Eric Bristow (14 page)

I couldn’t do anything but laugh. One minute I wanted to tear him apart, the next we were at the bar having a drink. It was a good job I had red trousers on and not white because my leg was bleeding badly. But that was Jocky. He loved practical jokes, but not if they were on him. If they were on him he’d take it the wrong way and would more than likely stick the nut on you.

When we played at the Seashore Holiday Camp everybody stayed in caravans. I used to find out which one Leighton Rees was staying in and when it was dark I lobbed half a loaf of bread onto his roof. The next day, at about four in the morning, as the sun was coming up, the seagulls would attack this bread on top of his caravan and all he could hear inside was bang, bang, bang on the roof. The first time it happened he nearly filled his pants; he didn’t know what was happening and rushed out of the caravan in panic holding a tool because he thought his caravan was under attack. Then I’d turn the water off outside other people’s caravans so they couldn’t flush the toilet. I did loads of things like that,
but
only for fun. You couldn’t do it to Jocky though. Jocky would’ve got the hump and would want a fight with you.

Even though you couldn’t play pranks on him, he could always be relied upon to get into scrapes that would have you wetting yourself with laughter. Bobby George was in the States with him in 1981 during one such scrape. They’d both finished an exhibition at a bar in San Bernardino and the two of them had collected their money, but as they were preparing to leave one or two of the locals challenged Jocky to stay on and play them for a few dollars more. Jocky could never resist the chance to win money but Bobby was tired and wanted to go back. ‘If you won’t come I’ll have to leave you,’ he said, reminding Jocky that he would be taking the car.

Jocky wouldn’t leave, so Bobby set off alone across the Nevada Desert, one of the hottest places on earth, and headed back to Las Vegas. When he arrived at the hotel after a couple of hours driving he began to worry about how Jocky would get back, especially as he had to cross one the most inhospitable places on the planet.

Two days later Jocky still hadn’t appeared and Bobby was frantic with worry and on the verge of calling out a search party. Then there was a knock on his hotel room door and he opened it to see Jocky, exhausted and as red as a beetroot. The silly Scot had hitch-hiked his way across the desert, and it had taken him forty-eight hours.

‘It’s fucking hot out there,’ he told Bobby. ‘I’ll nah fucking do that again.’

How he managed to get across such barren terrain like that I will never know, but there’s one thing for sure, he was a fighter. He’d have battled his way across with gritted teeth, cursing the elements as he walked. He was a tough nut, Jocky; you didn’t mess with him. He was quite handy in a punch-up and was never more aggressive than when he’d had one too many. I’d sometimes look after him when he was like that, but a lot of other darts players gave him a wide berth. They were quite happy to leave him in a stupor. Often I’d be the one that put him to bed if he’d had one too many. He listened to me. Deep down I think he liked me, and I had a soft spot for him.

While I persuaded him to go to bed he’d have other so-called friends with him – I’d prefer to call them hangers-on – who just wanted him to have another drink, then another and then another. They basically exploited him and were out for a good time on his money. Throughout his life he seemed to attract the wrong people, when all he needed was looking after properly. Their excuse would probably be: Well
you
try looking after him. It’s a shame. If I had one wish it’d be for him to have his boat again because he didn’t want a lot in life, just a small boat, that was all. He deserves that for all that he’s done for the sport.

*

Back in 1980 Jocky was a far cry from the living ghost he is now. Then he was the fiery Scot climbing up the world rankings. I knew I was in for a tough quarter-final against him, but I was also playing well, far better than I’d played in 1978 and 1979. I crushed him three sets to nil to set up a semi-final clash with Tony Brown.

Tony is a good player, a great player, but he was never going to be a legendary player because of one thing: he had no confidence in himself. Every time he played someone, he would always back his opponent and have a bet on them. That is too negative. Back yourself and kill them; it’s an even better feeling then. But give him credit, he backed a winner in me because he lost four sets to three and I was in the final against Bobby George.

This was the final that changed the game of darts for ever. Before that the audiences were always quite subdued, there was never really a buzz around the place, but when Bobby and I played in that final every member of the audience got involved. Everybody quite simply was going mad. It was a pit of noise. He had his fans, I had mine and both wanted to out-shout each other.

