The Darts 'B' Team
by
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A Wager I Surely Can’t Lose
“You! The captain of a darts team! You surely jest.”
The person speaking, or rather, sneering, was Brian Brailsford, the somewhat dubious fruit of the loins of my boss, Arthur.
It was late August, a couple of months before the new darts season, and although it was chilly, we wore lightweight clothes to convince ourselves it was summer -so British. We were standing at a coffee machine in the corridor of his father’s pickle factory (the product being delicately advertised on the jar labels as “Brailsfords’ Big Burpers”). I was working here temporarily as bookkeeper until I could find a permanent job, which I hoped wouldn’t be in this acid-smelling mausoleum. I had just told Brian I was to captain the second or “B” team of my local pub.
I'd been reduced to this for a few reasons. Mainly, it was because I had tried my hand at various sports but had basically failed to shine in any. As a rugby threequarter I had been reasonably fast but lacked the necessary weight. By the time I'd acquired the weight the speed had gone. I thought I'd make a golfer, until a friendly osteopath advised me that unless I changed my swing pattern, there was an outside chance I would one day screw myself into soft ground. Swimming I gave up when seventy-five year-old grannies with water wings surged past me in the pool. Table-tennis I was similarly inept at, earning a reputation for flailing and chopping away with my bat, so that even the kickboxing fraternity kept well away from me.
I thought I was doing well as a novice skier; then, three days into the Austrian holiday, a photographer was brought in to record us for posterity as we went past the final marker post on a shallow slalom course. I realised too late that I couldn't master a smile and the turn at the same time. I figured the photo was for all time, the turn merely fleeting, so I made the wrong choice, naturally. As I headed out of contol towards a line of novices, the end one, a youth of 6ft.4in. and seven stones, looked at me in resigned dread. He was right to: they all went down like ninepins. So darts it had to be.
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About the Book
The Darts "B" Team is the hilarious account of the exploits of a group of drunken, hopeless darts players. Their naive and unworldly captain strikes a bet with the captain of a rival team that they will win at least one game in the entire season, but when he meets his players, he realises that even one victory will almost certainly prove beyond them.
In an effort to improve the team's fitness, co-ordination and ability to perform under a spotlight, he submits his rabble to an outdoor aerobic session, followed by a spell on the tennis courts, and finally, a pub quiz.
Despite resorting to all sorts of skulduggery to distract their opponents, the team flounders from one disaster to another. Then one critical evening, a mysterious but welcome stranger appears, surprisingly keen to help, and their fate ends up in the hands, or rather the darts, of the outsider.
About the Author
Colin Stephen Drury was born in Bridgend, south Wales, in 1940. He was brought up on licensed premises, first of all, a hotel in Porthcawl, followed by a public house in Kenfig Hill, since demolished.
He was educated at Chester and Cowbridge Grammar Schools, and read philosophy, politics and economics at Swansea University.
He lists his hobbies as theatre, travel, writing to national newspapers, following Welsh rugby (avidly), and playing indoor tennis (badly). Since 1971 he has lived in Dinas Powys, near Cardiff, with his wife Christine.