Tonight will witness the crowning of the 2026 Premier League champion. But who will it be?

On the banks of the River Thames – a body of water containing more abandoned supermarket trolleys than a Tesco car park – one player from the elite quartet on show will emerge victorious. Three have done it before. One is still chasing that first intoxicating taste of Premier League glory with all the gusto of an overweight shoplifter raiding Greggs three minutes before closing time.

Opening the show is current World Champion Luke Littler facing off against the fiercely proud Welshman, Gerwyn Price. The teenage phenomenon against a bloke who roars louder than a US Marine Drill Instructor discovering somebody is still desperately trying to finish the Assault Course or has a spec of crap on his shoes.

In terms of age, there is quite the difference. In fact, Littler is almost half the age of Gezzy. Although these days, The Nuke somehow also feels about double the age of half the lads on the circuit. Two years ago, on tournament debut, the Warrington wonderkid won this thing. Absolutely pissed the league phase before rocking up in London and doing exactly what everyone feared he was capable of from the moment he first walked onto a stage looking like somebody’s apprentice plumber who’d just fitted a new bathroom in record time.

Now he’s entering that dangerous territory where it’s no longer simply about winning titles – it’s about retaining or regaining them. Some genuinely believe that if Littler is operating at maximum capacity, it would take an army of crazed dinosaurs driving tanks and armed with machine guns to stop him. Whilst that analogy sounds dramatic, it’s also deeply flawed because dinosaurs were famously dreadful with heavy machinery and lacked the thumbs required for proper trigger discipline. They’d have about as much chance of successfully operating a tank as Tony Eccles would gaining access to a Teen Disco.

That said, one man who has consistently caused him problems is Gerwyn Price. The local village chip shop owner has enjoyed more success against Littler than most and will absolutely revel in the underdog role. If this contest were decided by who could prepare the finest kebab at 1:17am whilst arguing with a drunk customer wearing one shoe, Gezzy would be unplayable. If it was about who could consume said kebab fastest, Luke wins comfortably before asking if there’s any garlic mayo left.

But this isn’t about Greek delicacies and questionable meat rotating under a fluorescent bulb. It’s about scoring power and clinical finishing – two departments where both men rank amongst the finest tungsten assassins on the planet.

If Price can prevent Littler from reeling in the sort of Big Fish his chippy probably shifts on a Friday evening to blokes named Huw, it will be a strong foundation to build from. Both players have skipped quite a few events recently too, raising the question of ring rust. The Welshman pulls out more often than a terrified stag party visitor in an Amsterdam establishment that has suddenly run out of condoms. Littler meanwhile simply cannot be arsed with Players Championships and has followed his beloved Manchester United’s recent example by rarely been seen on the continent. (I’m a Liverpool fan!)

This should be an absolute belter. Honestly, the only genuine shock would be if both players somehow failed to average over a ton.

The second semi-final sees reigning Premier League champion Luke Humphries take on former winner Jonny Clayton.

If you’re basing it purely on league phase consistency, you probably edge towards The Ferret. But if you’re looking at momentum and recent performances, then Cool Hand appears the more dangerous proposition. Which ultimately means absolutely nothing because once those walk-on songs finish and the first dart gets launched, all pre-match analysis usually goes out the window faster than a Tory MP deleting WhatsApp messages.

A lot of betting gurus had Jonny tipped for the wooden spoon before the tournament began. For clarity, that does not mean he was expected to sit a Home Economics examination making fairy cakes with Susan from Swansea. It simply meant they fancied him to finish bottom. That prediction aged like unrefrigerated prawns left on a radiator. Instead, the mammal-monikered Welshman spent much of the campaign perched near the summit of the table and when he wasn’t there, he was directly underneath Littler – a position realistically only The Nuke’s girlfriend should ever become familiar with.

Then we arrive at the reigning champion himself – Luke Humphries. And frankly, he could not be arriving at the O2 in much better shape. Recently victorious at a Players Championship event where he was rattling in ton average displays for fun, the Berkshire-born superstar also secured his first nightly Premier League triumph of the season in Sheffield during the final week.

As mentioned, current form probably gives him the slight advantage. He appears to have rediscovered that ruthless doubling precision which turns him into one of the sport’s most terrifying operators. Up until recently, his outer ring conversion rate was lower than Neil Duff’s ambitions of becoming a professional. The scoring has never disappeared. In fairness, both men score heavily enough to qualify as environmental hazards.

Yet only a month ago Humphries looked nowhere near Finals Night qualification. He was lingering in the table roughly where Tottenham Hotspur usually spend most of their existence – somewhere between disappointment and public ridicule. Then suddenly he rediscovered top gear, started battering everyone in sight and eventually surged into third place.

Many viewed that as a blessing because it avoided a semi-final collision with Littler. But Humphries knows Clayton is every bit as dangerous on his day. And if Cool Hand wants to drag the trophy back home to Crewe, there’s every chance he may need to defeat The Nuke eventually anyway.

It should be a magnificent evening. Expect averages resembling cricket scores – although anything above 100 is generally considered an historic achievement for England during an overseas Ashes series. Any combination of finalists feels entirely plausible because all four players are frighteningly evenly matched.

I’m not making a prediction. Firstly, it’s simply too close to call. Secondly, I possess the supernatural ability to curse absolutely anyone I publicly back. I am however leaning ever so slightly towards Luke Humphries, purely because of momentum and current form. Bookmakers will naturally install Littler as favourite because failing to do so would probably bankrupt several betting firms before midnight.

But whilst all four men rank amongst the finest tungsten artists this generation has produced, they remain human beings capable of vulnerability. It’s just that this particular quartet tends to display mortality about as often as UK billionaires pay taxes.

My advice? Sit back. Make some popcorn, then immediately become furious when you realise half the kernels at the bottom haven’t even hatched and end up losing a few teeth. Grab a beer – or whichever drinking weapon of choice helps numb the horror of modern existence – and enjoy what should be a sensational evening of high-octane arrows action.

All the best to each of the lads. Leave everything on the oche.

Not literally, obviously, otherwise somebody later retrieving their darts will trip over, fracture a hip and force Sky Sports into broadcasting a seven-minute Health & Safety investigation before the night is over.