They walk among us, sit among us, sing among us. They speak perfect English, hunt in packs, down industrial quantities of Amstel just like everyone else. And yet to the trained eye, to the seasoned Ally Pally veteran, there is just something different to them. A comportment and a vibe. Perhaps the fact they speak perfect English. You can even spot a subtle distinction in the choice of fancy dress; fewer jockeys and 118 118 runners, more woodland animals and flag suits, less postmodern ironic and more Euro-kitsch. They come, mostly, in love and peace. Even so, the divide is real. Enmity? Perhaps a bit strong. Either way: don’t tell them your name, Pike.
Slowly and by degrees, the Germans are coming. At first in small scattered groups and landing parties, then larger expeditions, and then finally the full-scale mass incursion. A battery of tour buses spills the latest recruits up the steps and into the Palace. Package excursions sell out months in advance. Around a quarter of all tickets for this year’s world championship have been sold in Germany, rising to as many as a third for some sessions. Why are they here? What do they want? And how did a country that has never produced a world-class player of its own get so thoroughly hooked on the darts?
