Bellies and Bullseyes: The Outrageous True Story of Darts by Sid Waddell (Ebury Press 2007)

 

During my first performance I managed to upset some of the crowd and players. David and I did our thing on a first-floor balcony, about sixty feet up and back from the stage action. We were not soundproofed in any way, because, I assume, at the snooker, ‘Whispering’ Ted Lowe and the others operated at the table side and very much sotto voce. Not the style of the lad who was soon to become dubbed ‘The Geordie Lip’. I got really excited and loud when a Geordie team, from Cramlington near Ashington, were going well. So much so that an angry voice from below threatened to ‘come up and smack that bastard on the balcony’. Then I loudly predicted a player would try to go out from 128 with 60, 60, double 4. The bloke froze on stage, turned theatrically, looked up at me and bellowed: ‘No I bloody won’t’ – then went out with 60, 18, bull! It brought the house down, not so much for winning the leg but mainly for putting me in my place. But, believe me, this was small beer compared to the stick that lay ahead.

In and Out by Mat Coward (Five Star 2001)

 

Frank found the DI leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on a journey to the centre of the earth.

“Well, he was surprisingly talkative once he got going wasn't he?” said Frank, as he waited for Don to move so he could get into the car. “I thought you got a lot out of him, in the end.”

“It’s quality that counts,” Don replied. “Not quantity.”

“Aye, right, I suppose so.” Frank jiggled his keys. Don remained immobile. Never mind, thought Frank. I was used to a lot colder up North. “He certainly seems to know a bit about darts, anyway, our Mr. Hall.”

Now Don moved—he span away from the car as if it was red hot, and turned on Frank with a look of deep disappointment. “Frank, he knows bugger all about darts! What are you talking about, all those books? All that twenty-five grammes crap? He’s a pot-hunter, Frank. He’s a mercenary. God, man, Sean Hall doesn’t know the fundamentals of the game! Listen, darts isn’t about stance and grip and all that rubbish.” 

All that rubbish you were going on about in the pub the other day, thought Frank. “It isn’t?”

“Books of finishes, and quarter-finals, and trophies—it’s got nothing to do with all that.”

“It’s more a mental game, is what you’re saying?” Actually, now he came to think about it, bloody London could get cold enough, this time of year, thank you very much.

“Yes, yes, all that, but the point is, Frank, darts is about friendship. It’s about playing the game for its own sake. Look, for instance, there’s no handicapping in darts. Right? Not like golf. Now golf, that’s a game designed for keeping people in their place, a game designed to ensure the continuation of hierarchies. That’s why it’s only played by second-rate businessmen and shit comedians.”

“Right. Shall we get in the—”

“But darts—darts is a democracy. If you get beaten on the dartboard by someone who’s not a quarter the player you are, you’re really beaten—no handicap, no excuses. You see, Frank, darts is the only sport where there’s virtually no element of luck involved. Anything else—football, tennis, anything—you get a lucky bounce and you’re a hero. Or not. But with darts, you’re on your own, and a millimetre either way makes the difference between winning or losing.” Don ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Oh, certainly. You’re saying—”

Don rattled the door handle on the passenger side. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

Frank bleeped the lock. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Slinging Arrows by Wayne Mardle (Ebury Press 2021)

 

There does come a point when every darts player is forced to confront his or her intake and for me that point came in Vegas – where else? – during the summer of 2004. I’d reached the final of the PDC’s third Las Vegas Desert Classic, a huge event at the Vegas MGM Grand.

Remember when Tyson fought Holyfield in 1997? Same place. Some aspects of my own experience at the MGM were similar – for instance, the huge LED screens above the stage, which had once flashed with the rotating names MIKE TYSON and EVANDER HOLYFIELD, were still there, and were now reading PHIL TAYLOR and WAYNE MARDLE. (It’s quite something seeing your name up in lights like that, and it’s hard not to feel empowered. I remember seeing the stage and thinking: ‘Right, I’m going to maul him. I’m going to absolutely maul him.’) Unfortunately that’s where the similarities end, mainly because while Tyson famously left the ring having torn something off, namely a not insignificant portion of Holyfield’s right ear, I staggered onto the stage after tying one on.

