Topless Darts

I toddled into one of the locals, grabbed a pint of cider, pulled up a pew and settled in with a copy of TNT. I skimmed through the acres of job agency ads, caught up on a few of the headlines from back home and got the lowdown on a bit of Australian Rules. There was something that felt so right about drinking a pint by yourself in the mid afternoon of a weekday in this country. An inexplicable phenomenon, that I'd never felt back home.

Merely sips into my second pint I was joined by one of the Hannen Road stalwarts, Tut. He was sweating like a Chinese typesetter so I got him a beer in. I'd met him briefly the night before.

'Dry as a Nun's nasty, cheers Doddo.', he took a seat and clinked my pint.
'What's the story with the mask mate. Overdue library book, on the run from the law?', I asked.
'Got the pushbike outside. Pollutions a fuckin' killer in this place.'

Tut was more Australian than Tasmania. His sun dyed curly blonde hair and tanned skin had him mistaken for a surf rat more than once. His small town country accent was as thick as a fat ladies thigh even after years on the road.

'So you like the local?'
'I've seen worse.' Only just, but I didn't want to offend.
'It'll grow on you mate, trust me.' And I did.

We lost track of time spinning shit and before long were joined by the Kid, Nat, Jac and Dave. Half of the Hannen Road crew as it stood now. Round after round followed until exactly 10.45 when the Kid seemed very eager to get me back home for a unique and truly British experience.

I was bursting with anticipation. At 10.57pm exactly, topless darts graced the circa 1980 wood paneled set for exactly three minutes. Mandy from Manchester and April from Birmingham bounced and wobbled there way through a game of darts. A myriad of mammary, a peek of cheek and a close up of darts plunging the woodwork. It was titillating television. Britain at it's Carry On best. I knew I was home - for the time being anyway.