The Premier League crown is back on teenage phenomenon Luke Littler’s head after what can only be described as the greatest final in the history of the tournament against World Cup team-mate Luke Humphries.

Yes, there are probably fifty other ways to describe it. Magnificent. Extraordinary. Ridiculous. Borderline illegal levels of quality. But “greatest” does the job nicely because nothing that came before it has matched the combination of sporting excellence, drama and sustained brilliance witnessed inside the O2 Arena.

After an unforgettable evening on the banks of the River Thames, Littler pinched a deciding leg against his compatriot whilst averaging north of 111. Humphries can stare at his own 105 average and wonder how on Earth he ended up without the trophy. Then again, plenty of players have probably done exactly the same thing after running into this Warrington wonderkid. Losing to Luke Littler while averaging over a ton is becoming about as common as finding a table of chavs in a Wetherspoons.

Both Lukes arrived in the final via epic semi-final victories. Both won last-leg deciders. Both simultaneously managed to upset a sizeable percentage of Welsh darts supporters.

The World Champion edged past a magnificent roaring Gerwyn Price, who played his full part in a contest worthy of any major final. Meanwhile, Humphries survived the challenge of Jonny Clayton, otherwise known as the most talented ferret ever to pick up a tungsten projectile.

Then came the final.

For twenty-one legs, two Englishmen treated the treble twenty as though it had personally insulted their families. Maximums flew in with frightening regularity. Ton-plus checkouts appeared like unexpected tax bills. The scoring was relentless. The doubling was ruthless. It was less a darts match and more a sustained act of sporting vandalism. Similar to watching two Formula One cars race through a multi-storey car park.

Eventually there had to be a winner and, by the narrowest of margins, it was the teenager who appears to have been genetically engineered in a laboratory somewhere beneath the PDC headquarters specifically to throw darts.

However, I want to get serious for a moment. I know that doesn’t really fit the usual tone of this website. It feels a bit like seeing a crocodile at a counselling session to discuss trust issues. Nevertheless, some things need saying, and this is one of them. Don’t worry. I’ll be sarcastic again shortly.

In Luke Littler, darts has been blessed with a once-in-a-generation talent. The sort of athlete you may only witness once in your lifetime if you’re fortunate. Snooker had Ronnie O’Sullivan. Football had Wayne Rooney. Fishing had some bloke called Phil who apparently caught salmon quicker than the slippery little bastards could reproduce. That last one may not be entirely accurate.

Darts has Luke Littler. World Champion at seventeen. Winner of virtually every major title before he could legally wander into a Texan bar and order a whiskey without someone asking where his parents were.

The story goes that Beethoven could sit at a piano as a child and simply play. A young Mike Tyson was flattening grown men before most teenage lads had figured out how to log in to their dad’s porn website of choice. Littler belongs in that category of freakishly gifted individuals. Different discipline. Same absurd level of natural ability.

Now here’s the part that irritates the life out of me. In Britain, we have an unfortunate habit of building young stars into national treasures before immediately attempting to launch them into the sea without a life-jacket. We place them on a pedestal, celebrate them endlessly, then spend years searching for reasons to knock them off it. Why? Ask The Sun. The den of iniquity masquerading as a newspaper.

Think of Littler as a giraffe on stilts riding a pogo stick. For some reason, there is always a section of society desperately hoping to see him fall flat on his face. That’s not most people.

It’s the oxygen thieves on social media searching for fifteen seconds of relevance.

It’s certain newspapers whose business model appears to involve treating human misery like a Black Friday sale. It’s some journalists. But most of all, it’s the absolute weapons who buy tickets. Yes, those people.

The ones who spend their earnings (or more likely, social welfare payments) to watch the best darts players in the world before deciding their evening would be enhanced by abusing a teenager.

I’m talking about Pissed-Up Pete. The 40-year old unemployed bloke dressed as a Teletubby who still have to text their mum to ask where they’ve left their shoes. You know the type – an individual who could lose an argument with a parking meter and somehow blame immigration.

These aren’t darts fans. These aren’t darts fans. They’re the sort of people who leave one-star reviews for hospitals because the vending machine was out of Mars Bars, operate social media accounts under names like “TruthHammer1978” and have profile pictures featuring either a lion, a skull or both. Quite frankly, some of them look like they should come with parental controls.

Following the final, Polly James interviewed Littler on stage. The teenager was visibly emotional and, after Humphries once again demonstrated why he is one of the classiest figures in professional sport by stepping in to give a speech while his opponent gathered himself, The Nuke returned and revealed something genuinely concerning.

He admitted that the abuse had become so relentless he had considered walking away from the game. Think about that for a second. The biggest talent darts has ever produced. Nineteen years old. Considering quitting because grown adults cannot behave like functioning members of society.

It was all so heartfelt that Polly, the darling she is, admitted to me she simply wanted to give the poor lad a cwtch – Welsh for hug. Given the emotion of the moment, there was probably a queue forming behind her. Aside maybe moronic Dave from Doncaster who is standing there with a pint balanced on his stomach, booing a teenager and believing he’s the life and soul of the party. It’s not banter. It’s not funny. And it’s certainly not harmless. What Littler has done for darts is almost impossible to exaggerate.

He has attracted new audiences, new sponsors, new broadcasters and an entirely new generation of players. His impact on the sport is right up there with what Tim Berners-Lee did for testosterone-fuelled teenagers who claimed they were researching school projects at two o’clock in the morning.

So here’s a message to all the muppets. Stop. Immediately. We’re not simply talking about the possibility of losing a great darts player. We’re talking about the effect this sort of behaviour has on a young man’s mental wellbeing.

If you think he’s confident, arrogant or deserves criticism for something he’s said, that’s your right. Sit at home with your Mum and annoy her instead. Make a brew. Open a packet of Rich Tea biscuits – hell, go nuts and crack open the Hob Nobs. Shout at the television. Nobody cares.

But if your idea of entertainment is paying eighty quid for a ticket just to scream abuse at a teenager, perhaps it’s time to re-evaluate a few life choices. And if you insist on carrying on, I sincerely hope somebody inserts your vastly overpriced arena hot dog either up your arse, or better still, down your throat.

There. That felt better. Not overly funny, but certainly necessary.

After all, we’re discussing people thicker than Pablo Escobar’s rap sheet and less self-aware than a burglar appearing on Crimewatch asking if anybody has seen his wallet.

Congratulations to Luke Littler on a truly mesmerising performance and a thoroughly deserved title. Commiserations to the immensely humble and classy Luke Humphries, whose contribution was every bit as important.

It takes two to produce a final of that magnitude and both men delivered a spectacle that will live long in the memory of darts fans everywhere.