Darts and minds

The difference between talking about something and actually doing it is vast. Those who can, do, those who can’t teach. Or talk about it. Or something other than doing it. The point is, I’ve spent a great part of my life talking about doing various things, including studying hard at University, giving up smoking, keeping in touch with parents/grandparents, etc., but I haven’t actually managed to do any of the above.

Sometimes I feel that, if I talk about something enough, it means I’ve actually already done it – especially when it comes to applying myself or doing something I’m not all that keen to do. But in most cases, it’s sheer prevarication. A declaration of future intent, with no commitment as to when that will be.

For two or three years, myself and various others had discussed the ‘idea’ of going to see the Embassy World Darts at the Lakeside in Surrey. This, usually, was just after the tournament had finished, over a couple of pints. We had watched championships unfold from the comfort of our own living rooms, talked up the excitement, marvelled at the spectacle, gazed enviously at the crowd that was lapping up the atmosphere and, it seemed, a not inconsiderable amount of beer.

When January 2001 came around and we were actually going to see the darts live, the thought that it might all be too much began to creep into my mind. We are not your average darts fan, we are not serious about this at all. For most people, this is their annual trip to worship their idols. For us it was a post-ironic, post-modern, piss-taking day out, going to see the animals at the zoo, as it were, with the odd beer thrown in.

I’m not trying to be patronising, but darts is an incredibly working class game and, broadly speaking, has an uneducated following. We are not like them. None of our party are working class, not really. We’re not particularly rich, but we’re educated, we don’t get our hands dirty when we are at work unless a pen leaks, we read broadsheet newspapers. There’s a very good chance that most of the Lakeside audience don’t even know what broadsheet means.

We met at Waterloo station 20 minutes later than planned and, after buying our tickets to Farnborough, repaired to Bonaparte’s bar for a swift pint to get the ball rolling.

Boarding the 12.15, we sought out the smoking compartment and, to our delight, it was located at the centre of the train. It resembled a cross-channel ferry discoteque. We took our seats around one of the tables and began to get excited about what lay ahead – nine hours of darts. Imagine the suspense.

The usual stories proliferated – tales of Thurlow’s drunken exploits, injuries acquired over the years, recently-heard jokes and the obligatory progress report on Luton Town’s woeful football season. We were joined in the smoking car by a surly looking woman of about fifty, who we guessed incorrectly was also on her way to watch the Embassy World Darts Championship. She listened to her personal stereo and put her cigarette out on the compartment’s already charred carpet, much to our disgust. Mick labelled her a rotter immediately.

I wondered how many more of that ilk we would encounter. We were imposters, gatecrashing a rotters annual convention. We were going to have to be quiet, because it could turn nasty very quickly.

As the train was pulling into Farnborough station, Thurlow decided to go to the toilet, but was dissuaded by the rest of us. He later agreed with our warning that he would end up in Southampton if he did.

Banter ranged from the forthcoming afternoon’s line-up to the hideous taste of the local area’s residents, most notably the ‘mansion’ just outside the country club. It was a disgusting edifice, a pantheon of poor taste, and, in our best gruff Essex accents, we eagerly aped the thinking behind such a construction.

"Right, I wanna mansion, right next to where they ‘ave the darts, in modern red brick, with as many Greek-style plaques as you can fit in the walls, with ballustrades, and a couple of pillars outside the front door. Course I can afford it…" etc.

On leaving the taxi, we quickly shut up for fear of antagonising those who would have given their right gonad to live in such a house. We agreed it was probably best if we didn’t laud it over our fellow darts viewers – they may not have had any taste and might not have done as well at school as they could, but they didn’t lack size or aggression and were probably not the kind of people with whom you could reason.

When we entered the bear-pit, our fears were allayed, principally because no-one seemed to be in the slightest bit interested in what we said or how we behaved, they were all far to engrossed in the match in progress – Mervyn ‘pin head’ King versus the pig farmer from Bristol, Chris Mason. It was a barnstorming match to kick off with, both players rattling in the 180s and hitting doubles with alarming regularity. We settled down at our table and began drinking, slotting in comfortably with those around us.

We all slipped into ‘darts fan’ mode quite happily. I imagine the beer helped, but it wasn’t difficult to see why we had been so impressed with what we had witnessed on television in previous years.

The next match, featuring the boring John ‘Boy’ Walton and the Welshman Richie Davies, couldn’t possibly live up to the opener. In fact, we were having trouble concentrating at all, so engrossed were we in drinking and mucking about with the joke arrows, ‘knives’ and ‘bolts through the head’ that we had brought with us.

Mick and I did try and bring some decorum to the proceedings, pointing out quite wrongly that we were here to watch the darts, not just get pissed and fool around with toy objects. But it was incredibly boring. Little did we know we were watching the eventual winner of the championship.

The most exciting thing to happen during this match was myself and Mick meeting last year’s winner Ted ‘The Count’ Hankey – an enormous man who looks like a cross between Ray Reardon and Jabba the Hut. A very pleasant and affable bloke nonetheless, who was quite prepared to shake hands and talk darts with the great unwashed.