By that I mean I was pissed. I wasn’t paralytic, but equally I hadn’t been to bed for two nights. I was competing against the world’s best player, in a major final, live on Sky Sports, and I hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours because I’d been knocking back champagne, vodka and mojitos, and gambling like a fiend.

The game was due to start at midday, but I’d taken up residence at one of the hotel bars at 6am. I remember when I’d first arrived at this little bar in the middle of the casino – a bar no bigger than ten feet wide, with a little opening for the barman and a handful of poker consoles on top – I’d said to the barman: ‘Are you open?’

And he’d gone: ‘We’re always open.’

It was music to my ears. By that point I’d already been drinking for so long that I’d convinced myself I was sobering up, even though of course I wasn’t sobering up at all and was, in fact, becoming progressively more drunk. The reality of the situation was not something that troubled me when I ordered a vodka and cranberry. Then another. Then several more.

I was having a great time as the clock ticked closer and closer to midday. 

Somewhere in the blur of it all Sharapova won the Wimbledon final, beating Serena Williams, and I’d had a bet on that outcome so I was jumping around the place like a lunatic. And of course by this point the darts fans were all wandering in, and I was there in my Hawaiian shirt so even in Vegas I wasn’t exactly blending in, meaning that the fans were all coming over for photos and autographs.

The barman was watching all this happen – and bear in mind I’d been there two or three hours by that point, and he’d been serving me for the duration, so there was no doubt about it: I was drunk. The barman went: ‘I have to ask, who are you?”

“I said: ‘Well, there’s darts on, isn’t there?’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I know that.’ And then this look of absolute horror crossed his face. ‘Hold on,’ he went. ‘Are you playing?’

‘Yep, I’m in the final.’

He looked me up and down, paused a moment and replied: ‘Can I bet on the other guy?’

‘Yes, you can!’ I declared triumphantly and, with that, I staggered off to face my fate. I turned back, and he was just kind of staring at me, with the most subtle shake of his head. You know the head-shake: the type you’d usually only get from a disapproving parent. And at that point I remember thinking: ‘Wayne, there’s a very slight possibility you might have overdone it.’

This came into focus (and for me, it was pretty much the only thing in focus) when I got downstairs to the practice room and found Phil, already practising. Safe to say, Phil hadn’t exactly been on the piss during his time in Vegas, and the only refreshment he had in front of him was a small portion of fruit. He looked me up and down and said: ‘What the FUCK has happened to you?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, attempting to gloss over the fact that I probably looked like I’d just been dragged away from a brawl outside a tiki bar. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine!’ (If someone tells you they’re fine once, they might be – if they feel the need to tell you twice, they’re not fine at all and are almost certainly pissed.)

I asked Phil what he’d been up to in Sin City and he told me matter-of-factly that he hadn’t left his hotel room in the last seven days. ‘I’m here to play, and win, then go home,’ he said, adding that in his entire time there he’d only left his room to eat and play darts.

I looked at him standing there, all ready to lift another trophy, and I said: ‘Phil, I think you might win this.’

Which, of course, is exactly what happened, although strangely he only beat me 6–4 in sets (and I actually won more legs than him), and it was a pretty close game considering I was off my face on Vegas! As for my trusty barman, who’d been such a friend when he was pouring out those vodka and cranberries, and such a stern parent when I’d staggered off to meet my defeat … Well, despite his claim that he was always open, I didn’t see him again the next day, or the day after that. I like to think he did go and place that bet on Phil winning; that he pocketed the cash and jacked in his job on the spot. At least one of us would have been lucky that day.

