Eric Bristow by Eric Bristow Read Free Book Online Page A

with rugby players, because we were huge – you wouldn’t want a darts player to fall on you, never mind have a fight with you.
    Back then I was a lager boy. Later on I had my top-shelf nutty moments, but I never really drank spirits when I was playing county darts. I had to give up lager, though, about thirteen years ago because every morning I’d wake up and spew bile and this thick yellow muck. It was happening every time I drank the stuff. So I gave it up and swapped to Guinness.
    My debut for London A was against the West of England who played at a club near Bristol. They were a great side with fantastic players like Leighton Rees, Alan Evans and Mike Butt. It was going to be a real battle and we went there to find twelve hundred people were in this place. I played Mike Butt, one of their fancied players, and won two–nil, but I played well below my game. I had an off night and finished both games on double one. London A drew that match sixall in front of the biggest crowd I had ever played in front of, but I wasn’t nervous. I loved getting up there, especially when some of their home supporters started booing me. I just played up to them. It gave me a rush.
    Booing was something I was going to have to get used to. And I wasn’t shy. I loved the TV cameras being at certain county games. It was good for the game and it gave me a buzz knowing I was on the telly. The first TV tournament I won was again when I was seventeen. It was at the Seashore Holiday Camp in Great Yarmouth, and I was in the amateur tournament. You had to progress through to the last eight to get to play on television the next day. I killed them all. No amateur could touch me. After us was the televised Pro-8 tournament which represented the top eight best darts professionals in the country. I stayed behind for that and as their names were introduced I kept thinking: I’ve beaten him, I’ve beaten him, I’ve killed him, and on it went. I sat there watching players I knew I could beat playing on telly for prize money of up to £1,000 that I could have pocketed. I had practised with some of them before they went on telly and had beaten them easily. These were top professionals who resented being beaten by a young teenage upstart. I had my winnings from the amateur tournament, and they were going to earn something even if they got knocked out first round in the Pro-8. If they started getting cocky with me I’d say to them, ‘Well OK, what we will do is this, if you think you can beat me. Whoever wins the game gets to keep both the cheques.’
    I’d look them straight in the eyes and see fear. Then I knew I had them, I knew they were frightened of me, and in 1975 I wasted no time in telling anyone who listened how great I was going to be. I was getting lots of practice and getting better all the time because in between the Super League matches and county games the BDO would organise all these tournaments at holiday camps as well, like the one at Seashore. One of my favourites was at Camber Sands where for one week of the year the whole place would fill up with darts players. I went with my dad and got beaten in the final of the singles. I got £250 for that, and won in the four-man team event for which we each got £100. I’d earned £350 for a week’s work which kept me in beer for a while. On the last day we went home on the train and that night Mum did all our washing, ready for the next morning when we’d be on a train again to another tournament, in Prestatyn.
    I always remember Prestatyn because when we got there I met this gypsy boy called Kim Brown, a proper King of the Gypsies sort of bloke, a real hardcase, who was with his mate Chris. He had a tattoo across his neck with the words ‘Cut Here’ on it; they were a rough lot. These two came over to me while I was sitting with my dad having a drink and said, ‘We want you to play this bloke for £500.’
    ‘What you on about?’ I said. ‘I’ve only got about a hundred and fifty