It’s been a depressing few months, hasn’t it? The papers are full of stories about British decline. In such trying times it’s a comfort to turn to an activity in which Britain still rules. I speak, of course, of darts. Most of the world’s greatest games were made and built in Britain but in football and cricket and rugby and so much else the rest of the world long since over-took the original masters. That’s the problem with globalisation.
Darts, however, remains a Great British Success Story. For all that darting missionaries preach the gospel of the oche overseas, this country still reigns supreme on the dartboard. The rise of China threatens to overwhelm Britain’s traditional supremacy in snooker, but even though a Japanese darter won a preliminary round match at this year’s championships, Britain retains its comparative advantage when it comes to barrel-chested middle-aged men flinging 20 gram pieces of tungsten at a tiny target.
A trip to the PDC World Darts Championships at Alexandra Palace in north London offers a reminder that this country can still do some things rather well. Here the modern anthropologist will witness tribal rites peculiar to these islands. There, for example, is the authentic dress of the British male at play: large men dressed as babies, policemen, poncho-wearing Bolivian bandits, a gaggle of superheroes and, in the corner there, a chap dressed as a banana. Outside the arena, there’s a brisk trade in ‘Bellies and Bullseyes’ darts-shirts that will cover, if not flatter, even the most fashion-backward figure. Drink is sold by the pitcher and for just £15 the worst pizza you’ll eat all year is delivered to your table. It’s useful for soaking up spilt lager.
There are times, particularly in the evening sessions after a hard day’s drinking and darting, that the crowd reminds one of the Duke of Wellington’s verdict on his own army: ‘I don’t know what effect these men will have on the enemy, but by God, they terrify me.’ More charitably, one likes to imagine these punters are the descendents of those English yeomen who saw off the French at Agincourt. Indeed, one theory of darting history holds that the game began as long ago as the Middle Ages. What is certain is that, like so many other sports, darts began to be codified in Victorian times: a Lancashire carpenter by the name of Brian Gamlin is credited with creating the modern dartboard as long ago as 1896. These days it is enjoying a boom not seen since the time when mastodons such as Eric Bristow and Jocky Wilson bestrode the land and, in the latter’s case, drank it dry too. (Wilson, alas, has fallen on hard times and, setting an example for the Prime Minister, is now a recluse in his home town of Kirkcaldy.)
Darts has, giggle ye not, gone kind of glamorous. Flanked by dolly birds, our portly gladiators enter the arena accompanied by a laser show and the cacophonous racket of their individual ‘walk on’ music. (Snap’s ‘The Power’ for Phil Taylor, Tony Christie’s ‘Is This the Way To Amarillo’ for Peter ‘One Dart’ Manley, ‘Eye of the Tiger’ by Survivor for the great Dutchman Raymond van Barneveld.) Meanwhile, on stage, four scantily clad maidens gyrate their stuff throwing moves that encourage the more adventurous players to join them in a spot of booty-shaking before the action begins. The atmosphere is as enthusiastically bawdy as a medieval banquet and the betting as brisk as at a Georgian prize fight.
The American writer David Halberstam once claimed that Michael Jordan was better at playing basketball than anyone else on earth was good at anything else. A similar claim may now be made for Stoke-on-Trent’s Phil Taylor. He is the Bradman or, to offer a more physically appropriate comparison, the Babe Ruth of darts. When he defeated the Australian ‘Wizard of Oz’ Simon Whitlock in this year’s final Taylor pocketed a cheque for £200,000 and, more importantly, his 15th world title. Not bad for a man who began his working life making ceramic toilet-handles.
It is yet another example of shameful BBC bias that Taylor has never featured prominently in the corporation’s annual Sports Review of the Year, far less been voted Sports Personality of the Year. Perhaps this oversight is explained by the fact that Taylor only appears on Sky, whereas the BBC still covers the rump BDO circuit. (This is not the place to wade through the whys and wherefores of the Great Schism in the darting universe.) Of course if you’re the scoffing type you might sneer that darts is a pastime, not a sport. But Steve Davis was, however oxymoronically, Sports Personality of the Year in 1988.
For that matter, it’s regrettable that there will be no ‘Demonstration Sports’ at the London Olympics. What could have been a better fit for 2012 than darts? It is, after all, the Olympic Games, not the Olympic Sports. (Crown-green bowls could usefully replace rhythmic gymnastics too, but that is for another day.)
Not that you need actually to attend the darts to enjoy the circus. For the television viewer, darts is a perfect spectator sport. Every nuance is picked up by the cameras and there’s the pleasure of hearing the action described by Sid Waddell, without doubt Britain’s best sports commentator. Waddell, a Cambridge graduate who first dreamt up the idea of televised darts (and shove ha’penny) in the 1970s, brings a lyrically absurd approach to commentary that is irreplaceable.
Among his verbal felicities this year, delivered in the purest Geordie: ‘Taylor is more intense than a Bedouin tribe’, and ‘playing Taylor is like trying to eat candyfloss in a wind-tunnel’. Good as these are, they don’t quite rise to the level set by the greatest image ever conjured by a sports commentator, Waddell’s recognition that ‘When Alexander of Macedonia was 33 he cried salt tears because there were no more worlds to conquer — Bristow is only 27.’
The only cloud in the darting firmament is the unworthy thought that the game’s popularity has reached the point at which politicians will jump on the darts bandwagon. Indeed, there are signs that this may be imminent: I understand that David Cameron is a fan of Keith ‘The Milky Bar Kid’ Deller, the man most famous for defeating Bristow in the 1983 world championship final. But since the Tories have divested themselves of much of their Thatcher-era baggage, perhaps modern Dave needs to find a new hero of the oche? When he does, this too will be a sign of the times. Darts is back and still a bullseye.
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