Finally, after almost a decade on the PDC Pro Tour, Gabriel Clemens bagged himself a title, triumphing 8-6 over Luke Woodhouse in an enthralling final.
It wasn’t so long ago that Woodhouse was in the German’s boat. Metaphorically, of course. Had they both actually been in the same boat, it would’ve probably sunk. Big unit is Gab.
Earlier this season, the Bewdley thrower hadn’t tasted success. Fast forward a few months and not only does he have a Players Championship title to his name, but he’s cheekily added a Euro Tour crown too. Not bad for someone who’d previously collected silverware with all the frequency of a vegetarian getting stuck into a barbecue.
But back to Clemens – also nicknamed Gaga which is no relation to Lady. The 42-year-old will now be hoping his fortunes follow the same glorious path. It’s been a while since he bulldozed his way to the PDC World Championship semi-finals.
Since then, very little of real significance has happened. His trophy cabinet has spent more time gathering dust than a Blockbuster membership card. Not anymore.
The German did things the hard way too, dispatching two of the Netherlands’ finest in Michael van Gerwen and Kevin Doets. He then made absolutely sure he wasn’t going to be receiving any honorary Irish citizenship by delivering knockout blows to Mickey Mansell in the quarter-finals before ending Brendan Dolan’s run to his first semi-final of the year.
And before any of you start making jokes about that being Brendan’s first semi, I’ve met his wife. She’s absolutely stunning. It’s definitely not his first semi away from the oche.
Woody’s victim list was every bit as impressive. He also removed some major Dutch names – three of them, in fact. Between Luke and Gabriel, they were almost single-handedly responsible for the temporary collapse of Dutch darts.
The Worcester man’s orange carnage included Raymond van Barneveld, Danny Noppert and, in his first semi-final of the season, Gian van Veen, who thankfully looks back to his brilliant best after his kidney stone problems. Which is nice, because kidney stones sound about as enjoyable as using a cheese grater for toilet paper.
Onto the final, and with Clemens cruising at 6-2, it looked as though Woodhouse’s race had been run. But back he battled, reeling off four straight legs to level matters before the German edged his nose back in front and sealed victory in style with a magnificent Big Fish finish.
Sexy. In darts terms, anyway. Let’s not make it weird.As days go, it turned out to be an excellent one for everyone back at Harrows HQ.
Yes, Woody was pipped at the post in the showdown, but the Hertfordshire-based company must have been absolutely delighted to see two of their players claim the final two World Matchplay places. That should shift a fair few more shirts too – especially Chizzy ones, for those who enjoy dressing in bright yellow and looking like they’re permanently at risk of being mistaken for a giant wasp.
So, onto that Matchplay race.
It was always going to be tasty. Considerably tastier than the culinary atrocities served along Blackpool Promenade. Then again, that particular bar sits lower than a blind hedgehog’s Order of Merit. Until they start making beef burgers from actual beef, rather than whatever mysterious lifeform currently occupies the bun, that probably isn’t changing anytime soon.
At the start of play, with the final lap before the cut-off upon us, Damon Heta and Daryl Gurney were clutching the last two golden tickets. If anyone was about to suffer the sporting equivalent of having the nightclub door slammed in their face while everybody else carried on partying inside, it was going to be one of those two.
Czechia’s number one, Karel Sedláček, still had the faintest whiff of hope. Unfortunately for him, that whiff disappeared faster than free food at a darts exhibition after he crashed out in the opening round.
The same applied to Kim Huybrechts. He needed at least a run to the semi-finals, a favourable draw, a small miracle, divine intervention from several different religions and probably someone accidentally deleting the Order of Merit. He got precisely none of the above.
Then disaster struck for Superchin.
He was edged out by Madars Razma in a deciding-leg thriller at the very first hurdle. At that point, Gurney’s Blackpool hopes were hanging by a thread thinner than the excuses of someone insisting they only popped into the pub for “one quick pint.”
From then on, all he could do was sit back and pray Dave Chisnall lost his opening match.
Sadly for Daryl, that didn’t happen. Game over. Insert another coin next year.
When Chisnall eventually bowed out in round two to Scott Williams, while Polish Mr Bean lookalike Sebastian Bialecki marched into the board final, it confirmed Damon Heta’s place in Blackpool.
That effectively left two horses chasing one remaining prize.
Chizzy had already been thrown from the saddle and was now watching nervously from the grandstand, desperately hoping Bialecki also fell before the finishing line.
Truth be told, the Pole could’ve cleared a few more fences without causing any damage. As far as Chizzy was concerned, he just couldn’t be the one standing at the winning post holding the trophy.
Anything short of that, and the St Helens thrower would survive.
Step forward Brendan Dolan. The darting equivalent of Robert De Niro. Been around for ages and, apart from a couple of dodgy tournaments – or, in the legendary actor’s case, those Meet the Fockers films – he’s been consistently good.
Ironically, sticking with the horse racing theme, he’s probably the last darts player you’d back to make a successful jockey, unless the only qualification required was being able to rabbit on endlessly about the nine-darter he once hit.
Nevertheless, the History Maker produced exactly what Chisnall needed, knocking Bialecki out before the dream could become reality.
I’d like to think Dave immediately added Brendan to his Christmas card list. Or, at the very least, promised never to charge him for a pint again.
Word of warning, though. I’ve had a drink with the Irish bloke. It would comfortably bankrupt most people. You’d have more chance of financially recovering from buying an Hawaiian island than surviving Brendan Dolan’s bar tab.
After all the speculation, calculators, permutations, social media experts suddenly transforming into mathematicians, and enough hypothetical scenarios to keep a conspiracy theorist occupied for a fortnight, the final answer turned out to be surprisingly straightforward.
The last two tickets to Blackpool belonged to Damon Heta and Dave Chisnall. Both Harrows chaps.
With Countdown’s Rachel Riley no longer required for her mathematical brilliance, I sent her home. That is, until next year, when everyone forgets everything they’ve learned, the calculators reappear, social media once again becomes populated by self-appointed professors of arithmetic, and I reluctantly invite her back.
Of course, I jest. My powers of attraction are about as potent as a damp teabag. It’s far more likely I’ll end up calling upon a pensioner from a nursing home armed with an abacus and a packet of Werther’s Originals.
