I Darts ch 7

It was a big night, one full of danger and adventure. At least,
that's how it seemed. We were to play in a pub whose reputation went
far before it. I'd heard it was the sort of pub where they replace the
windows on a good night, the walls on a bad one. There was at least one
of these pubs in every town and this just happened to be the one in
ours. We would have to do our best but 16, in particular, was
worried.

"They'll kill me," he said. He had curled himself into a ball on one
of my chairs and he was trying to look as small as possible.

"Don't worry," said The Poet, with what seemed like genuine concern.
"We'll protect you." The Poet was staring right at 16 despite his
smallness or perhaps because of it. There wasn't much of 16 to see and
that alone restricted your field of vision.

"You and whose army?" said 16, getting smaller and smaller by the
second. "You and whose army Poet?"

"I've got an idea," I said, cutting in before The Poet had a chance to
answer. I didn't want him to start on about himself and his armies. It
had happened once before and we had been there for two whole weeks. We
had had to pee in a bucket. And then drink it for refreshment. He
hadn't even let us get up to shave. I don't suit beards and I didn't
want to go down that path again.
The Cossacks.
The Huns.
The New Model Army.
No sir.

"Look," I said to Captain Vegas, deliberately turning my back on The
Poet and changing the subject away from armies, "tell me some famous
gay people."

"WHY ME?" said Captain Vegas, standing up. "Why does everyone always
pick on me? To be truthful for once, I'm sick of it."

"Go on," said 16, getting slightly larger, "tell us."

"Yes," said The Poet. "Go on. Please."

"It would be a help," I said. "And it has to be you because I need an
outsider's perspective. I'd be very grateful."

Captain Vegas put his head on one side and then the other. He jiggled
his hips. By the look in his eye I knew he had decided and that the
decision was in our favour. As we had found out during the incident
over his cock, Captain Vegas was very susceptible to flattery.

Captain Vegas held up his hand so the palm was facing us, the fingers
extended. "OK," he said, "famous gay people. But you're not getting
more than five. One for each finger. Five. That's all."

And five it was. One by one like soon to be extinct beasts trooping
mournfully into an already doomed Ark.
Lilly Savage. Graham Norton. Kenny Everet. Michael Portillo. Julian
Clary.
Five famous gay people.

"Now," I said, as Captain Vegas proudly took his seat again, his fist
clenched, "have those people ever been gay bashed while participating
in an inter-pub darts competition?"

"Um&;#8230;." said 16.

"Well," said Captain Vegas.

"I see where you're going with this," said The Poet. His eyes,
thankfully, were completely empty of any army stories. He continued,
"What you're saying is that if we can emulate the characteristics of
those five gay men then we should get through the night
unscathed."

"Exactly," I said. "We just need to act like a fascist glamorous
cheeky Irish disc-jockey in drag."

On the seat 16 immediately grew back to full size. "I can do that," he
said. "I can do that easily."

"But what about me?" said Captain Vegas. "What about me?"

"Captain Vegas," I said, "you're different, how many times do I have
to tell you? How many times?"

16 adjusted his false breast in the entrance to the pub. "You don't
think I've overdone it, do you?" he said.

"You look great," said Leia Organa, taking in our bouffant hairstyles,
our layers of makeup, our slingbacks and support bras. "Really great!
All of you."

I thought so too. I thought that tonight would be our night. I thought
that if any bastions were going to fall then it would be this
evening.

"Come on," I said, "let's go."
And we did, we went. We swept through the swing doors and into the bar
like we meant business. We were like that giant tidal wave the Japanese
B-movie market has been trading on for so many years. We were arrogant,
splendid, beautiful, euphoric.

"We're the team, bitch," said 16 to the open-mouthed barmaid. "Where's
your board?"

She couldn't answer. Even the jukebox couldn't sing. The laser zipped
across the CD in toxic shock.

"Darts," I said. "It's just a question of
darts."

Then The Poet spotted them. The team. They were in one corner. They
had the anchor tattoos, the clay pipes, the bulging muscles, the "yuck,
yuck, yuck". It was like Popeye was alive and well and heavily into
cloning.

"Hello Dolly," called Captain Vegas, getting into it, despite himself.
"Are you ready for some? Are you?"

