It's probably the surname . . .

. . . they put two and two together and come up with a leprechaun with a set of darts in his hand. Maybe they think my dartitis is me doing the Riverdance?

That's the second time someone at the darts has assumed I'm Irish 'cos of my accent. I wouldn't mind but if you leant out my window and threw a soda bread onto the street there's a strong chance you hit an Irish-American. It turns out Irish-Americans can't fathom accents.

What can I do? Run up a makeshift kilt and wear it with a Tam o' shanter hat every time I walk out the door? With my varicose veins? I'd get sectioned. 

Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoevsky (Penguin Classics 1846)

 

On the other hand, perhaps she's just a fraud, purposely sending a hungry, feeble child out to dupe people, and thereby making him ill. And what does the poor boy learn from handing out these letters? His heart merely grows hard- ened; he goes around, runs up to people, begging. The people are going about their business, and they have no time. Their hearts are stony; their words are cruel: 'Be off with you! Go away! You won't make a monkey out of me!' That is what he hears from everyone's lips. His child's heart grows hardened, and the poor frightened boy shivers for nothing in the cold, like a little bird that has fallen out of a broken nest. His arms and legs are frozen; he gasps for breath. The next time you see him, he is coughing; it is not long before illness, like some unclean reptile, creeps into his breast, and when you look again, death is already standing over him in some stinking corner somewhere, and there is no way out, no help at hand — there you have his entire life! That's what life can be like! Oh, Varenka, it's so agonizing to hear those words 'For the love of Christ', and to walk on, and give the boy nothing, to say to him: 'God will provide.' Some 'For the love of Christ' are not so bad. (There are various kinds of them, little mother.) Others are long-drawn-out, habitual, studied - a beggar's stock-in-trade; it's not so hard to refrain from giving to one of those — he's an inveterate beggar, one of long stand- ing, a beggar by trade; he's used to it, you think, he'll get over it, he knows how to get over it. But another will be unpractised, coarse, terrible — as today when, just as I was about to take the letter from the boy, a man standing by the fence, who was selecting the people he asked for money, said to me: 'Give me a half-a-copeck, barin, for the love of Christ!' in such a rude, abrupt voice that I shuddered with a sense of terrible emotion, but did not give him a half-copeck: I didn't have one. And then again, there's the fact that rich people don't like the poor to complain of their lot out loud — they say they are causing trouble, being importunate! Yes, poverty is always importunate — perhaps those groans of hunger keep the rich awake!

Faded Memories

Posted February 8th, early morning.

I remember absolutely bugger all about this 180 . . . but I'm glad it exists.

6/50

Elevator to the Gallows (1958)

 

Orphans (1998)

 

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton (Oxford University Press 1911)

 

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts, you know the post-office. If you know the post-office you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade: and you must have asked who he was.

It was there that, several years ago, I saw him for the first time; and the sight pulled me up sharp. Even then he was the most striking figure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruin of a man. It was not so much his great height that marked him, for the “natives” were easily singled out by their lank longitude from the stockier foreign breed: it was the careless powerful look he had, in spite of a lameness checking each step like the jerk of a chain. There was something bleak and unapproachable in his face, and he was so stiffened and grizzled that I took him for an old man and was surprised to hear that he was not more than fifty-two. I had this from Harmon Gow, who had driven the stage from Bettsbridge to Starkfield in pre-trolley days and knew the chronicle of all the families on his line.

“He’s looked that way ever since he had his smash-up; and that’s twenty-four years ago come next February,” Harmon threw out between reminiscent pauses.

I should be bored by now: 81 - 100

Opponent: Computer Level 9

Date Started: 11th January 2026

Date Finished: 21st January 2026

 

One of my worst performances in recent memory. I couldn't even outscore Level 9 this time, then blame it all on missing the doubles. No 180s either in 181 legs of darts. The only crumb of comfort is that I hit three ton-plus checkouts. That's not to be sniffed at.

 

 

100 - 89

Opponent: Computer Level 8

Date Started: 22nd September 2025

Date Finished: 2nd February 2026

 

Three-and-a-half months to finish a game ! Do I have to state the obvious? I don't really enjoy playing Cricket at home. At best, I use it as a warm up 'practice' for 501 games. Sad but true. 

 

Nice to get a win, though.

"You take pictures of your 180s?"*

Another 180 from that Luck of the Draw which annoyed me. (The Luck of the Draw, not the 180.) I guess it should have been my last 180 at that bar . . . actually, it still might.

5/50

*From a bemused G.A. He was right to be bemused. I have to get over it . . . just not yet.

Let there be (a bit more) light

Back at the Dickensian themed bar (not really), and another 180. 

It was a Luck of the Draw night, and I'd originally been at the *cough* 'Down Down' bar just down the road but I made the trek over because I was under a mistaken impression . . . I thought it was going to be a last chance night. It turns out it wasn't. Just another in a recent longish line of mistaken impressions. 

Ho hum, you'd like to think you'd live and learn . . . but I probably won't.

It wasn't so much a 'last chance' but it is a 'last throw' for Luck of the Draw at that place. It didn't sit right and pouring out the door past 1am is not conducive to my constitution. At least I hit a couple of 180s . . . and I made my cash back.

4/50

In between the tea and the waffles . . .

"Late to the show. Posted 3rd February, early morning. I'm knackered."

An early morning 180. It was about three weeks ago, so I don't remember a scooby about it. A weekday morning, so everyone needed to be somewhere and, as it's just after seven in the morning, Owen would have just left for school in a grumpy mood and Kara would be shouting from the bedroom to ask if the tea was ready.

All that family drama and I still hit a 180. No pressure at this end.

 

 

3/50

"Hold on, I'm in the dark . . . "

"Late to the show. Posted 3rd February, early morning. I'm knackered."

 

Practising before a league match in a Brooklyn Bar on Third Avenue. (Think Dickensian.) It wasn't the match board, so that explains why it's a bit battered and bruised. It also explains the flash for the picture. Turns out, you can't have proper lighting for the spare boards as it distracted from match play. (I'm paraphrasing.)

 

It was the first leg of a semi final and we were playing away. We lost 10-9, which wasn't a bad result overall. The disaster was to occur the following week. Dear reader, we blew it . . . blew it big time.

 

 

 

2/50

The Traitors (2022)

 

Storming the buildings day . . .

Late to the show. Posted 3rd February, early morning. I'm knackered.

 

There's a 180 in there somewhere.

 

 

1/50

I'm Chevy Chase and You're Not (2026)

 

Nancy, we hardly knew you.

Well, that was a bit of a clusterfuck, wasn't it?

In Martin we trust.

Caught Stealing (2025)

 

The Celebrity Traitors (2025)