(The Original)

Amateur Scribe

The Winker and the Wag

Not for the first time whilst gripped by writers’ block, I find myself turning to Giles Smith for a little inspiration.

You get the feeling he is holding back a bit on this one though - probably due to the simple lack of real estate afforded to his column by those sticklers at The Times. I, for one, would have relished a more explosive pay-off – a darting bodice-ripper, if you will - but the guy has a word limit and a sidebar on Roman Abramovich to squeeze in so I’m not going to have a pop at him for brevity.

Regular Giles readers will know that darts holds a very special place in his heart – so presumably it is a joyously small hop from fondly recounting a cherished Sid Waddell anecdote to knocking out spoof chick-lit about Darren “The Fitter” Fitman.

phil taylor

I have always concurred (subconsciously, it transpires) that the “thunk” of tungsten on corkboard has a deliciously alluring appeal. Throw in a candidly-placed effects mic and the heady sexual tension of a lager-drenched Lakeside Country Club, Frimley Green - and you have all the ingredients for heart-hammering drama.

A logical progression, what with the bitter schism between the two professional darting codes, might be a forbidden and frankly groundbreaking homo-erotic slant: How about Ted “The Count” Hankey – leading light of the earthy, poverty-ridden BDO franchise - in a Romeo and Juliet-style tryst with Phil “the Power” Taylor from the bling-rich PDC?

The cloying urgency of damp polyester smocks clinging to manly chest hair? A stolen glance across a recently-opened packet of over-priced pork scratchings? The heart-wrenching agony of a missed bullseye after sticking two in the bed on a champagne check-out of 170? This stuff practically writes itself.

I can see it now: The Power is on a double-sixteen finish for the unification title, but, seeing the despair etched across Hankey’s grizzled features, puts down his trusty Sigma pro-steel-tip arrow and holds his opponent in an embrace that, in one sweeping gesture, dismantles the barriers between the two feuding organisations and brings metrosexuality to Purfleet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s not darts. And it’s certainly not Mills and Boon. As far as I know, both institutions remain steadfastly heterosexual – and who am I, a mere novice, to tamper with the formula?

It might be better, upon reflection, to stick to a hoarier theme - but there is clearly mileage in the romantic literature / locker room crossover, and I consider it a duty to continue Giles’ work - even if it means spending most of the day rifling through the thesaurus for analogies involving bosom-heaving, or similes for “fervent”. Sit back, then, and prepare for an avalanche of adverbs as…

mills and boon



Portuguese Promise

Colleen dumped her bulging Luis Vuitton bag petulantly onto the dining room table and huffed audibly. Wazza barely looked up from his Pro-Evolution Soccer, but acknowledged her presence by lifting a gluttonous buttock and breaking wind smugly.

Goodness, she thought. Must he be so beastly?

She found her mind wandering fondly back to that stolen latte and cheese and onion toastie at the Huyton Starbucks yesterday afternoon.

Cristiano was different, she decided, with his smooth olive skin and eyes that resembled smouldering coals and creased adorably at the corners as they giggled conspiratorially over Wayne’s dubious table manners. When he had recounted the tale of the craftily stashed fish finger in Gary Neville’s Lucozade Sport at the Carrington training ground, the Portuguese dreamboat’s contempt was so tangible and mocking that she flushed with embarrassment that she had seen fit to marry such a gurning simpleton.

He could be mean, actually, Cristiano – but, oh – that baby-faced swagger! Those muscular thighs! She had gasped out loud as she brushed his lap accidentally-on-purpose whilst retrieving a serendipitously misplaced napkin that had fallen onto the seat between them – and it was this first flush of girly pulse-quickening that had hardened her resolve to pursue the flirtation further.

Colleen’s European awakening had been born some months previously during a particularly painful all-inclusive Greek island holiday. Wayne had the tiresome habit of populating their “romantic getaways” with thick-set acquaintances called “Shagger Dave” or “Jimmy the Tosser” – who would spend most of their time lounging poolside with bottles of strong continental lager, occasionally plunging pastily into the water or pelting cherry bombs at tabloid journalists.

She had reasoned that, once they were married, her husband would drop the entourage and show her the tender affection she so craved, but on this recent trip the mob was bigger and more stubbornly vulgar than ever, and she spent many forlorn hours on a sun-dappled terrace near their apartment reading Grazia in the futile hope that Wayne might sweep her into the bedroom and make gentle love to her as the wind ruffled the curtains and the ocean lapped the beach – but he was usually too embroiled in pool tournaments with tattooed thugs in Everton shirts.

Her dormant frustration was finally exposed by an amorous Kefalonian waiter who bombarded her with urgent gazes and complimentary Slippery Nipples. Normally she would have scoffed at his swarthy features and unashamed flattery, but when he finally made his move, sidling silently behind her and massaging her neck softly as she lay engrossed in a feature article on 50 Tell-tale Signs your Lover is Cheating, she was flabbergasted to feel a surge of exhilaration, and even more surprised that she encouraged his touch by relaxing her shoulders and emitting low moans of pleasure.

Wayne, such was his infuriating sense of timing, chose this moment to barrel through the French windows like a great hulking St Bernard puppy, and the waiter skulked back into the shadows, but her growing resentment of tracksuited Liverpudlian youths and their juvenile behaviour continued apace from then on.

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