I went to Ally Pally for World Darts Championships - nothing prepared me for what happened

There are three things you should know about the World Darts Championship. First, it is entirely possible to meet Jesus queuing for a pint. Second, he may well be accompanied by a penguin. Third, neither of these facts will strike anyone present as remotely unusual. Welcome to Alexandra Palace, "Ally Pally" to its devotees, where for nearly three glorious weeks in winter, thousands of people set aside their daily lives, put on ludicrous costumes, and discover that darts is not merely a sport, but a state of mind.

I must confess: before conducting my 'research' for this piece, I had never even watched darts. Not a single "one-hundred and eighty!" So I decided the best approach was to dress as Wally and hope nobody asked me to explain the rules. Now, having witnessed this magnificent carnival of controlled chaos, I can only ask myself: what on earth took me so long?

The fan village just outside the main arena resembles a particularly ambitious fancy dress party that has collided with a German beer festival. Nuns mingle with monks, the Pope (one of several in attendance) shares a knowing glance with Ali G. A full English breakfast - the actual meal, painstakingly reassembled in fabric form - moves past a group of Romans who appear to have taken a wrong turn at the Colosseum and ended up in North London.

Dalmatians chat with bananas, a Kinder egg debates with a dartboard. A man from Essex has come dressed as an actual dart, which strikes me as either supremely confident or asking for trouble after the third pitcher.

"180!" bellows a nun, waving her sign with ecclesiastical enthusiasm.

The dedication required to be here is nothing short of impressive. Back in August, 120,000 tickets sold out in hours. Nobody knew who they would be watching. Nobody knew which matches they would see. They simply knew they had to be at Ally Pally, and that was enough. 15,000 of those tickets went to German fans alone, which explains the not-inconsiderable Teutonic presence currently dressed as everything from bottles of German beer, to what I think is a slightly dishevelled pretzel.

Dartboards are everywhere here, and I mean, everywhere. At charity stands, food stands and bars, even the media room, where sports correspondents dash for the board between sets and a localised championship appears to have broken out. There's something brilliant about a sport that provides its equipment at every available corner, as if to say: go on then, have a go yourself.

The crowd hails from all over. Germans rub shoulders with Dutch fans, Belgians swap stories with a bloke from Norway and his new friend from Cornwall. This is darts as the United Nations, except everyone is significantly happier, and nobody is discussing climate targets. There;s even family seating for those who have wisely decided to introduce the next generation to this glorious madness early.

At the Paddy Power charity competition stand pitchers are passed hand-to-hand along the queue like buckets at a village fire brigade. They're raising money for Prostate Cancer UK, and the participants embrace their wobbly throwing technique as they struggle to balance the aiming of a dart with the balance of a stable pint. Fair enough, not everyone can multitask while dressed as a traffic cone.

What strikes you immediately is the welcome. This isn't some exclusive members' club, where newcomers are eyed with suspicion. Dozens of people I speak to have never been before, yet they've arrived in full costume, attempted to learn the scoring system (good luck and thrown themselves into the spirit with abandon. One chap tells me earnestly that "it's the only time I get to dress up as a dartboard", as though this somehow explains everything. Somehow, it does.

Behind the bar, a staff member is pulling pints at a rate that would make a Victorian docker weep with envy. Twenty pitchers every five minutes, he tells me, barely breaking stride. He "begs to come back" each year. "It's just the best event I do." Given that he's currently serving beer to a man dressed as Austin Powers while the cast of The Traitors (plus a bearded Claudia Winkleman) queue behind him, you can see the appeal.

A group of office workers in Avengers costumes explain their presence with admirable simplicity: "The vibes, beer and world-class darts." Thor raises his hammer, Captain America nods sagely. There's no doubt that these are men who have discovered life's essentials.

The food matches the occasion in its glorious excess. The "chunky platter", four chicken strips, four bites, four onion rings, two dips and a large chips, is flying out of the kitchen. This is not cuisine for the faint-hearted or the calorie-conscious, this is fuel. Wash it down with beer, naturally.

At the merch stand, business is brisk. Luke "The Nuke" Littler-themed caps are moving fast, along with mohawk wigs and "Bullseye Bully" Bucket hats celebrating the event's mascot, who I later spot in a dance circle with seven Ali G's. The collision of professional sport and cheerful absurdity is complete.

But then I meet the Mona Lisa. Or rather, a gentleman dressed as the Mona Lisa, accompanied by two thieves. Staff practically queue up to photograph this masterpiece (pun absolutely intended). "Best costume we've ever seen," declares one, and frankly, who am I to argue? I adjust my striped jumper and bobble hat with considerably less confidence.

Steve from North London cuts to the chase. "Great time, great spirit from fans, beer, food, and world-class darts." Then he leans in conspiratorially. "It IS a world-class sport, right here in England. Don't forget that."

He's right of course. Beneath the pantomime and pitchers lies genuine, unmistakable sporting excellence. But darts has cleverly refused to choose between being serious and being fun. It has simply decided to be both, simultaneously, at maximum volume.

Ian Jackson, 61, from Amersham, is here courtesy of his daughters' birthday gift. He's dressed as Santa, "It's just the best," he beams. "Everyone here is great, it's a laugh. And the sport, I watch it at home, but to see it live is something else."

Then the main event begins, and suddenly the carnival makes sense.

The arena itself is all stands, long tables, and pitchers galore. When Krzysztof Kciuk enters, he swaggers in like a WWE champion. Pyrotechnics explode and dancers take to the stage. Mario and Luigi scream themselves hoarse as the Polish contingent loses its collective mind.

But nothing, nothing, prepares you for "The Magpie".

William O'Connor's entrance provokes scenes of barely controlled hysteria. The room erupts in a chant: "OOOOOOO…Connor!" It builds and builds, until a wall of sound that surely registers on seismographs ripples across North London.

