Mr Hankey

I’m ashamed to say I did nothing this week. My current recording project is on pause until I can be bothered to do some re-writing, I’m reluctant to socialise because stuff costs money, and I’m finding Kafka’s ‘The Trial’, well, kind of a trial. I know you’re not meant to know what’s going on most of the time, but that doesn’t stop it being irritating. However, since I’ve shamefully used the term ‘kafka-esque’ in the past without any direct experience of what such a thing might mean, I’ll persevere with the text.

The music re-writing is a pain. Melodies bounce around in my head day and night, but I struggle at arrangement. Listening to the Foo Fighters doesn’t help, as they rather make me feel my guitar might be better employed as a hat-stand. Likewise, why write words when Charlie Brooker says what I think but better? Ah, the futility of existence… As I write this, I grow to suspect S.A.D. may have sneaked through the door when I wasn’t looking.

Darts has been my saviour. I don’t remember when the annual ritual of watching the January darts tournament began, but I must have been very young. I still find it extremely entertaining. Apart from the drama of the game itself, there’s something quaint about the way darts players present themselves without irony.

For example, one of the better known players is Ted Hankey. Whilst South Park aficionados might propose ‘The Christmas Poo’ as an appropriate a.k.a, his nickname is in fact ‘The Count’ – because he closely resembles Count Dracula. He is comfortable enough with this moniker to arrive at the oche at the beginning of a game wearing a CAPE. Watch this:

I love the way the players have their own names garishly sewn in sequinned letters on the back of their shirts. I start to daydream about turning up for work on Monday in a big white shirt with Richard ‘The Frenzy’ Warren emblazoned in gold on the back, perhaps having made an arrangement for ‘Simply the Best’ to be played on a ghetto-blaster to coincide with my arrival.

I also love the way the referees announce the maximum score of 180. They really couldn’t sound more delighted about anything. If you burst through the doors of a hospital loudly proclaiming the good health of your newborn child, it wouldn’t have half the passion and gravitas of a bellowed ‘One-ah-Hundred-and-EEEEEI-GHTY!’

So pass me my 18th bottle of lager and one more full-english-breakfast sandwich, normal service will be resumed next week.


3 Responses to Mr Hankey

  1. Pete says:

    Yeah, arrangement is a bitch.

    I’ll be in your shoes tomorrow as I write the strings for the new album.

    Deadlines are my saviour, else I’d never get anything done…

  2. Ladyshambles says:

    Re: Darts. I like watching the audience more than the players. Pikey-tastic.

    Feel a bit sorry for Andy Fordham though. He was once a Goliath of darts. Now he looks like someone let all the air out of the Marshmallow Man.

  3. recoder says:

    He looked better as a fattie, poor fella. Although he seemed to keep all the weight in his forearms, which means he now resembles Popeye if Popeye had been taken prisoner by Vikings and made to scrub the decks day and night.

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