Ned Boulting - Heart of Dart-ness: Bullseyes, Boozers and Modern Britain

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A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

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Copyright Ned Boulting, 2018

Pictures all the author, except for: p.49 Getty/M. Allen/Topical Press Agency, p.50 Getty/popperfoto, p.12 ITV/Rex/Shutterstock.

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Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

Blink Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
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To Jamesy The Welsh Wizard and Lord of Butlins.

T his book was written over a three-year period and completed in the winter of 2017.

Shortly after I finished writing it, darts lost two of its most notable characters, both of whom feature on these pages.

Jim Bowen, the long-time host of Bullseye, died in March 2018 at the age of 80. He was widely, and rightly, credited with responsibility for the huge growth in popularity that darts enjoyed in the 1980s.

Three weeks later, Eric Bristows death was also announced. He was just 60.

In the eyes of many, Bristow was the greatest player there had ever been.

The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind.

JOSEPH CONRAD HEART OF DARKNESS

P urfleet is where Essex meets the Thames estuary. The English coast here is a broad, mud-brown and grey-grassed sweep of windy flatland, lapped unenthusiastically by the tidal reach of Londons river. Here, breakers yards, small paddocks, neglected industrial units, lorry stops and forlorn little towns vie for attention in a landscape that has given up on itself. Purfleet is not a place to linger.

And, at its heart, nestling between an Esso garage and a bleak electricity substation that hums with static power, the Circus Tavern sits, squat and unlovely. An arterial road roars by, ferrying articulated trucks onto the high span of the Dartford Crossing and away. Should you have taken a wrong turning somewhere in the maze of dual carriageways that intertwine like serpents on Londons eastern fringes, then you might already have driven past this place en route to Suffolk or Kent without noticing it. It is an archetype of roadside anonymity, at once repelling interest and throwing down a silent challenge.

Think about it. Would you consider stopping here?

During the day, there are a handful of cars, Land Rovers, BMWs scattered sparsely across the expansive, weed-strewn forecourt. People come and go, rushing from doorway to vehicle, and are gone, with a growl of the engine. The odd delivery is made, with a clatter of metal cage. Then, at dusk, lights from within shine dimly against the night. Would you open its doors and walk in?

The back of the building is a brick-built, flat-roofed quadrant of indeterminate age. It is surrounded by a few acres of car parking. Perhaps once it had been used for office space, or an ill-sited community hall. Its original purpose is lost. Sometime in the mid-eighties, at best guess, the front end of the building, the faade that gazes blankly at the petrol station, was graced by the addition of a two-storey atrium finished in tinted glass. It is through this new entrance that the people come and go, getting in and out of minicabs and, occasionally, stretch limos in white or pink, on their way to and from the entertainment.

But inside is where the rare magic happens. Especially when night falls, and it is dark and cold outside on the A roads and the empty, fenced fields. Especially then, when the bright lights inside the building defy the isolation all around, when there is not a square foot of empty space, and everyone is pressed up close to watch them play.

It is around nine oclock in the evening of New Years Day, 2007.

It is here, beneath the low ceiling of the function room, that the Master of Ceremonies calls the seething crowd of people to order. He wears a light blue jacket, and he stands still and upright, facing the masses, all of whom are now standing, on chairs, or tables, leaning over the low balustrades of the raised areas to catch a glimpse of proceedings.

Ladies and gentlemen! he bellows. Welcome to the PDC: the Premiership of Darts!

Introducing onstage the four-time World Darts Champion and reigning UK Open Champion, from the Netherlands, Raymond van Barneveld!

Thump!

The first familiar, irresistible punch that marks the iconic opening to Survivors crowd-pleaser Eye of the Tiger. Van Barneveld raises his head slowly towards a tightening camera shot, as instructed to by the television director. A touching attempt to look menacing by a faint narrowing of his eyes is undermined by almost everything else about him; from his fleshy, flushed cheeks and fulsome lips to his slightly rounded shoulders. The camera retreats at walking pace as everyone, not least the Dutchman, waits for the beat to kick in. Now, the shot is wide enough to show his whole shirt, a restrained navy blue polo with a clutch of clumsily applied stick-on sponsors badges: Nifra.nl, building constructors based to the north of Amsterdam, AfAB, a Dutch loans company.

Rising up Back on the street

Awkwardly, but on the correct big beat, he breaks into a nervous stride, loping towards the stage in time with the music. He pushes good-naturedly through a forest of arms, reaching over the barriers, hands outstretched for a high-five, or clutching small posters with homespun messages. Barney Army! Hello Mum! Love The Darts! And, mysteriously, Swanage!

Eye of the Tiger is now belting out its irresistible call to arms as the big Dutchman lopes on. And now he spots his wife, Silvia. He stops briefly to embrace her. He kisses her on the cheek and stomps on. The din around him is outrageous. Lights swivel madly above him, suspended from the low ceiling of the Circus Tavern. One more embrace before mounting the steps and into the light. This time its his agent, a tall, thin man with grey hair and a nervous shuffle. They hug awkwardly. Then van Barneveld takes to the stage.

He bows humbly to the crowd, then turns his back to them so that the Barney Rubble design on the back of his darts shirt is visible. He shakes the hands of the officials, kissing the walkon girl in a black corset who has accompanied him onto the stage and then he flourishes a white hand towel. Hell need that, sooner rather than later, to mop his brow and dry his hands. Its like a tropical blaze on the stage under the lights.