Smashing darts
If Jaggerfee is a microcosm of life with the bad bits taken out, Darts is an analogy of life itself. Men physically unprepared for success, taking on improbable odds at hitting a target just too small and far away for them to reach. Work with me on this.
The conclusion of the World Darts Championships last night saw Raymond “Barney” Barneveld once again take the title from Ronnie “Lambchop” Baxter. The final was a rather mundane affair to be told. Barney’s smooth metronomic style rode roughshod over Lambchop’s more stuttering oeuvre. Though he made a good fist of it, Lambchop simply expended too much energy struggling to stay with Barney after the saggy Dutchman ran away with those crucial opening sets.
Don’t diss darts, it’s a modern game. Gone are the days where games were called off because the cigarette smoke meant you couldn’t see the board from the oche (the bit where you stand). No longer do the players consume gallons of beer during matches. Self styled Milk Bar Kid Keith Deller put paid to that tradition. It’s a modern cutting edge game for modern cutting edge people.
A number of years back there was a split in ranks of world darts. The well known names, Enfant Terrible Eric Bristow, Jockie Wilson, John Lowe et al deserted the Embassy World Darts Championships for the more lucrative climes of Sky Television. The Embassy, as it was known to those in the know, was in crisis.
The response was to invoke more razzamatazz into The Championships. Go-go girls entertain the crowd between matches, the players enter the arena wearing costumes suited to their fearsome nicknames, though sadly Ronnie failed to appear dressed as a sheep. Players have glamorous wives, ‘if it’s not shiny, I’m not wearing it’ and galleons of gold jewellery from Argos. They even have intro music; the squabbles over who got Simply The Best must have been fierce. The crowd dress as their favourite character and wave signs with subtle puns like “Mine’s A Double”. This year the BBC employed a high resolution slo-mo camera to capture the flight of crucial ‘Arras’ (arrows for you in the posh seats). They’ve even employed sound effects giving a sense of drama to that final double or the big 180.
SWOOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOSSSHHHH! BAM! KABOSH!
But when the serious business begins, it’s back to the traditions. The players strip off their costumes to reveal their shiny shirts with their names on the back and we’re back in safe territory again.
"LET'S PLAY DARTS" fanfare's the MC and crowd in unison.
My particular favourite tradition is the three old ladies, dressed like they’ve been waiting for an interview at Pontins since 1956. They sit there with huge bits of paper keeping score (“Computers haven’t got to darts yet” said the commentator yesterday). It’s very quaint, and I’m sure they take huge pride in what they’re doing, but what I don’t quite understand is why it needs three of them. It might be to cover each other for toilet breaks I suppose, or maybe its just for safety.
“Maureen, remind me, what’s three seventeens again?”
“Oh I don’t know Maud, I’ll ask Joan….”
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