There comes a time in every dart player’s life when they make the fateful decision to share their passion with friends. What begins as a vision of sophisticated sporting camaraderie quickly devolves into a masterclass in patience, home repair and creative encouragement.

Picture the scene, your living room, once a sanctuary of peace, now resembles the aftermath of a tiny, very precise tornado.

There’s Sven, our resident Olympic Javelin Champion, who hurls darts with enough force to penetrate concrete, you’ll find his projectiles buried halfway into your drywall before you can say “triple twenty.”

Martina plays the Nervous Scientist, squinting at the board like it’s a complex equation. She adjusts her grip twelve times, mutters about “optimal trajectory variables,” then throws so timidly the dart barely clears her shoes. “FAscinating FAilure!” she announces, as it bounces off the wall for the fifth time.

Rudi becomes the Superstitious Shuffler, performing an elaborate series of toe-taps, deep breaths and ritualistic dart kisses (complete with audible “mwah” sounds) before each throw.

And then there’s Michael, our beloved Backwards Bandit, who somehow manages to release every third dart facing entirely the wrong direction, a feat that defies all laws of physics yet occurs with terrifying consistency, usually accompanied by the distinctive “thunk” of tungsten embedding itself in the baseboard behind him and his proud declaration: “I meant to do that!”

And somewhere, somehow, there’s a dart sticking out of your ceiling fan that no one will claim responsibility for.

Darts for dummies, a survival guide for your walls (and sanity)

The first rude awakening comes when you realize that basic dart concepts might as well be advanced astrophysics to your friends. You’ll spend what feels like hours explaining that no, the target isn’t the entire wall space surrounding the board, nor is it the flat-screen TV (despite its tempting size) and absolutely not Michael’s forehead (though he keeps positioning himself like a human bullseye). Then there’s the oche to explain, it’s pronounced “ockey,” you’ll repeat for the seventh time, not “oshay”, because we’re playing a British pub game, not ordering a fine Bordeaux. But the most baffling moment comes when you demonstrate how to hold a dart, only to watch in horror as someone tries to throw it sideways like a playing card, proving that “pointy end forward” is apparently rocket science.

Scoring introduces a whole new dimension of despair. You begin with what seems painfully obvious: the bullseye is 50 points, the ring around it 25 and the other numbers are worth… wait for it… exactly what’s printed on them. This revelation is met with expressions of utter confusion, slack jaws and inevitably, someone asking about the “blue scoring zones” despite the complete absence of any blue on the regulation board. When you attempt to explain that the thin outer ring triples the segment’s value, you’ll witness actual smoke coming from ears as mental gears grind to a halt. Trying to explain doubles at this point would be like teaching a goldfish to ride a bicycle, theoretically possible in some universe, but certainly not this one.

Your role now evolves into equal parts coach, therapist and damage control specialist. Every throw, no matter how disastrous, receives enthusiastic feedback. A dart stuck in the wall? “Incredible power!” One that misses the board entirely? “Excellent follow-through!” A throw that somehow reverses direction mid-air? “Groundbreaking technique!” This isn’t deception, it’s critical psychological maintenance, the only thing preventing your friends from abandoning darts for something less destructive, like indoor javelin practice.

When you finally attempt an actual game, Around the clock seems like a safe choice, just hit numbers 1 through 20 in sequence. In your naive imagination, this is a foolproof way to practice basic aiming. In reality, you’ll watch in mute horror as someone gets stuck on number 5 for what feels like geological epochs, their initial enthusiasm giving way to quiet desperation. Others will develop remarkably creative interpretations of the rules, arguing that a dart that bounced off the coffee table, TV stand and family dog should count because it “would have hit the board eventually.” You’ll find yourself nodding along to arguments about “kinetic energy transfer” and “alternative trajectories” that would make a physics professor weep.

As the evening progresses, your priorities undergo a dramatic shift from teaching proper technique to simple survival. You’ll begin subtly relocating breakable objects (discovering too late that the “danger zone” encompasses your entire living space). You’ll mentally calculate how much spackle you’ll need to repair the damage (answer: all of it). You’ll seriously consider installing those transparent protective barriers they use in sketchy dive bars. Your compliments grow increasingly elaborate, reaching their absurd peak when someone’s dart sails cleanly out an open window and you still manage to choke out, “Really finding your range now!” through gritted teeth.

The end comes suddenly, usually triggered by one of three events, a dart embedding itself in an appliance, someone asking “Wait, which circle is the bullseye?” for the eighteenth time or the sound of breaking glass from another room. You’ll wrap up with hearty congratulations, vague promises to do this again soon (knowing full well you’d rather host a porcupine juggling workshop) and an immediate, very strong drink (purely for its medicinal properties, of course).

The morning after brings sobering clarity as you survey the battlefield. Those clusters of holes in your drywall? They’re not damage, they’re abstract art hieroglyphs. That dart still inexplicably lodged in the ceiling fan? A kinetic sculpture. The mysterious stain on the carpet that might be beer, tears or possibly both? A Rorschach test of your poor life choices. And that one, single, beautiful bullseye someone miraculously hit right before leaving? Proof that even in the darkest night, there’s always hope, even if it took three hours, two cases of beer and most of your will to live to achieve it.

Final verdict, it’s not a sport, it’s an extreme home makeover challenge

Teaching darts to beginners is less about proper technique and more about surviving the experience with your home and friendships intact. But take heart, every professional player started somewhere and statistically speaking, at least one of your friends might eventually hit what they’re aiming for. Until then, remember the essential pillars of dart instruction, praise everything (no matter how disastrous), protect your walls (or at least have spackle ready) and always keep the number of a good drywall repair person handy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go explain to my landlord why my apartment looks like it survived a tiny, very precise hurricane. And possibly start a support group for victims of beginner dart nights. Meetings are every Tuesday, we provide free spackle and emotional support.

Darts fever, because why not practice more, aim higher and laugh louder!

Adrian Lewis, Jackpot: “After school I went to work at a builders’ merchant in Stoke. After we finished on a Friday, it was down to the Duke of York for a drink with my mates and a game of darts. Unfortunately for them I had a natural talent and nobody could beat me.”