Sid Waddell - Bellies and Bullseyes: The Outrageous True Story of Darts

The Outrageous True Story of Darts

SID WADDELL

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781407030449

www.randomhouse.co.uk

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First published in 2007 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

A Random House Group Company

This edition published 2008

Copyright Sid Waddell 2007

Sid Waddell has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

Printed in the UK by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, RG1 8EX

ISBN 9780091917562

To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers visit www.rbooks.co.uk

First picture section: p2 ITV; p3 top-left and top-right, p4, p5, p6, p7, p8 bottom used courtesy of Darts World

Second Picture section: p1 bottom, p2 top and bottom-right, p5 bottom, p6 top used courtesy of Darts World; p2 bottom-left, p4 top, p5 bottom, p7 middle, p8 top Empics; p7 bottom Getty Images; p8 bottom Ben Duffy/swpix.com

All other pictures are from the authors personal collection or are copyright unknown. Every effort has been made to contact and clear permissions with relevant copyright holders. Please contact the publisher with any queries.

This book is dedicated to the South Parade Mafia: Irene, Nicholas, Lucy, Emma, Charlotte and Daniel. They gave me the springboard to turn my trials and tribulations into ultimate triumph.

On my journey from nervous commentating rookie to senior citizen of the sporting microphone, several people have walked the rocky road with me.

In the early BBC days Nick Hunter had faith in me as a commentator and his coaching was the foundation of my career.

Dick Allix and Tommy Cox stood with me in shady corners at the early Embassy World Championships and wisely marked my card. They were at the forefront of the players fight for democracy in the sport and both are good friends. Some of their stories provided me with vivid material.

Dave Lanning has been a pal and colleague since 1972. For my money he is the best timer of a line ever, and he and I have bored millions with late night chat about Evans, Rees, Lowe and how they did their unique thing. My other Sky commentating colleagues John Gwynne, Stuart Pyke, Rod Harrington and Nigel Pearson have all contributed to my knowledge of the lore of our game.

The Sky production team has been a fount of anecdote gleaned from good-natured midnight autopsies of our efforts to bring live sporting pleasure to the fans. Id like to thank Rory Hopkins, Andy Finn, Lidia Summers, Roger Wilkinson, Dave Clark, Georgina Faulkner, James Motley, Rachel McKibbin and Simon Cole for their input.

I have made friends with thousands of darters in the past 35 years and would like to mention a few who inspired my pen. Alan Evans started the pro darts ball rolling and Leighton Rees carried the torch. The company and chat of Eric Bristow, John Lowe, Bobby George, Jocky Wilson, Cliff Lazarenko, Dennis Priestley and Phil Taylor has kept me up many a night. I regret not a single moment since my darts education increased leaps and bounds nor my bill for what we Geordies call belly powders.

I would like to thank Andrew Goodfellow of Ebury for seeing the potential in my story and for excellent advice in shaping the chapters. His colleague Ken Barlow also helped in bringing the project to fruition. Also, Caroline Newbury for all her hard work in publicising the book.

Finally, my wife Irenes incisive critiques at various stages have been priceless. She was instrumental in driving the plot when I became somewhat of an averages anorak and was a constant inspiration in making sure I did justice to the sport of darts and my deep involvement with it.

When my manic slipped to depressive she kicked in with big boots.

SID WADDELL

Pudsey, West Yorkshire, August 2007

As a little boy growing up in the Ashington coalfield in East Northumberland, I was a sensitive, often sickly, child. I was so highly strung that the approach of important exams at grammar school threw me into a complete funk. Just the fear of not being top in all the subjects meant that I would often worry myself into a chronic asthma attack.

These began in the summer of 1954 when I was fourteen, but by the time I was due to sit my A Levels in June 1958, I had an antidote. To calm the jangling nerves and relax the wheezy tubes the recipe was a game of darts, a bit of banter with some pals and a couple of pints of rough cider. Yes, youve got it in one booze and bullseyes.

On the night before an exam I would sit hunched on a stool in the bathroom of our tiny pit cottage in the village of Lynemouth, a light year away from my parents who were lapping up telly in the main room. With my dads dirty pit clothes in one corner, a pile of mucky bed sheets in the other and our scruffy Bedlington terrier, Whisky, lying across my feet, I would learn, parrot-fashion, great gobbets of information about History and English till around eight oclock. Then I would race to the bus stop, travel the six miles to Morpeth, our local market town, and dive into the brightly lit back room of the Black and Grey pub.

For the next two hours my bulging brain was on hold; I would not try to recall a single academic fact. Instead I would sip the cloudy, sweet scrumpy and play darts against a bunch of lads who worked on local farms. I did not like to play singles because I have never really liked the competitive aspect of sport. I captained the school rugby team and got international schoolboy trials and I was a finalist in the England Schools 100 yards in 1957, but I was ever the dilettante. I wanted to drop goals like Cliff Morgan or run like the great Jesse Owens. Darts was my own private theatre. I loved the bright spotlight above the board, the feel of the goose feathers on the bomber darts in the old George V Coronation mug beside the blind charity stocking. In a pairs darts match I relished the sarcastic banter when we put the whitewash on our opponents. I loved the meaty thunk of brass into flock. I loved the gut jolt when a double flew in. It was instant therapy for the grammar schools biggest swot, Bighead Sidney. I loved just the mere fun of chucking, boozing, chatting and not thinking.