Darts Greatest Games: Fifty Finest Matches from the World of Darts by Matt Bozeat (Pitch Publishing 2017)

 

Sid Waddell told the armchair enthusiasts that Deller was “not just an underdog, he’s an underpuppy” and asked: “Can Deller do the unthinkable and beat Bristow in the world final?”

For Deller, who threw spring-loaded darts designed to avoid bounce-outs, reaching the final, a fine achievement for a qualifier, wasn’t enough.

He was there to win the World Championship and predicted a 6-3 victory.

He blew six darts at a double to make it happen…

Earlier, the match had swung this way – Deller led 3-1 – then the other – Bristow levelled at 3-3 – then back again.

Deller won the seventh and eighth sets, taking him into a 5-3 lead and just one set away from the World Championship.

In the ninth set, Deller was 64 points away, then 18, then eight, then four…

Six darts at a match-winning double were missed and Deller spent the next two sets “shaking my head. I should have been world champion.”

Ever the opportunist, Bristow showed why commentator Dave Lanning described him as “a burglar” on the oche.

In his youth, Bristow had burgled houses and the North London ne’er-do-well-turned-king-of-darts brought his street cunning to darts. Knowing Deller was vulnerable, his mind elsewhere, Bristow smoothly upped his average by a few points and plundered five legs without reply while Deller chewed over those missed match-winning chances.

When he claimed the opening leg of the 11th and deciding set, Bristow led for the first time in the match and that realisation, the possibility of defeat, snapped Deller out of his ruminations. Either he started throwing his best darts again or he would lose – and he hadn’t come here to lose.

The spell broken, he rediscovered his fluency to break back immediately with a 121 checkout, then hold his throw to leave Bristow needing to do the same to save the match.

Bristow got to a finish first in that fourth leg.

He took aim at 121 with Deller also on a three-dart finish, 138.

Bristow threw 17, then treble 18 and with 50 left, everyone zoomed in on the bull’s-eye. Everyone apart from Bristow, that is. Rather than go for the bull’s-eye to win the leg, Bristow was so sure Deller wouldn’t take out 138 for the match, he threw 18 to leave his favourite double 16.

This wasn’t hubris. Bristow had thought it all through. He reckoned Deller’s mental mastication – “He could have beaten me earlier, he had his chance” – and the awkwardness of the 138 finish – “it was all over the place” – guaranteed he would come back to the oche and have three darts at his favourite double.

Years later, he would think otherwise, saying the pressure would have been greater on Deller had he been faced with a smaller finish. “If he had 58 left he would have been standing behind me thinking: ‘I’ve got two more darts for the title,’” he said, but still, nobody, not just Bristow, really expected Deller to take out 138.

“He’s banking on Deller not doing this!” cried Waddell excitedly and when Deller’s first dart landed in treble 20, there was a chance Bristow had got it wrong.

Deller had taken out big finishes in the earlier rounds of the championship and knew what he was doing. “I didn’t stop,” he said. “There was no way I was going to think about it.”

Had he thought about the importance of the darts he was throwing, his arm would surely have twitched, so Deller ignored the crowd’s growing excitement when he nailed treble 18 and coolly switched across the board to fire his final dart into double 12.

“I have never seen anything like it in my life,” said Waddell while Deller shook his fists above his head in sheer joy.

“It was perhaps the next best thing that could happen to me,” Deller would tell Darts World, “… next to playing for Ipswich Town.”

The Crafty Cockney by Deryk Brown (Futura 1985)

 

Darts Apprentice

Alec Williams was passing a classroom one day when he discovered that Bristow was inside, throwing darts. He saw one dart clip a boy’s ear and was, naturally, horrified. He shouted out that this was highly dangerous. ‘Oh, no, sir,’ came the reply in a chorus. ‘Eric wouldn’t hit anyone unless he meant to. ’

Bristow learned his darts from his father. George used to play, perhaps twice a week, about the time he got married, usually at the Londesborough public house in Stoke Newington. During the years that followed he played little. He did not have the money to go regularly into pubs. George’s interest was not seriously fired until his son showed an aptitude for the game. For two years, from nine to 11, Bristow simply threw darts at the board. After that, he suddenly became good.

