A
couple of years ago I found myself back living at home, feeling like a
turd in a washing machine, making a mess of everything. I had no
fixed job, a failed relationship, no prospects, athletes foot but not
an athlete's body and a really bad Kim yeong sun hair cut. I was a
real Debby Downer. I had lost my way and wasn't sure in what
direction I was heading. I'd just mope about the town like Morrissey
after being forced to club a seal to death.
I
could have quite easily thrown in the town, given up on life, ended
it all and become a teacher but I was saved from my certain PGCE fate
by discovering a love of darts.
Yes
darts, the sport of champions or pork scratching munching, beer
swilling, diabetic demi gods. A sport that would change my life.
I
had never been particularly fond of darts, occasionally I would chuck
a few arrows and they would dangerously wobble in the air bounce off
the board and strike a passer bys fleshy parts, but apart from the
potential maiming of others it had limited appeal. It lacked the
aerobic rush, the physical contact, the close body wrestles of other
sports, but then a weekly encounter with the Ockey, arranged by my
enthusiastic dart playing friends slowly began to change all that.
It
wasn't long before I was hooked. Wednesday's darts night became the
zenith of my week, my sole salvation in the melancholy theatre of
life.
The
mastering of throwing 3 small metal spears at a coloured numbered
board became a glorious regression to a former tribal self. Like the
irrepressible urge to drum on tables or toddlers heads; the act of
throwing sharpened sticks tapped into a genealogical memory. Where a
mono-browed, heavily built me, in a sheep's carcass, battled against
a woolly mammoth armed with a bit of old twig.
A
time when glory was an arm thrust away. And yes on occasions I'd get
a woolly tusk in the guts, but it was a simpler time where purpose
and meaning in life didn't involve spread sheets, or deodorants, or
haircuts, or blogs, or selfies, or social media, a time
before
shoes, carpets, mortgages, furniture, I phones, vegetarianism, gluten
free, Netflix, toilet paper and Ocado.
Throwing
darts stripped away all that modern nonsense to the simple joys of
enacting force on the powers of gravity. Like popping your head out
of your mother's womb for the first time and feeling life.
It's
also a great excuse to get pissed with your friends midweek.
Friends
that shout at you to stop blathering on about being a hunter
gatherer, and throw the pissing dart, you prick.
I
throw a double twenty, and in my head I've hit a bear between the
ribs, raaaaah.
If anyone had told me 12 months ago that I'd have a dart board in my bedroom, have my own precious set of arrows and get angry at people celebrating a bull like its the best score on the board, I'd have died laughing. Darts saves.
ReplyDeleteit does indeed, set one up in the birdhouse. i'll play.
ReplyDelete