Sunday, 13 February 2011

Darts darts darts darts darts

Darts, darts and more fucking darts. There's a lot to love about the noble art of throwing arrows at a board. Part of its charm lies in the fact that this is technically a sport based in the most precious of all locations - the pub. So being able to hold your own with the pints is almost as important as knowing where the board is located. Hence the amount of athleticism on display is small. Many of the stars are as big as barrels. It's beautifully contrary.

I luckliy had the opportunity to attend the first installment of the Premier League darts at the O2 arena through work - We were in a corporate box belonging to a bank - which felt a bit naughty to say the least. But fuck it. You only live once n'est pas? We took the clipper to the O2, then went into the box - We were so far away that being able to clock the score on the screens was tricky, never mind discern who was playing or where the darts were going. But there was shitloads of booze and food all of which we got right into like a bunch of rats up a brace of drain pipes. Big tings.

The vibe was incredibly heavy - there's a sense of extreme carnival at the darts - many attendees are dressed up and pretty much the entire place is pissed up. Which all adds up for largeness. One of the highlights was a ruck between a man dressed as a bumble bee with another chap who'd come as a bottle of Newcastle Ale wading in to assist. The darts players do a staged red carpet walk surrounded by young ladies in skimpy attire. One of the gents in our box said he went to the Lakeside world championship darts dressed as Freddie Mercury while his significant other manned up and got her Brian May flex on. This is the sort of weird vibe we're talking. Insanity abounds. I want to go back...

Come come Mr Bond

The O2's cig shop

Corporate fish and chips

Insightful shit in the O2 toilets from French warbling mega bitch

The rider

The aftermath

Lying to oneself