Davy Richardson and Jez Porter livened up the afternoon further with a reasonable five-setter, but they were both qualifiers – unknown to any of ourselves. Richardson looked a bit like Michael Stipe from REM and Porter looked uncannily like a bloke with whom I used to work. We shouted for Stipe, but with very little enthusiasm. In the end, Porter won, but we weren’t too bothered either way.

By the time the interval arrived, we were all well on our way. The ushers shepherded us to the bar, in which about ten dart boards had been set up for the punters. I had bought a set of Bobby George darts and was keen to try them out, but it looked like I’d be in for a long wait judging by the number of ‘dartists’ already at the oches, so I decided to just drink instead.

Bobby George is the most typical darts player you are ever likely to see. He is fat, he has huge arms, he has obviously had far too much to drink in his time, he has a middle aged woman’s haircut, his voice sounds like he’s been gargling broken glass and he has a complete disregard for English grammar, which makes him say things like: "The boy King, he thrown well". He is a legend in darts, although I’m not sure he’s actually won anything significant.

One of the really surprising things about the day was how open and friendly everyone seemed to be. I had absolutely no qualms about turning round to anyone and talking to them – about darts, obviously – this was not the arena for discussions on the contemporary political system in South Korea or the like. There was no shortage of willing participants in darts conversations, and by the end of the interval I had already made five or six new ‘friends’.

Myself and Mick meandered back to the complex accompanied by a marauding throng of Dutch darts fans. We ascertained that they were here to support Co Stompe rather than Raymond Barneveld, who they described as arrogant and deeply unpopular in the Netherlands.

When they told us that Co Stompe is a tram driver in Amsterdam, we decided that we would support him against Andy ‘The Pie Man’ Smith – a compatriot of ours but nowhere near as appealing. Stompe is always deadly serious as well, and he has a unique dart-throwing action that looks like he is trying to waft a wasp away from his face. This, combined with his beanpole shape and cumbersome glasses, meant he became an instant favourite of ours.

To be honest, we’d already earmarked Stompe as one to follow, having spotted him on television in previous years. His real name is something like Jacobinus Willhelm Stompe – surely the most grand moniker ever to have thrown a dart in living memory.
His nickname is, predictably given his build, the Matchstick, and he was given a three-month suspension from darts by the Belgium Darts Authority after traces of Marijuana were found in his blood during a tournament. Untold kudos.

Smith took the first set, then Stompe nailed 180 with his first three arrows in two of the legs in the second set, which he won 3-2.

He secured the third set 3-1 and, as Smith's confidence was beginning to drain from him, our voices were cheering louder, joined by the swelling Dutch contingent. The match was no longer in doubt – Stompe romped home three sets to one.

But the best was yet to come. Finland’s Marko Pusa versus Colin Monk was a classic. Colin Monk is a bit of a favourite with the UK crowd, but we had visited Finland the previous year and felt not a small amount of affinity with him.

Monk looked to be going out without a fight when he stood two sets down and a leg in arrears in the third, but he dug in and took the set 3-1. In the fourth, Pusa looked as if he had lost his way and at one point was throwing at the wrong double – the match moved to 2-2 in sets.

The fifth set looked to be going Monk’s way when he broke Pusa’s advantage in the fifth and then went two legs ahead. But the Finn got back to 2-2 to force a tie-break.

Pusa won nearest the bull for the right to throw first and hit just 41 twice in a row, but a timely 180 left him with double top and he checked out on double ten with his very last dart. We were speechless. An amazing encounter that was really the climax for us. The next match didn’t come close, apart from Wayne Mardle’s Hawaiian shirt. We were already far too drunk to register any real interest.

As the day drew to a close, the antics became odder. Mick stood in the lobby trying to persuade everyone to let him push in the queue for the cloakroom, with limited success, he was surprised to learn. Then came the coup de grâce…bundles. Approximately twenty grown men who not only should have known better but did know better, half English, half Dutch, began to square up to eachother The stand-off was not threatening, however. All that was at issue was who was going to dive on the floor first as part of an international game of bundles. While Mick and a large Dutch chap discussed this jovially, I decided enough was enough and dived headlong onto the floor, shouting "bundles". This was followed by more shouts of "bundles" and what seemed like an endless mass of writhing, slightly overweight bodies piling up on my back.

The doormen were concerned. I’m not sure they had been trained for this type of behaviour. One of them, sensing possible danger, approached Thurlow officiously and was about to administer a warning. "It’s bundles, mate", Thurlow pre-empted. "Oh, right you are," replied the bouncer. Bundles is recognised around the world as a non-threatening sport, usually carried out by men who are drunk. The doorman knew this, and waved us on our merry way.

We headed back to the station, talking darts with the unmistakeable enthusiasm of the recently converted. All professed a desire to go next year. Were we really as impressed as we said? I think so. I certainly watched avidly as the rest of the tournament unfolded, as did my fellow attendees. Maybe the gap between talking about something and doing it isn’t as big as I’d thought.