|
|
The
2004 Bavaria World Darts Trophy, Vechtsebanen, Utrecht
|
|
We start this happy tale with a crack of dawn shocker. Snack and Optician prepare for trip with a little breakfast ‘coffee’ (i.e. beer) and before we know it, quite literally, we’re off. We’re soon at Heathrow Terminal 4 where we’re joined by Steak Anderson, John Boy Howard, and Johnny Flamb(alt 0233). It’s now 9 a.m. and frankly everyone’s a bit w*nkered, so we enjoy a nice pint & steady ourselves. The flight is fine apart from B.A’s excuse for food; this is remedied by the discovery that the drinkees are free. Players have gins, vodkas and bottles of red wine. Smashing. After a sticky train journey we hop in a cab & meet the Postmaster at Hotel Ouwi. Strolling to the canals proves thirsty work, and a drink is required. Refreshed, we hunt down 'the' darts pub of Utrecht and a’re accused of being IRA sympathisers or something. The Controller contacts us to say he’s on his way, and after a mere three? visits to this bar he sees us. Several Euro refreshments later we totter along the canals and spy a water side curry establishment. Could have been made for us. Things get a little hazy past this point, but the evening followed on with a nice round of Irish Coffees & port for all BADAss attendees (apart from a single order of Dutch gin), and ended with Optician, John Boy, and the Controller in an English bar, not that we realised it. Bed around 2.30 a.m.
|
 |
|
A small number of Players manage Ouwi breakfast. Next stop bar Broer for beer. By the time we sit outside bar no.2, The Optician is feeling a touch swimmy let me tell you. Steak & Boy purchase napkin dispensers. Napkin do you hear me? 1 pm, Taxis to the venue of the Bavaria World Darts Trophy, held at Vechtsebanen. There’s a mix up with the booking, requiring security to sort out (a skinny bloke with an earphone). Soon table D11 is all ours. It doesn’t take us long to suss the drinks cycle: pay cash for tokens; fill a slip in at the table, waggle it in the air, and beer arrives. After many successful transactions, we’re shocked to see a 30 cent fee for taking a widdle. Also we’ve been a bit slow, Bavaria beer is also available in bottles; a bottle contains a good few glugs more than a glass. The Postmaster, desperate for sustenance, goes off kitty and strolls around the district. He returns with a Kit Kat and news that a pub is nearby. 4.30 p.m. and it’s darts break, so all Players stroll off pubwards. Only a single hour later, and having taken on a local team of plucky footballers, we find it. Possibly not the optimum route but frankly in the state we were in finding it at all is a miracle. Several drinks, some cold chickens, and a dozen rounds of chips with mayo, we’re done. Back at the darts, and it’s business as usual. So very, very sweet - apart from the shocking report from John Boy - Tony O'Shea doesn't wash his hands. Dirty Tony. Later we’re outside wrestling for taxis. It’s all rather blurry of course… but some, possibly several hours later, we’re up on the stage at Winkel van Sinkel. John Boy makes a hasty departure from the stage, but he’s soon back with mild bruising & sporting a nasty bump. Some Baileys and other inputs were enjoyed. BADAss Players fall by the wayside, and by 3.30 a.m. we’re all dead. Officialy.
|
|
|
Now, I don’t believe we'll fuss with breakfast; it’s for poofs anyway. Straight to our local, Broers, for booze. Amble around bumping into things for a while & find a nice lunch bar near the canal playing soothing music. Steak, in a moments semi-irony, ends up with raw meat on his plate. Oh how he laughed and laughed. Back outside, it’s a hot day & Utrecht is literally dripping. With it. But hey – who cares? It’s DARTS TIME. Um now as I recall yet again there were people on out table, but we manage to pooh pooh them away without underhand tactics (though quite honestly if I’d have been sitting there & was surrounding by us lot I’ve have slung my hook pretty bleeding sharpish). After 4 more hot darts matches, the Post Master bows out of the event, and the remaining 6 find that they’re surprisingly all quite hungry once more. Finding a super Brasserie (no not Brassiere you fool spell checker), we order 6 steaks cooked from rare to murdered, a bunch of bottles of decent plonk, and give a healthy round of applause to the staff, especially when tidying tables outside. Smashing. The Optician catches himself talking away but the words seem meaningless. Back at the darts... the bottles are flowing as freely as a 30 cent pee. Our new table buddy, who tells us he’s a sponsor of the event & Tony David is one of his guys, shocks us all by bringing him over for a brief chat (i.e. ‘can I go now’). Steak explains that Tony was his inspiration, or somefink. He also shares his magic glow demon with us. Later, we find ourselves a nice little bar where our mate Keith tries to push some furniture our way. An anonymous few hours later, and with a complete lack of Titty Bars (Utrecht has none), it’s time for the BADAss battle that’s been brewing for ages: yup, the Steak Anderson vs. Johnny Flambé eat-off. We spy our venue for the event, and late night kebab shop, and around 1.30 am the glove is dropped. Let’s just say that it wasn’t a pretty thing to witness, but ‘victory’ went to Flambé (sadly The Optician was sharing his room and the aftermath was akin to a lavatory based World War II re-enactment). A late night by all accounts.
|
|
|
We mourn. Steak Anderson is pronounced dead. Or dead enough. The rest of us hit our usual for the usual, and since the darts has a first session recess decide to enjoy the scenes of Utrecht. Some beers & we’re on a canal tour, during which Snack has a little lie down & a nap. Bit hot for us dehydrated booze hounds. 4 p.m. and just like in the Bible, Steak Anderson has risen. What he needs is a nice meal, sadly what we get isn’t. Nice steps above though. Bar at darts hole, the entertainers are performing some medleys. Nice. Andy Fordham, who can’t throw a dart, is wheeled on to make his brief but heartfelt apologies. Beer, darts, beer, darts, beer, darts… you get the picture. Late, the cabs drop us of at a rather suave & sophisticated late night drinking establishment, La Cloche. Super.
|
|
|
The dream is over. It’s hometime. After checking in, Snack has to rush off for an emergency ‘crash landing’ where we lose him for some time. BA excels itself in the food department again (‘sweet or savoury …we haven’t got any savoury’) and the whole bastard of a trip is finished off with Snack & Opt staring right down the barrel of a shaven g*sh.
|
|
|
Boy oh Boy did this one hurt. Seven Players attended, six suffered real symptoms of overdarts. Only Snack Van Open avoided serious trouble, but he's only living on borrowed time anyway. The four days seemed to last forever - however at the same time they rushed by as if we werent there - and in many ways we werent. Official results: |
|
.
