Like almost every other tungsten lover on the planet, I’m forever baffled by these morons claiming to be darts fans who attend events and then proceed to behave like absolute muppets.
No, I’m not talking about the people dressed as giant crayons, inflatable bananas or obscure Marvel characters who have consumed enough lager to anesthetise a rhinoceros. While there is undoubtedly a lingering question mark hanging over such individuals, at least they generally seem to be enjoying themselves.
The people I’m referring to are the whistlers as well as those boo-boys. The attention-seeking morons who spend an entire evening trying to put players off. Now why on Earth would you spend your hard-earned money on a ticket to watch world-class darts and then do your absolute best to prevent world-class darts from taking place?
Imagine paying £80 to watch a concert and then spending the entire evening screaming into the face of the lead singer. Or buying tickets to the cinema before standing up every ten minutes and shouting the ending. It’s the sporting equivalent of paying for a Michelin-starred meal before demanding the waiter replace it with a Pot Noodle and a packet of pork scratchings. It makes no sense whatsoever.
Two explanations immediately spring to mind. Firstly: these people have more money than sense. The other: these people have absolutely no sense and have discovered a unique method of wasting what money they have. Or, if I’m being incredibly charitable, perhaps there’s a third possibility. They have “getting thrown out of a darts event for being a knobhead” on their bucket list. And they are determined to tick it off before Christmas.
The thing that fascinates me most is the complete lack of logic involved. You’ve paid money to see Luke Littler, Luke Humphries, Michael van Gerwen or Gerwyn Price perform at the highest level. Yet the moment one of them reaches a crucial dart, some clown who looks like he lives in his parents’ attic believes this is the perfect moment to unleash a whistle loud enough to summon dolphins from the North Sea.
Congratulations, mate. You’ve successfully contributed absolutely nothing. The players hate you. The crowd hate you. Security hate you – but then again, they hate everyone. Even your mates are probably looking at each other wondering if it’s too late to pretend they arrived separately.
The booers are no better. Particularly those who seem incapable of understanding that supporting one player doesn’t require acting like a complete weapon towards the other. You can cheer your favourite. That’s the whole point. What you don’t need to do is spend three hours bellowing abuse at somebody throwing tungsten projectiles for a living.
The player can’t hear anything useful. The crowd aren’t impressed. And nobody has ever left a darts arena saying: “What a fantastic evening. That drunk bloke in Row G really enhanced the experience.”
The irony is that many of these people genuinely believe they are part of the show. They aren’t. They are the human equivalent of a faulty fire alarm. Nobody bought a ticket to see them. Nobody came to hear them. And if they disappeared halfway through the evening, the standard of entertainment would increase dramatically.
The darts boom has brought bigger crowds, bigger prize money and bigger events than ever before. Unfortunately, it has also attracted a small percentage of individuals whose sole purpose appears to be proving that Darwin’s theory occasionally misses one or two.
If you want to dress as Batman and drink seventeen pints, crack on. If you want to sing, dance and have a laugh, even better. But if your idea of a good night out is deliberately trying to ruin matches for everybody else, perhaps stay at home and practise being irritating there instead.
Trust me. Your family are already used to it.