The nuns are on their feet. The Pope (one of them, at least) punches the air. Santa bounces like a man half his age. Luigi has found Mario again and they're jumping in unison, bellowing "COME ON CONNOR!" with the passion of men defending a besieged fortress.

The noise is constant, physical, inescapable, and glorious.

Outside in the village, stragglers grab food while watching the entrance on their phones screens. A man dressed as Maverick from Top Gun is belting out "Sweet Caroline" with bar staff who join the merry chorus. Everyone knows the words, and everyone commits fully. This, it seems, is Ally Pally law.

The first set ends and Santa dashes past me in evident distress. "I've lost me reindeer," he tells a security guard, who accepts this information with admirable composure. Apparently, the reindeer wandered off during a toilet break. A matador leads his bull back to the tables, unconcerned.

The rules are explained to me three times, by a Smurf, a Christmas tree, and finally a traffic cone. I understand nothing. A crumpled traffic cone sympathises; he's equally baffled. We decide to cheer anyway. This, I'm fast learning, is the correct approach.

O'Connor wins, and once again pyrotechnics flare. The crowd goes absolutely berserk. He walks through them like Caesar through Rome, his Porta Triumphalis? A sports broadcaster with a camera going live to a Dublin pub.

"Go on you Dublin boys!" he declares, and you can practically hear the Guinness spilling in celebration across the Irish Sea.

Minutes later, having beaten one of the world's best, O'Connor is gracious in victory. "I don't care who I'm playing, you're one of the best players in the world," he tells a gaggle of reporters. Try finding that kind of sportsmanship in Premier League football.

Later, O'Connor attributes his success to "practice and hard work."

Outside, I meet Felix, a giant of a German who towers over me like a friendly pine tree. "Darts, it's for everyone. Big and small," he says, gesturing between us. "You and me, we could both learn to play."

I look up at him, he's right of course. That is the secret sauce here. Darts doesn't demand you be six foot five or run 100 meters in ten seconds. It asks only that you practice, that you try, that you show up.

O'Connor's final words echo in my ears: "If I play my best, what more can I do?"

There's another break. Jesus hands me a beer in the queue without being asked, "Take this and drink," he bursts out laughing. The Pope is deep in conversation with a traffic cone about checkout percentages as a nun tries to explain doubles to a very confused banana.

Next up: Daryl Gurney ("Superchin," naturally) versus Beau Greaves, who has inspired one fan to come dressed entirely as her. The room fills again as the pitchers flow, Sweet Caroline plays for approximately the 47th time.

Then something remarkable happens. The only time this raucous room falls silent is when the scores flash up: 40 to 20 in Beau's favour. You could hear a dart drop, the tension is exquisite.

She wins the set and the room erupts into cheering that threatens to lift the roof off Ally Pally. But here's the thing: just minutes later, when Superchin scores well in the next set, he receives the exact same enthusiasm. This crowd doesn't pick favourites and stick religiously to them. They celebrate excellence no matter who provides it. It's sporting fandom at its most pure and joyful.

The matches start to blur together now in a glorious haze of music, pyrotechnics, and celebration. Nathan Aspinall takes on Lourence Ilagan, winning 3-1 to scenes of absolute bedlam. The Avengers are on their feet again, Asterix, who I hadn't previously noticed, has started banging the table in rhythmic approval.

Then Keane Barry sweeps past Tim Pusey 3-0, and if anything the noise intensifies. Each victory is greeted like the liberation of Paris. Each walk-on could soundtrack a heavyweight boxing match. The music pounds, the crowd roars, and somewhere a bearded nunnery is attempting to high-five a Kinder egg. This is what happens when you give the British public alcohol, darts, and permission to dress like complete idiots. It's magnificent.

"You lot have won the best crowd so far in the World Championship," the host declared midway through round two. The room exploded with pride, for we are, it seems, the best-dressed, best-behaved, most enthusiastic collection of tipsy people in costumes that Britain has produced this year.

Back in the village, three Dalmatians wander past looking slightly lost. "Anyone seen Cruella?" one asks plaintively. Nobody has. She's probably off plotting something dastardly with the Romans.

As I prepare to leave, Wally's jumper now slightly beer-stained, dignity lost in set three, I spy Jesus walking arm-in-arm with Batman. They met at the darts and now they are, apparently, best friends. Six Minions and Gru join their procession, and together this unlikely fellowship belts out (you guessed it) "Sweet Caroline" as they disappear into the North London night.

This, I think, is what Ally Pally does. It takes strangers and makes them family, if only for an afternoon. It takes a sport and turns it into theatre, and it takes December in England, usually grey, cold, and slightly depressing, and transforms it into something magical.

Should you go? Absolutely. Immediately. With or without a costume (though with is better). Whether you understand the sport or, like me, couldn't explain a checkout to save your life.

But next time, buy your tickets early. This year 120,000 tickets vanished in hours next year, whilst staying at Ally Pally they are moving to a bigger room - 5,000 fans will soon be able to pack in and join the party.

Because Ally Pally isn't just about darts, though the darts are genuinely world-class. It's about beer-drinking Jesuses and wandering reindeer and impromptu friendships between religious figures and caped crusaders. It's about office workers as Avengers and Mona Lisas with thieves. It's about thousands of people from dozens of countries deciding that for one glorious afternoon, they'll abandon the day to day, embrace absurdity, and celebrate a sport that welcomes absolutely everyone.

Plus, where else can you get your scoring explained by a Christmas tree, make friends with Felix the German, and witness a room of thousands fall silent for a single perfect moment before exploding back into joyful chaos?

I rest my case. And if anyone asks, I was never lost, I was exactly where Wally should be: right in the middle of the most wonderfully ridiculous sporting event in Britain.