At the annual World Grand Prix of darts, players must not only finish on a double, they must also start with a double. It's this unique refinement that gives the Dublin-based event its special place in the calendar, while also providing a firm rebuff to those who say that darts lacks variety.

Think of it, if you like, as a darting version of the fabled Le Mans start, in which the drivers used to dash to their cars like scrambled fighter pilots. Only without the running, in this case - although darters sprinting to the oche is something we'd be in favour of seeing, at least on an experimental basis.

And, on this topic, it's interesting to reflect that no one has perfected a throwing action that incorporated a run-up. I mention it now. Today's bigger stages lend themselves to the possibility of a more vigorous approach to the board. The door could yet be wide open for a player with the right level of initiative to revolutionise top-flight darts in the manner of a Dick Fosbury.

It can't be denied, though, that the double start format divides the darts cognoscenti like nothing apart from the sartorial wisdom, or otherwise, of Peter “One Dart” Manley's pink shirt. (Some argue that a flesh-coloured smock perfectly offsets the fiery tone of the player's complexion when he is under the cosh. Others maintain that it makes him look like a giant economy bar of soap. It's one of those debates that will run and run. Unlike Manley, perhaps, who is, I would tentatively suggest, among the players with most to fear if a vogue for sprinting to the oche takes hold.)

Objectors to the format argue that it ill behoves a sport of this magnitude to be held hostage to verbal play, the punning connection between “double-in” and “Dublin” being no mere coincidence. Mind you, I suppose the players can be thankful they're not in Tripoli.

And yet, as Dave Lanning, who is among darts' most seasoned observers, maintained, the double-in lends Dublin “a distinctive flavour”, further enhanced by the use of Irish music during the walk-ons. (The players touchingly sacrifice their individual themes at this event, acknowledging that the tournament is bigger than any one man's attachment to Eye of the Tiger. I defy anyone not to be moved by that.)

What nobody denies is the dizzying level of extra pressure. In the words of Sid Waddell, the commentator: “It puts a crawling maelstrom of worms in your head.” And to see those worms unleashed in unparalleled numbers, you had only to be watching when Brendan Dolan faced Jacko Barry.

This first-round match was hectically billed as an unofficial championship of Ireland, only for the players to come on and fumble about like people who would struggle to win an unofficial championship at the Goose and Feathers. With one of them having spent seven darts securing an opening double, the other used 12 failing to secure a double to finish. It was one of live television's longer five minutes.

The match got better, with Barry pulling off a 2-1 turnaround win amid much patriotic waving of beer mats. Even so, the dark memory of those mournful opening exchanges will live long in the minds of those who managed not to fall asleep.

But then, when it works, is there any allowing for the extra jolt of electricity that this devilish protocol supplies? Consider the first-round performance of Phil “The Power” Taylor. The first emergence of The Power in Dublin is always a tough call. On the one hand he has won this tournament seven times, which (unless I'm getting confused by the levels of excitement in the Sky Sports commentary box) is more than anyone apart from Pete Sampras. On the other he has thrice been dumped out in the opening round, including last year, when he was rolled off by a carpet fitter. For evidence of the history-shredding randomness introduced by the double-in format, look no farther.

This year, though, he was blistering, twice using his opening three darts as the occasion for an alarmingly casual 160. All this and a sense of perspective, too. “There's a credit crunch out there,” Taylor said, “and I'm playing darts for thousands of pounds.” Who else in the so-often insular world of sport has the Icelandic savings account holder in mind?

At this point, one could only join John Gwynne in openly hymning “the joy of Phil Taylor”, which would be a good title for a book. Dublin, one imagines, with all its faults and failings, would still get a chapter. Or maybe two - one at the beginning and one at the end.

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