ignore – probably because I’d also been instructed by the sponsors to "milk it for what it was worth."

For the record, Hendry beat Peter Ebdon in the final.

While the Crucible always had a special, almost magical feel when you arrived there, year on year, your love affair with the place would wear off the longer the tournament progressed.

But the players and the audiences love it, as do television. As for Hector’s book, I found myself absorbed in some of the highlighted matches; Hendry’s 1994 win over Jimmy White, when the Scot – with a broken arm – beat Jimmy White, the darling of the English tabloids. Indeed, one or two of their operatives were in the middle of phoning over their copy on White’s victory, when, inexplicably, he missed a routine black off the spot. Then there was Hendry v O’Sullivan in their 1999 semi-final, a match more akin to two heavyweights slugging out. The late Paul Hunter’s epic semi against former winner Ken Doherty also deserves a chapter.

Hunter, the golden boy of snooker, looked all set for the final, only for the Dubliner to mount the most amazing comeback. Again, many of my English colleagues were distraught.

Me? Oh, I felt sorry for Paul. But that was before calculating my bonus from a certain Irish bookmaker for having two of their sponsored players in the final.

You see, snooker is all about them breaks.