Even then, as he threw he would cock his little finger like a man eating lobster at Buckingham Palace — this style, later to become famous, is natural and not affected. Bristow had a natural stance and a natural throw, too, with no apparent effort involved. (This does not mean, of course, that he did not put a vast amount of work into his game.) As soon as he was tall enough, he began to lean towards the board, another characteristic which was to stay with him. There is a school of thought which believes that darts players should not lean because they cannot achieve perfect balance and control if they do. ‘You’ll never make a darts player like that,’ George once told his son in the early days within hearing of half a pub. Bristow leaned towards the board and popped in another dart.

As we have seen, from the age of nine Bristow had both a five-foot snooker table and a dartboard at home as a shift in the often-changing household created a little more For a while he played both games against George but the snooker petered out. The snooker matches were not sufficiently momentous for either father or son to remember who won. Darts took over as Bristow began thousands of hours of practice. If there was something unappealing on television — a love story or some soap opera — Pam would be left to watch it on her own. She would be expected to arrive with a plate heaped with sandwiches from time to time as the darts score mounted. For Pam Bristow, the suffragettes had fought in vain.

The male Bristows would often play 1,001-up, which many darts buffs argue is the best form of all. Certainly, it is the best format for an aspiring champion to play: it enables him to get into the groove of high scoring better than the shorter 501-up, which is tailored for‘ television. And, in theory at least, the Bristow even played a million-and-one as well. They would set out on that long trail, add up their total in lots of 10,001, and eventually lose track of their score, this being before the days of calculators and home computers. Bristow maintains that he and George could, in fact, have got through a game of a million-and-one in 24 hours or so. That is unlikely, although it is I surprising how quickly these marathons go.

By the time he was 13, Bristow was becoming quite proficient at darts. He had tried football, cricket, golf, boxing, swimming and cards, plus one or two more pursuits. He could, for instance, play chess and dominoes. But it seemed as though he would be best at darts. Occasionally he could score 140 which is two darts in the small treble 20 bed, and another dart in the single 20. Very occasionally, at 12, he would score 180, which is all three darts in the treble 20 bed. In darts, they get quite excited about that.

The Dart League King by Keith Lee Morris (Tin House Books 2008)

 

Because there was something about Vince Thompson that Brice Habersham had almost started to like. He had conducted several casual conversations with Vince Thompson at the convenience store, where Vince often came to buy beer, and had found him an animated and knowledgeable (if somewhat angry) commentator on local history, events, and trends, including the growing problem of meth addiction, interestingly enough. Partly, this was no doubt the result of Vince Thompson’s “business” interests—with homemade meth labs popping up all over the county, there was little demand for his commodity anymore—but he also seemed to feel a genuine moral repugnance at the thought of parents using volatile chemicals to cook up drugs while their babies crawled around on the floor, and at the droves of burnouts now winding up in the jails and prisons, costing the taxpayers money with their rotten teeth. Was it possible to be a virtuous drug dealer? Was there such a thing as a “classic” pusher, a throwback to some nostalgic past of the illegal drug trade? If so, Vince Thompson was established in Brice Habersham’s mind as the prime example. He kept regular hours, going to his job at the apartment complex on Cedar Street five days a week at the same time every morning. He was a regular at several local bars, but never stayed out past midnight. He sold his cocaine almost exclusively to a fairly consistent group of customers who came to his apartment during daylight hours. He was very likely crazy, Brice Habersham knew, but even his craziness had a sort of consistency to it—a constant pent-up bitterness, a dam that could be burst open by the employment of any number of simple phrases such as “How are you, Vince?” or “Are you enjoying this nice weather?” And the flood of expletives would ensue. Vince Thompson’s volatility was so predictable, in fact, that he could almost be Brice Habersham’s alter ego, the yin to his yang, both of them rigidly self-defined in completely opposite fashion.

