As I watch the Darts I find myself becoming increasingly confused. It is a simple game. I've even played in a league for two or three years but as I watched the game on TV, brilliant as these modern players are with their slimline darts and nine-dart finishes, I can't help noticing that whilst the game tries to tune in on the "modern world" it simultaneously anchors itself in a downmarket version of the early 1970s. Any minute I'm expecting Charlie Williams to appear me old flower, kick an opponent, and laugh uproariously.
So first in homage to today the evening has to be introduced on TV by a woman or women, but naturally, as it is working-class old darts she has to have smoky touch of the production line to both her voice and cut of the jib. Then after some unenlightening exposition of the relative abilities of the players (which is mostly about to be proved wide of the mark) the players themselves are to be introduced to the crowd. There are lots of shots of the crowd, who for some reason all have to appear in some embarrassing forms of fancy dress - definitely sexist, they largely manage to avoid racism unless some alien race is taking offence at the green face paint - and who are never far from a drink and are permanently prepared to join tunelessly in any raucous sing-song.
The players "choose" to wear poorly designed loose-fitting shirts to enable the throwing arm to flow free. The loose-fit also conveniently serves to hide the general state of physical unfitness of the predominantly male players who are guided through the cheering crowd of admiring fans to their favourite music by a couple of tattooed bouncers. Occasionally a player will stop to sign an autograph or deliver a kiss. On stage under-or-over-dressed go-go girls recruited from Life on Mars jive, pop and pompom to whatever music the player has favoured. (I can't help wishing some enterprising player wiould appear all in black, to the Funeral March.) Though the girly girls have to dance frenetically, scantily dressed, the middle-aged male announcer John McDonald is nicely attired in sober suit and expensive shirt. He appears to have forgotten the far-more appropriate budgie smugglers and spray-on tan. (A strictly-ballroom quiff might be a good idea ....) He delivers the same intro, every tournament, changing only the venue, which is always a wonderful city.
Anyway John and the go-go-goers finally get off, him marching in a manly fashion, them bouncing and pompoming as if about to cross the ocean to American football .... and the game begins. In general whether the players have danced onto the stage like nitwits or sombrely marched on to shake hands their play is excellent, their worst moments being at least equal to my own best-ever efforts on the oche. Unfortunately this year the commentary sadly lacks the only interesting and amusing pundit Wayne Mardle (following his wife's recent death), and his double-act with wise straight man John Part, which leaves a gaping hole. It is filled by self-obsessed men over-concerned with their own reputation quoting statistics to prove their encyclopaedic knowledge rather than their access to a computer, reminiscing about past great moments in games their viewers have long-forgotten and which seem designed to devalue the opinions of any female commentators who have been recruited to inspire the women's game.
Somewhat bizarrely into this very manly atmosphere of a loud and inebriated male audience overdosing on testosterone, sprinkled only with the odd bingo-winged gran and slightly tipsy mum smiling beatifically, an assault on equality is bravely being made. Darts is one of the few sports in which men and women can compete on "equal" terms. To this end one woman and a trans-gender person appeared in the first round. Though both were competitive they did both lose. But hey if equality is the aim, what are the gog-go girls about? And if Darts is a sport as Luke Littler appearing in SPOTY suggests, why is about half the crowd not even watching the game, why is it dressed for a Stag-do in Hull, why is everyone shouting singing and yelling throughpout the game as players attempt almost miraculous accuracy under pressure? Why are sponsors bunging a huge wad of cash to a random member of the audience if any player hits a nine-darter, is this sport fancy-dress bingo? And at what point does it become unacceptable to boo a disliked player to put him off when going for a double?
Or is the truth that Wimbledon needs to take a cue from Darts and progress from a few tennis balls glued to a sunhat and the odd amusing shout of Come on Tim, and perhaps Test Cricket too might take that next dangerous step beyond Bazball and a gang of giggling old Harrovians all dressing-up as Nawabs of Pataudi?
So first in homage to today the evening has to be introduced on TV by a woman or women, but naturally, as it is working-class old darts she has to have smoky touch of the production line to both her voice and cut of the jib. Then after some unenlightening exposition of the relative abilities of the players (which is mostly about to be proved wide of the mark) the players themselves are to be introduced to the crowd. There are lots of shots of the crowd, who for some reason all have to appear in some embarrassing forms of fancy dress - definitely sexist, they largely manage to avoid racism unless some alien race is taking offence at the green face paint - and who are never far from a drink and are permanently prepared to join tunelessly in any raucous sing-song.
The players "choose" to wear poorly designed loose-fitting shirts to enable the throwing arm to flow free. The loose-fit also conveniently serves to hide the general state of physical unfitness of the predominantly male players who are guided through the cheering crowd of admiring fans to their favourite music by a couple of tattooed bouncers. Occasionally a player will stop to sign an autograph or deliver a kiss. On stage under-or-over-dressed go-go girls recruited from Life on Mars jive, pop and pompom to whatever music the player has favoured. (I can't help wishing some enterprising player wiould appear all in black, to the Funeral March.) Though the girly girls have to dance frenetically, scantily dressed, the middle-aged male announcer John McDonald is nicely attired in sober suit and expensive shirt. He appears to have forgotten the far-more appropriate budgie smugglers and spray-on tan. (A strictly-ballroom quiff might be a good idea ....) He delivers the same intro, every tournament, changing only the venue, which is always a wonderful city.
Anyway John and the go-go-goers finally get off, him marching in a manly fashion, them bouncing and pompoming as if about to cross the ocean to American football .... and the game begins. In general whether the players have danced onto the stage like nitwits or sombrely marched on to shake hands their play is excellent, their worst moments being at least equal to my own best-ever efforts on the oche. Unfortunately this year the commentary sadly lacks the only interesting and amusing pundit Wayne Mardle (following his wife's recent death), and his double-act with wise straight man John Part, which leaves a gaping hole. It is filled by self-obsessed men over-concerned with their own reputation quoting statistics to prove their encyclopaedic knowledge rather than their access to a computer, reminiscing about past great moments in games their viewers have long-forgotten and which seem designed to devalue the opinions of any female commentators who have been recruited to inspire the women's game.
Somewhat bizarrely into this very manly atmosphere of a loud and inebriated male audience overdosing on testosterone, sprinkled only with the odd bingo-winged gran and slightly tipsy mum smiling beatifically, an assault on equality is bravely being made. Darts is one of the few sports in which men and women can compete on "equal" terms. To this end one woman and a trans-gender person appeared in the first round. Though both were competitive they did both lose. But hey if equality is the aim, what are the gog-go girls about? And if Darts is a sport as Luke Littler appearing in SPOTY suggests, why is about half the crowd not even watching the game, why is it dressed for a Stag-do in Hull, why is everyone shouting singing and yelling throughpout the game as players attempt almost miraculous accuracy under pressure? Why are sponsors bunging a huge wad of cash to a random member of the audience if any player hits a nine-darter, is this sport fancy-dress bingo? And at what point does it become unacceptable to boo a disliked player to put him off when going for a double?
Or is the truth that Wimbledon needs to take a cue from Darts and progress from a few tennis balls glued to a sunhat and the odd amusing shout of Come on Tim, and perhaps Test Cricket too might take that next dangerous step beyond Bazball and a gang of giggling old Harrovians all dressing-up as Nawabs of Pataudi?