The Night Eric Bristow Died, I Was Staring Right at His Bloody Flat

By Lewis Barnett 2 June, 2025 5 mins read 78 Views

Listen. Some stories stick with you like a bad tattoo, and this one's been eating at me for seven years now.

I'm talking about Eric Bristow's death – my old drinking mate, rival, and the most infuriating genius I ever knew. The Crafty Cockney himself. Gone at 60, which is no age at all these days, is it? I've been carrying this around since April 5, 2018, and it still doesn't make sense.

Audio Playback

What Are the Bloody Odds?

Here's the thing that keeps me up at night. I was literally looking at Eric's flat when I found out he'd died. Not metaphorically – actually staring out a window at the place he'd left just hours earlier.

That night, I was working at Shooters Bar and Diner on Merseyside. Eric turned up, we had our usual catch-up, and I got him his standard Guinness. Nothing seemed off. Well, nothing more than usual anyway.

Later, I'm staying at this pub in Stoke run by Barry Birch – Eric's former driver, of all people. I'm looking out the window, and there's Eric's flat, less than 200 yards away. Then Barry gets the call.

Heart attack. Before a Premier League event in Liverpool. Dead before he hit the ground, they reckon – no blood or anything.

What were teh odds of that? Me being with him, saying goodbye, then ending up staring at his flat while trying to process the news alongside his old driver? We both needed a stiff drink that night, I can tell you.

The Teenager Who Never Changed

I first met that mouthy so-and-so back in the 1970s at a BDO event in Margate. He was just a teenager then, but already had that swagger that would make him famous – and infamous.

We became oche rivals (contested the 1980 World Championship final, didn't we?) but also proper mates. Eric was good as gold until about 10 or 10:30pm. Then the drink would kick in adn he'd turn into a complete nightmare – rude, arrogant, leery, happy to pick a fight with anyone. I didn't like him when he was like that. Nobody did.

But here's the thing about Eric – his loyalty was absolute. Called me Bo, would do anything for me. Anything.

That Time in America (Jesus Christ)

God, the stories I could tell. Like our US tour in 1978 – my first time on a plane, actually. Eric decides to wind up the locals by pretending to wipe his backside with the American flag before chucking it on the floor.

The atmosphere turned toxic real quick. I'm thinking we're going to get our heads kicked in, or worse – these guys have guns over there! I whispered in his ear: "Watch yourself, Eric. These guys aren't messing about."

That wasn't an isolated incident either. That's how he was – always getting into trouble, somehow always getting out of it.

He Knew How He'd Go

In his diary, apparently, Eric had written about bad chest pains. Bloody hell, if that was the case, why didn't he go to the doctors? Get it sorted?

Knowing Eric, he probably thought: "I'll put loads of Guinness down my neck, that'll get rid of the pain."

For as long as I'd known him – and I knew him since he was a teenager – he never led what you'd call a healthy lifestyle. Heavy smoker, always rolling his own. Would think nothing of getting through 15 or 16 pints of Guinness in a day, rounding it off with a curry.

Nobody's body can handle that day in, day out.

I used to tell him: "You smoke and drink too much, Eric."

His response? "I know all about that, Bob. But put it this way – no one's going to be pushing me around in a wheelchair. When I go, I'll go like that. Bang."

And he did as well. Bang.

Still Missing the Bastard

Eric's death hit me hard. Really hard. He was only 60, for crying out loud. I'd known him since he was a kid, and despite everything – the ding-dongs we had over the years, him being a pain in the backside when he'd had too much – he was my mate.

We shared prize money touring the country. Had some great times together. Sure, there were moments I thought we'd get killed because of his antics, but that was Eric.

Seven years on, and I still can't believe the suddenness of it all. Or the weird coincidence of me being there, looking at his flat, when it happened.

Some things just don't add up in this life, do they?

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Statistics

The highest possible score with three darts is 180, achieved by hitting three triple 20s.
The dartboard wire system known as "razor wire" reduced bounce-outs by approximately 60% when introduced.
A standard dartboard is divided into 20 numbered sections, with the bullseye at the center worth 50 points.
In 2016, Michael van Gerwen set a world record for the highest three-dart average in a major tournament at 123.40.
Research shows that top professional dart players achieve accuracy rates of over 80% when aiming at treble 20.
Statistical analysis reveals that professional players throw darts at an average speed of 40-60 miles per hour.
A perfect leg of 501 can be completed in nine darts, known in the sport as a "nine-darter."
The first televised nine-dart finish was thrown by John Lowe in 1984, earning him £102,000.

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Common Problems & How I Fixed Them

Inconsistent grouping was my biggest issue for years. The solution? I recorded my throw in slow motion and noticed I was dropping my elbow at different heights. Once I fixed that, my grouping tightened up immediately.