Apparently they were. If they were surprised by our glamorous
appearance then they didn't show it. They detached each other from the
wall and started to limber up, ripping apart cans of spinach like there
was no tomorrow. Perhaps there wouldn't be, not if we had anything to
do with it.

"We're going to whip their asses," said Leia Organa, "don't you worry.
We're going to fuck their bums."

16 looked shocked. He still wasn't used to Leia Organa using words
like asses, bums. As he wobbled up to the oche I knew the writing was
on the wall. In fact, it was on the wall. One - nil it said. And it was
right. 16 lost.

I don't know why The Poet lost. It all happened so quickly. We were
2-0 down and I hadn't even blinked.
I shook my head and sat down. I couldn't look anymore. I had had high
hopes of this night and already it had gone wrong. Two games played and
two lost. The Popeyes were beside themselves, or each other, I wasn't
sure which, they looked so alike. They were laughing and jeering. I put
my head in my hands and wept.

"Don't worry," said a voice I didn't recognise, "it's only a game of
darts."

I looked up. Sitting at the table opposite me was a regular guy. He
had the muscles and the tattoos but he was miles from being one of the
Popeyes. He looked nice. "It's not only a game of darts," I said. "It's
about much more than that. It's about bastions and ghettos. You
wouldn't understand." Right then, I wasn't even sure I understood
myself.

"I think I do," said the regular guy.

"Yeah?" I said.

"I come from a big family. I've got six brothers and seven sisters.
Having such a big family teaches you a lot of things about a lot of
things."

"Wow," I said. "Six brothers and seven sisters, that's almost enough
for a musical by Gene de Paul and Johnny Mercer." It was all I could
think of to say. The guy was pretty attractive and when faced with an
attractive guy I often lost my tongue. "Musicals," I said. "There's
something happy about them
and sad at the same time."

Now the regular guy shook his head. "Tell me about it," he said.
"There wasn't enough love to go round. Musicals were the only thing
that kept us sane. I've got a lot of stories to tell. If ever you've
got the time I'll tell you. I know all about bastions and you look like
you could use a friend. But don't listen to me, I think you're
on."

He was right. The Poet had run a flag up his arm and Captain Vegas was
agitating him to simulate wind flow. They were trying to attract my
attention.

"What's the damage?" I asked, expecting the worst.

"4-0," said 16.

"Leia Organa nearly won," said The Poet.

"But then she lost," said Captain Vegas. "It's down to you."

I stepped up to the oche but by now I was without hope. My make-up had
run and the high-heels shoes were killing my ankles. I threw the darts
but they sensed my lack of direction and used it as an excuse to go on
outings to lesser explored areas of the bar. One came back with the
hint of a suntan and another spouting a foreign language just to taunt
me. "Heh gringo," it said, "you stink." I stood no chance. I lost. We
had lost. Again.

Not being able to face the others I went back to the table with the
regular guy. If he was the sailor he looked like perhaps he would lead
me to a port. I needed one. I was in a storm.

"You know what I do in times of trouble?" he said as I sat down.

"No," I said, "but I'm willing to try anything. I'm about as low as
you can get."

"I dance," he said.

And then without further ado he jumped up out of his seat and onto the
table. He scattered the bags of peanuts, the half-full beer jugs, the
overflowing ashtrays and he started to dance.

"That's great," I said, looking up at him and smiling. My earlier
words hadn't been so misplaced after all, he was from a musical.
"Really great," I said.

"Thank you," he said, his feet clicking like castanets on the wooden
table-top. "It's a kind of Polka but I improvise a bit around the
edges. You can join in if you want."

"OK," I said. And I did. I jumped up on the table and copying him step
for step we danced the Polka. We were good, we were great. Even the
Popeyes stopped to watch and in their eyes there wasn't a hint of
animosity.

The next day I saw the story in the paper. "WOULD YOU BEER-LIEVE IT,
PUB KEEPS WINDOWS AND WALLS." It was the first time in fifteen years
that such a thing had happened, it was the first time there hadn't been
a fight.

But that wasn't the best thing. The regular guy had given me his phone
number. He told me to give him a ring. He told me he would save the
next dance for me.
We may have still been losing at darts but things were starting to
happen.