Inside the banter-industrial complex

For two Wpdcweeks from mid-December, a walk up the hill to Alexandra Palace, a venue in north London, is a trip through a lager-soaked fever dream. At one point a squad of human traffic cones waddles past. Next comes a gaggle of men dressed as condiments. At a bus stop, four judges wait for the next 3 service.The Professional Darts Corporation () world darts championship has become an end-of-year institution, a debauched collision of fancy dress and elite sport. For a fortnight each year, a corner of the British capital is transformed into a place where it is always 11.30pm on a Friday night. Inside the venue a confused bottle of Heinz tomato ketchup looks for his seat. Two monks hurry by, carrying eight pints between them. On stage a first-round match between Stowe Buntz, a goateed American, and Kevin Doets, a Dutchman, takes place in front of a semi-oblivious crowd. Before long, a chant begins. Oompa Loompas, nuns and traffic cones stand up, arms wide, and yell: “Stand up if you love the darts.”