Thinking along these lines while the current singles match dragged out interminably, Brice Habersham found himself even more puzzled by Vince Thompson this evening. There sat Vince—beerless, bleeding, alone, and (perhaps most alarmingly) silent. What did it mean?

The Crafty Cockney : the autobiography by Eric Bristow (Arrow Books 2008)

 

Streetwise

‘You play like a poof!’

These were, the words my dad George said to me when he first watched me play darts. I was eleven years old and he'd just bought me a board for my birthday. I was playing in my bedroom.

‘I can't take you down the pub if you play like that,' he said.

I’d never played darts before, but three weeks later I was getting regular three-dart scores of a hundred plus. The trouble was 1 had a unique style of throwing that in my dad's eyes looked suspect. It involved standing to the side and holding the dart lower down the barrel so my little finger rested on the tip of it. This hindered my throwing action. To overcome this I raised my little finger in the air so there was no contact with the point.

‘You look like a little posh boy holding a china teacup,’ he said.

‘Give it a rest, Dad,' I said to him. This is the way I play, and this is the way I'll always play.’

He didn’t like it, but it was a style that gave me five World Championships, five World Masters, two News of the World titles, four British Opens, three Butlins Grand Masters and numerous Open wins in Sweden, Denmark and North America, plus a host of other tides — and pretty soon everybody was copying my throwing style. As soon as I got good there were thousands of other players in pubs and clubs up and down the country all playing with raised pinkies. They thought they could be great darts players just by lifting up their little finger. What a bunch of wallies!

Bobby Dazzler: My Story by Bobby George (Orion 2006)

Yes, he could be arrogant at times, both on and off the oche, but I think he needed that for his game. There was never any malice there. If he had something to say, he would always say it to your face and I respected him for that. He was blunt but he was also honest and I never once heard him bad mouth anyone behind their back.

In 1977, Eric and I won the pairs at the Crayford Open and almost met each other in the final of the singles. I reached the final and Eric got to die semi-finals where he lost to Peter Chapman, a darts veteran and former News of the World champion.

Peter had a big hairy chest and used to love to show it oft by playing dart with his shirt open all the way down to just above his navel. Eric was never shy in coming forward and mentioned the chest hair to Peter, asking if he grew an extra hair every time he lost a match. When Peter asked why. Eric replied. ‘Well, you’re playing my mate in the final and you've just grown another one. Look!’ He could be a saucy bastard at times.

The two of us had some great times together, particularly in the early days, winning lots of tournaments and causing havoc all over the place with our money races. We always had a laugh too. I once played Eric in St Paul’s Way, east London. I went up to the oche and hit the wire under the treble 20 three times in a row. No score. Eric was in hysterics until he got up to the oche and did exactly the same with his three darts. No score.

Six darts hit six wires. It was incredible. I have never seen or heard of anything like that before or since. Some drunk in the crowd heckled us and told us we were rubbish. Quick as a flash. Eric went over, offered him his darts and said, ‘Go on then, you do it. Hit the wire three times.’ It was a priceless moment.

At that time, money races were the only way to earn good money from darts, and if you were a decent player, this was normally easy money, too. Eric and I were normally so confident that we carried little cash on us because normally we won. I say, normally.

One night I drove Eric to the Mother Hubbard pub in Loughton, where he took on Bob Wood in a money race for £200, which was a great deal of money back then. He lost. Eric came up to me at the bar and asked me to lend him the money to cover his debt, but I had nothing like that amount of cash on me. We were both flummoxed for a moment, until Eric went over to Bob and offered him a game of ’double or quits’ against me! Suddenly, I was the one in the firing line. If I won, we were in the clear and if I lost, we somehow had to find £400.

