Since 1994, PDC’s elite have been heading to Blackpool in the North-West of England for the summer darting extravaganza, the World Matchplay.
Yes, the Lancashire town may well have a beach which looks worse than the streets of Chernobyl during a bin strike and the kind of locals who resemble rejected extras from Michael Jackson’s, Thriller video – but buried amongst the psychopathic seagulls, donkey’s which look like they’ve gone ten rounds against Oleksandr Usyk and enough mobility scooters to invade Russia (there’s a thought for you, Ukraine), sits a genuine sporting cathedral known as the Winter Gardens.
Each July, the finest arrow-smiths on earth descend upon Blackpool to discover who can thrive whilst standing under lights hotter than the Devil’s air fryer. The temperature inside can reach such obscene levels that one year, three players allegedly melted on stage causing a giant tsunami. If a dreadful illuminations display is your thing or spending extortionate amounts of money in pursuit of food poisoning sounds appealing, this is the place for you.
Yes, the hot dogs are criminally overpriced and possess the structural integrity of boiled shit. And yes, there are usually around 50,000 drunken Scots wandering around Blackpool turning bright crimson because they still haven’t grasped that ginger hair and direct sunlight mix together about as well as petrol and a lit match. Apparently, every builder, roofer, plasterer and bloke called Jock from Glasgow takes the same fortnight off work in July. If you live north of the border and need your bathroom tiled during Matchplay season, you’d have more luck asking a hedgehog to fit your boiler.
Think PDC World Matchplay and there’s only one player who instantly springs to mind – Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor. He was so dominant they literally named the trophy after him when he retired. Which is wonderful until you imagine him pulling a Raymond van Barneveld, returning at 94 years old fuelled entirely by tea and stubbornness, then lifting the Phil Taylor Trophy while standing next to a giant picture of Phil Taylor holding the Phil Taylor Trophy. It would be like opening a Greggs bakery and finding another Greggs inside.
Strangely, it wasn’t Taylor who won the inaugural title. That honour belongs to Larry Butler – the legendary American responsible for making thousands of pub quiz contestants across Britain scream “OH FOR FUCK SAKE, IT WAS BUTLER!” whilst slapping their forehead hard enough to reset their memory.
After that, though, it became The Power Show. Taylor beat Dennis Priestley in the final and given the 16-11 scoreline combined with the Yorkshireman’s famously methodical throwing pace, historians believe the match began in July and finished somewhere around Pancake Day the following year. Spectators reportedly aged visibly during leg seventeen, while those who arrived clean shaven left looking like Robinson Crusoe on crack.
A few others did manage to wedge their names onto the trophy in-between Taylor’s reign of terror. Peter Evison. Rod Harrington twice. James Wade. Colin Lloyd, who celebrated his victory in the most emotionally stable way imaginable by absolutely leathering the dartboard like it had just insulted his family. Some players (Jonny Clayton) merely point at the camera. Some roar (the other decent Welsh fella). Jaws celebrated by attacking office equipment with the enthusiasm of a divorced dad smashing up a faulty printer.
Taylor’s dominance stretched all the way to 2014 when he defeated the then-new phenomenon Michael van Gerwen. Three years later came title number sixteen – and his final one – beating Peter Wright before finally buggering off into retirement and allowing the rest of the PDC to let out a collective “Thank fuck he’s gone”. The pure relief across the tour was enormous. It was like finally seeing the last wasp leave your beer garden after six straight summers of psychological warfare.
With the Stoke legend out the way, the floodgates opened. By this stage MVG had fully entered his terrifying silverware-eating era, hoovering up titles like a cocaine-powered Henry vacuum cleaner with anger issues. In 2018, Gary Anderson became the first Scot to lift the trophy, though by then Van Gerwen already had two titles sandwiched between Taylor’s final victories.
Then came Rob Cross before Dimitri Van den Bergh arrived wearing a knee brace the size of a satellite dish, awkwardly attempting his dance routine with all the rhythm of a sedated flamingo on roller skates. He celebrated his victory in front of an empty arena during the pandemic. Not because people dislike Dimitri – although his dancing probably has been investigated by the judges on Strictly – but because the country was being run by a complete imbecile who decided pubs, theatres and sports venues were deadly biohazards whilst simultaneously allowing twelve million people to pile into B&Q every Saturday – or worse still, holding regular house parties and turning Downing Street into a national Twat Convention.
Snakebite Peter Wright then defeated Dimi in 2021 to become the second Scot to lift the title. The following summer, MVG added another. Next up to lift the trophy was Nathan Aspinall – by which point he thankfully possessed more than the famous £20 in his bank account and no longer looked like a man one bad tournament away from visiting the food bank.
A couple of years ago began what could well be the start of a Luke dynasty. Mr Humphries captured his first Matchplay crown before, most recently, Littler became the youngest ever champion in the tournament’s history – an honour he seems to attach to virtually every darts record currently in existence. The Nuke defeated the evergreen James Wade in what was arguably the highest-quality Matchplay final ever played. Wade, meanwhile, continues ageing like a haunted Victorian portrait. He has looked simultaneously 28 and 58 for about twenty consecutive years.
So sees their name etched on the Phil Taylor trophy this summer? There are still some huge names without the title. No Welshman has ever won it, meaning Jonny Clayton and Gerwyn Price will be desperate to change that statistic. And this is one tournament Gezzy probably won’t withdraw from unless he’s attacked by a few Tennents Extra-fuelled Scots en route to the venue.
Naturally, the usual suspects and former champions will fancy their chances. But the dangerous young Dutch trio of Gian van Veen, Wessel Nijman and Kevin Doets look capable of causing absolute carnage. Three lads throwing darts like they’ve been programmed in a laboratory underneath Rotterdam by scientists who got bullied at school.
Ultimately though, every conversation probably circles back to one question – who stops Luke Littler? At this point the teenager is collecting trophies at such an alarming rate he’ll soon need to rent industrial warehouse space like a dodgy bloke storing counterfeit trainers.
One thing is guaranteed – it’ll be high-octane chaos. At least half the Scottish contingent will either become horrifically sunburnt, catastrophically drunk or wake up wearing a traffic cone whilst eating chips off the pavement beside a man dressed as Batman. And frankly, even that estimate feels conservative.
As always, the costumes will be everywhere. Every darts fan suddenly believes they’re Mr Benn experiencing a severe midlife crisis in a B&M Bargains. Blackpool during the Matchplay is essentially what happens if a brewery explodes inside a theatre whilst Comic-Con gets held hostage by stag parties. And honestly, the sport would be far less beautiful without it.