Bobby came on carrying his trademark candelabra; it was pure theatre. He was the Liberace of darts, the showman. He brought a showbiz feel to the game. Then I made my appearance, taunting his supporters and geeing up mine. Darts was taking off and it needed showmen like me and Bobby to push it forward. If all
players
were like Lowey it would be boring and probably wouldn’t have exploded into life like it did.

So there I was, it was my moment and I was revelling in it, I loved it. In the practice room beforehand Bobby had come up to me and said, ‘I’ve written a poem about you. It’s about how I beat you in the Embassy World Final,’ and he started laughing and walked off.

I said nothing and carried on practising. There was no point me trying to wind Bobby up. Bobby played darts and that was it. Anything any player did to try and put Bobby off his game Bobby would just laugh at them – but he had tried to get to me with his little poem quip. I wanted to make sure those words would come back to haunt him.

No player has ever got to me, but I’ve got to a lot of them. I’ve beaten half of them in the practice room. If they didn’t like me they tended to try too hard and stopped playing their normal game. Then I won and won easy. Bobby was different. I knew there was no point saying anything, so I just made sure I was fully prepared for the final. I had a nice breakfast in the morning and then ate loads of pasta during the day, which helped to soak up the alcohol. I also made sure I limited myself to no more than five pints of lager before the game. I knew I just had to keep playing the way I’d played all week, and I had to do what I’d done day in and day out – walk into the exhibition centre the same way, do the same routine, not do anything different –
then
on the day I’d be ready and would win. Trouble was, Bobby was also up for it.

The game proved to be a classic. The first six sets all went to a deciding leg until I won the seventh three legs to one, to establish a four sets to three lead. The next sets went to the deciding leg and Bobby had a glorious chance to level the match and take it to a decider. He wanted double nine but hit nine. So he went for one, to leave double four, but missed and busted out on twenty. I couldn’t believe it. He’d missed a single number. No good dart player ever misses a single number, especially one playing in the World Final. The pressure had got to him. He put his darts back in his top pocket before I’d even checked out, a signal that he knew it was over.

I checked out and I had won the title. I was World Champion. My ambition had been realised.

As I went over to shake Bobby’s hand I said to him, ‘Where’s your fucking poem now, pal?’

His head was in bits. He went, ‘Uh, uh, uh,’ and blustered as he tried to search for something to say.

Then I was interviewed for TV, still on stage, and they asked me if I had any words for Bobby. With the poem still fresh in my mind I said, ‘I suppose that’s why I’m rated number one in the world and he’s not.’

The interviewer told me Bobby was a legendary player like myself and I responded with, ‘He’s going to be the number two of the future.’

Harsh looking back, and perhaps a little bit out of order but it was good stuff because in the background you could hear my boys cheering and his lot booing. I reignited the crowd after that interview – I’m surprised there wasn’t a riot – but underneath all the bravado I knew it had been a real fight to get over the winning line. I went up there mentally expecting a battle and I got one. Who knows what would have happened if he’d made it four sets all.

Poor old Bobby wasn’t the same player after that. When he had that chance at double nine and missed he never really seemed to recover. That World Championship final finished him; it knocked the stuffing out of him. This sort of thing happens. It’s happened since to other players. For instance, Mike Gregory got to a final and had four darts at double top to beat Phil Taylor. He couldn’t do it, and he never had a run in the World Championship again.

You should never dwell on a loss. You should always look forward. Mike and Bobby dwelled too much on their defeats and it finished them. Bobby got a World Final years later, but that was when all the top players had broken away to form a separate World Championship in the form of the PDC (the Professional Darts Corporation). It was a phoney World Final.

As soon as I won my first World Championship I was everybody’s biggest nightmare. It was the worst thing that could have happened to the players because they
were
now getting it in the ear from me at every tournament. I’d won all of them apart from the
News of the World
. One of my ambitions was to win a tournament in every country, which I had done, but I’d never won that one. What made it worse was my dad telling me shortly after I’d won the World title, ‘You’re not a proper World Champion until you’ve won the
News of the World
.’