The match was played over seven legs of 1001 and at one stage I was in serious trouble against him. With little money in our pockets. Eric and I were about to get lynched by the locals, and we were outnumbered by about 30 to one. At the end of one leg, I walked over to Eric and handed him the keys to my Ford Cortina, parked outside. I told him that if I looked like losing, he had to get outside, start up the engine and leave the passenger door open for me. In the worst-case scenario, we would have to make a run for it. We would have no other choice. The money race would probably turn into a car chase.

I went back to the oche and no sooner had I played my first three darts of the next leg when Eric shouted out with the keys in his hand, ‘Bob, I can’t drive.’ I couldn’t believe it. Talk about waking me up! Our only chance now was for me to win the match. I pulled out several maximums and nicked it on the final leg. I was wet through with sweat at the end, and that was just to cancel out a bet that Eric lost. We left the pub without a penny between us, and never went back.

That was our apprenticeship but there is no doubt that such experiences improved our darts. My game was improving all the time. The cheques and the trophies were proof of that.

Eric and I became the game's version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and we stuck up for each other through thick and thin. I will never forget that about him. Most of the others just looked after themselves but he wasn't like that.

Leighton Rees On Darts edited by Dave Lanning (Atheneum 1979)

But darts, like so many Sports, is a question of pacing, of reaching a peak at the exact right moment. Now, on reflection, I realize I had peaked just a game too soon. That semifinal was the high-spot and, without any disrespect to George Champion, I believe I could still have beaten him had I played more steadily than spectacularly. I needed the peak form I had just enjoyed for the final because only the very best would have contained my opponent, the computerishly consistent Billy Lennard.

Maybe I simply "peaked" too soon, or maybe it was the circumstances that affected me, because there was a very long interval before the Grand Final, the most momentous match of my life. The competition was ahead of schedule for the television boys who were broadcasting live at 3:35 P.M. Lennard and I were ready to go at about 3:00 P.M. Timings were further complicated by an objection to the winner of the 3:30 P.M. horse race that the TV network was also covering. Thus, the TV boys came in for a fair hit of criticism over that long wait, which thousands of Welshmen believed was my undoing. It was not until much later that it was established that it was the organizers, the News of the World, who had specifically requested live coverage. The TV people would have been perfectly satisfied to record the final as scheduled (which now, in fact, is the practice) and replay the tape later.

I have no clear recollection of that “long wait.” It remains one of those moments in life which are like suspended animation—floating in space as the astronauts do must produce a similar sensation. At the time it was all high octane, but now I have no standout memory of that delay.

American freelance writer Jack McClintock, who has contributed to Esquire, Playboy, the New York Times and the Washington Post, was among the ten thousand at Alexandra Palace that day, and his account, colorful and so typically American, is much more graphic than anything I can outline:

  When Leighton Rees was introduced it triggered something like a primal scream from thousands of highly charged Welshmen, a quality of uninhibited bedlam I don’t think I've ever witnessed before. The Great Hall was suddenly like a vast pinball machine in which every ball and bumper had a mouth and a can of beer. The Welsh enthusiasts sung a song containing no apparent vowels . . .

  . . . the final match for the championship would be played between Rees and Lennard and it was not only for the sake of suspense that there had to be an interval then. Foe the first time the crowd seemed almost a rabble Their noise was stupendous. Two shirtless young men reeled and lurched down the center aisle, hugging and screaming with joy and Welsh pride, bashing into chairs along the way.

  A dozen more clambered onto the stage carrying banners emblazoned with their favorites name— Leighton Rees, of course. They screamed. They waved their banners. They waved cans of pale ale. They waved pork pies. They waved, and munched, fat green leeks by the stems. They emitted almost visible exhalations. They stumbled, bellowed, grinned, pranced, belched, stomped, hollered, roared. One bounded to the brink and flexed a muscle-man pose for the TV cameras. Down front a young man held a five-pint beer can to his face with both hands and drank from it like a fat. thirsty baby.

  At the pillars the cans piled higher, rolled across the floor, more beer cans than I have ever seen. One rolled farther and a man descending from the bleachers stepped on it. The can rolled and he fell with a great noise. He got up, rubbed his eyes. absently kicked the can and tottered to the gents. . . .

