TheOche.com

By Dartoid:

There is a scene in David Nobbs’ Cupid’s Dart (Arrow Books, 2008) where Oxford philosophy professor Alan Calcutt happens upon the World Darts Championship on television. He’s recently hooked up with darts groupie, Angie Bedwell, half his age and is anticipating an upcoming date where together they will attend the event.

Then I discovered that the World Darts Championship was on the television, not just in little bits but almost the whole thing, on and on and on. And on and on and on. And on and on and on. I hadn’t even begun to realize how big an event it was. I thought I ought to watch a bit of it, so that I wouldn’t seem like a total idiot next week with Ange. So, between supervisions and lectures, there I was, in my rooms in the cloistered calm of the college, with the sound on fairly low so that nobody would know, watching this extraordinary happening.

It seemed to me the most boring activity that I had ever witnessed. I didn’t know how I could stand a week of it, even with Ange.

The commentators went from banality to absurdity to an enthusiasm which seemed to me at first to be totally false, to be a desperate attempt to breathe life into this deadly dull sport. ‘The nation is awash with darts fever.’ ‘There’s a global explosion in darts.’ ‘He comes from a town called Alpen, so he obviously likes his breakfast.’ ‘Northern Europe is on fire this week.’ That was the biggest come-back since Muffin the Mule.’ ‘The passion is tangible.’ ‘The crowd are braying for a result.’ ‘This is World Championship darts. This is the greatest pressure you can feel.’

But as the week wore on – not that I was watching all the time, of course – a far worse interpretation dawned on me.

They meant every word of it.

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