He’d been brought up on this tournament, one of the first in darts, which began in 1927. There were around a thousand entries for that inaugural tournament, and by 1939 there were in excess of 280,000 competing, with a record crowd of nearly fifteen thousand spectators filling London’s Royal Agricultural Hall to see Marmaduke Brecon beat Jim Pike by two games to one. In 1970 it became the first nationally televised darts event on ITV’s
World of Sport
, and in my dad’s eyes this was the true World Championship.

It was hard to win because every round was best of three at 501. It was quick, and if you were only slightly off your game you were out. I just couldn’t seem to win it; I’d not even got to the final. Then in 1983 I finally made it and beat Ralph Flatt two games to nil to lift the trophy. I won it again the following year beating Ian Robertson by the same score. That made Dad very happy. ‘
Now
you’re a World Champion,’ he said to me. ‘
Now
you can call yourself a proper darts player.’ It was typical of my dad. I’d won more than
eighty
tournaments all over the world, but he wanted me to win just one, the
News of the World
.

After that I’d done them all. None of the players really minded me winning these other tournaments, but all of them hated me winning the World Championship because even before a dart had been thrown I was telling them I was better than them. When I won it, they’d had it, they were doomed.

I went back to Mum and Dad’s house the night I won the championship with the trophy under my arm. When I got up the next morning, Mum was going to work – she was working as a switchboard operator – and had put the trophy in a huge plastic bag which she was carrying.

‘What are you doing with that?’ I said to her.

‘I have to take this to work to show everyone. They’ve been watching you all week and I promised them they could see the trophy if you won it.’

Mum was about to walk half a mile to the bus stop with it, so I said to her, ‘Don’t get on the bus with that thing, it’s too heavy. Get a cab instead. I’ll pay for it, I’ve got thousands of pounds.’

‘I always get a bus to work in the morning.’

‘But you’ve got the World Championship trophy there.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Nothing will happen to it.’ And off she went with it on the bus.

She showed all her workmates and at the end of the day brought it back with her on the bus.

It was typical of mum. If she was a multi-millionaire she wouldn’t waste money on a taxi. I remember thinking: Well, if the trophy gets lost or stolen the BDO will just have to find another one. Anyway, I’d won it so it was mine to do what I liked with.

From that moment on my world was changing all the time. I was never off TV, there was tournament after tournament, exhibition after exhibition and the money was rolling in. I could see the game I loved was growing on TV and spreading worldwide. There were opportunities to travel and I wasn’t going to waste them. After the World Masters win when I was eighteen I had gone completely off the rails and hit the bottle. Now it was different. I was with Maureen who didn’t drink and we moved up to Leek, well away from the temptations of London.

Then there was my new found fame to contend with. I was more in demand than ever. I remember the first time I watched myself on TV, it was weird, especially when I heard myself talk. I sounded odd. That’s something you get used to.

By 1980 I was lapping up all the attention and signing autographs wherever I went – but only for people who said ‘please’. If they said, ‘Oi, sign this,’ as some did they’d get my standard response which was, ‘Say “please” or you get fuck all from me.’ And I didn’t like signing beer mats. Why would anyone want to take a wet beer mat home either for themselves or for their dad with
my
signature on it? Get a picture, buy a picture! I’d sign these wet beer mats to their dad or whoever they were for and say, ‘You think a lot of them, don’t you?’

When the 1981 World Championship came around there was a bit more pressure on me because nobody had ever won it as reigning champion and my ambition was to be the first to retain the title. Now that I’d done everything in darts I had to put different pressures on myself to keep motivated, so I started chasing records. It was hard to lose focus during this time because, thanks to the sheer theatre and melodrama of the 1980 final, darts was becoming more and more popular on television and attracting ever increasing viewing figures. It was a good spectacle. A game of 501 with two good players is over in about two or three minutes and it makes for exciting telly. If you compare it to snooker, which has lost out to darts in recent years, snooker’s boring by comparison, especially if you had someone like Terry Griffiths playing Cliff Thorburn, two of the most yawn-inducing players ever to grace the green baize. I wanted darts to take off and I wanted to be at the centre of this. I wanted the popularity of the sport to be down to me and the fact that I never lost.