 . . . Leonard and Rees were on the stage but the television people were not yet ready. Lennard stood smiling with his darts in his hand, his flights brightly emblazoned with the Union Jack. Rees stood beside him. portly in his red shirt, his dart flights a quiet, respectable, eminently restrained and tasteful white. The two men seemed to float on sound, ignoring each other, ignoring the crowd. two men alone and self-constrained, concentrating. The throng had moved up close like fans at a rock concert.

  A dignified announcement came from the ringmaster: the television problem would be solved in a moment. Ten feet away a young man with a beer in each fist shouted into one of those inexplicable sileces: “Stuff the television up your arsehole and let's get on with the game!” I glanced at Leighton Rees. He looked pained and embarrassed. Lennard smiled gallantly.

Billy won the toss for strike and after a third throw of 125 was always in command of the first leg. He produced another 120 at exactly the right moment to leave double eighteen, which he hit with his second dart. I had not managed to return a ton and still needed seventy-four when Billy checked out. In the second leg. it was a dour, tense struggle until Billy again produced a big score at the most telling time-a 137 (20-60-57} to leave himself two sixteens, the tactic of a true champion.

He duly wrapped up the title in nineteen darts and, in what should have been the fulfillment of a dream, I had not managed one score of a hundred, nor had had one poke at a double out. I had been well and truly beaten by a much better man of the moment.

Just for the record, here are the scores in that 1976 Grand Final, from the official News of the World sheet that is among my souvenirs;

First leg

Lennard: 55-45-125-60-60-120-36 

Rees: 85-45-85-55-60-97 

Second leg

Lennard: 62-60-40-85-85-137-32 

Rees: 60-40-83-41-60-55-60

Bellies and Bullseyes: The Outrageous True Story of Darts by Sid Waddell (Ebury Press 2007)

In mid-February I went up to Newcastle from my home in Leeds for the England/Scotland clash. I attended the pre-match banquet and had a drink with some of the players before the meal. Alan Glazier, a star exhibition player like Evans, was courteous and shy. Tony Brown, also of England, looked like Desperate Dan and was drinking gin fast. Charlie Ellix, a small Cockney, also seemed to have a mighty thirst. Across the way, nineteen-year-old Eric Bristow toyed with a pint of lager. Later he told me that the Indoor League had inspired him. ‘When I was sixteen me dad was teaching me darts and I used to sit on the settee watching Indoor League. I said to me mum and dad “I want to go on that”.’ He did, and he won it.

Next day the action and atmosphere at the City Hall lived up to expectation. The last time I’d been there was to see PJ Proby, and the support was a band called Nero and the Gladiators. The darts was gladiatorial and the Geordie crowd loved every minute. Two images live in my memory. Firstly, Bristow saluting the crowd after a 16-dart leg and going on to win. Secondly, a stocky mop-headed little bloke from Kirkcaldy who bounced around the stage in tartan trews and did a number on Charlie Ellix. He was described in the programme as ‘Jocky’ Wilson – ‘one of the unemployed’.

Cupid's Dart by David Nobbs (Arrow Books 2007)

I travelled on the same train today, exactly a year after our first meeting. A year! Was it really only a year ago? Has only a fifty-sixth of my life passed since that day which changed everything? It seems a lifetime ago, and yet it also seems like yesterday. I mentioned that to Lawrence. 'That's women for you,' he said. 'That's what they do to you.' I don't think he likes women - but then, if I was married to Jane, I don't think I would like women either.

I say 'the same train'. I mean, of course, the train that left Manchester and was due at London Euston at the same time on the same day as that train a year ago. It wasn't the same train at all. Well, it might have been, I didn't check the carriage numbers or the name on the engine, such trivia have never interested me, but I think it extremely unlikely. Anyway, I don't give a damn about these linguistic minutiae. Not any more. Not after her.