Up to the oche

Owen Amos went to the Premier League Darts in Newcastle to find out why 4,000 fans turn up to watch and what the players think of their new-found fame

FOUR thousand men jump up and down, arms pumping, bellies shaking, lungs chanting.

In one hand a two-pint lager pot, in the other their best mate's shoulder. Some clutch inflatable palm trees like toddlers with their first balloon. Others are dressed like St George, or Fred Flintstone, or Oompa Loompas. Everyone seems ecstatic like teenagers on the last day of term. This is the biggest, blokiest party in town.

Why? The master of ceremonies reveals all.

"Newcastle," he booms. "Let's play darts!"

The crowd roars and resumes dancing.

The Sky Sports cameras pan round, gulping in the sensational scene. Somewhere, the show's director grins. Sky's presenter, Dave Clark, leaves stage and applauds the fans. Forget Phil The Power' Taylor. Forget Wayne Hawaii 501' Mardle. Dave Clark knows who darts' big stars are: the fans.

The fans - the boozing, boisterous blokes - are why darts is Sky Sports' second most popular sport. The fans are why tonight's tickets went for £200 on eBay and why the arena walls shake. The fans are why darts is sport's 21st Century success story.

"If you go back to 1994 and the split (when the PDC, who run Premier League Darts, split from the BDO) there was not a chance in the world we thought it would get this big," says Phil Taylor - darts' best-ever player - in the players' lounge. "We had tournaments in working men's clubs between the bingo and the raffle."

NOW, Premier League Darts, which started in 2005, sells out arenas across the country. There were 8,000 at Liverpool, 6,000 at Birmingham and 4,500 at Manchester. There are eight players, who play four matches a night. The games are short - best of 14 legs - and often done in 30 minutes.

Like Twenty20 Cricket, short sport is proving popular. "It's like being at a rock concert," says Sid Voice of Darts' Waddell.

"The fans are coming along for the circus it's the peak of entertainment darts."

And, like any good circus, there's plenty of glamour. The big screens show players posing, arms folded, like boxers with bellies. Each player has a nickname and logo: James "The Machine" Wade, Adrian "Jackpot" Lewis, and - best of all - John "Darth Maple" Part. They enter to theme music like professional wrestlers, flanked by leggy blondes in little black dresses. The crowd surges forward to slap hands, take pictures and bask in their glory. Grown men love darts players. They love them, because they are them.

Men, of course, like footballers. But - deep down - grown men are jealous of footballers. They're athletic, handsome and rich. We're not. Footballers were dealt an amazing hand. We weren't. To deify them is to debase ourselves. In fact - deep down - grown men hate footballers.

Darts players, on the other hand, are like us. They're not athletic or handsome.

Like us, they don't have girls on tap, or six-packs. They weren't dealt an amazing hand, they worked hard and did well, like your bright mate at school.

Good luck to them.

That's why, when Wayne Hawaii 501' Mardle's music starts, the sound pounds your ear drums. He throws his illuminated glasses into the crowd, like a footballer with his shirt, and dances badly.

Just like us. He's 34, from Essex, and he can't believe his luck.

"As you can see, darts is massive now, and it's something we cherish," says Mardle afterwards. "You have to get involved.

People like to see someone with a good attitude, someone enjoying themselves, and I try to make people enjoy themselves. If we all have a great attitude, the game's growth will surely keep going."

The colourful, fans' friend image helped Mardle gain one of two Premier League wild-card slots. The other six qualify. It also keeps the sidelines sweet.

"As a darts player, playing exhibitions is hugely important," he says. "Getting that reaction can mean maybe 30 exhibitions more than anyone else."

Though the fans, undoubtedly, are the stars, the players aren't bad either.

"Darts?" a female colleague asked. "It's just fat blokes throwing arrows at a board." Well, yes. But then opera, for example, is just fat birds singing loudly.

The point is, throwing arrows at tiny area from almost 8ft is hard. Plenty try it - there are more than one million players in Britain - and the eight blokes here are the best in the world.

When a player hits a treble 20 first up, eyes shoot to the board. When he gets a second, the two-pint pots are second best. The crowd rises in anticipation, as if watching a striker beat one man, then two, to face the 'keeper. When he gets a third and scores a 180, the fans cheer like there's been a last-minute winner.

Some players, such as Peter One Dart' Manley, get boos like a pantomime villain.

But when Manley hits a 180, the fans, glad of the excuse, cheer anyway.

"The fans are not as partisan as they are in the World Championship," says Sid Waddell. "They want to see Taylor average 110, Barney doing amazing outshots, Lewis going out on the bull or two double tops." Or - perhaps - they're too drunk to know who's who.

TAYLOR, the main event, plays last.

He's won 13 World Championships, every Premier League and is top this season. Some compare him to Tiger Woods, or Roger Federer. Yeah right, I thought. Until I watch him play.

He makes the others - numbers two to eight in the world - look average. When he needs a double, he hits it. No bother, no fuss, no retakes. We are in the presence of greatness. Taylor batters Manley 8-1. Afterwards, between slurps of lager, he glows.

"The weird thing is, we're getting visited every week by big celebrities," says Taylor like a man who doesn't know his face is plastered on Nintendo computer games. "We had Newcastle players here tonight, Michael Owen, Steve Harper, who were great. I think we're going to get even bigger. I think we can get 15,000 fans in. As players, we have to grow with it."

With that, Taylor leaves, ready for a break in Majorca. ("I'm going to buy an apartment," he says, matter-of-factly.) Meanwhile, the stars of the show pour into Newcastle, drinking, singing, and promising to practise hard at the oche.