The world of darts has many devotees, but only one leader. The man, the legend, the original artisan of the arrows: Bobby George. As a player he was volatile but talented, gruff of manner yet nimble of finger, his throwing arm a rocket speeding into the bright skies of success. When he retired from the oche he left us craving a talismanic figure, thus we placed him in a spiritual sedan chair and hoisted him aloft He resides at the very apex of all that is great about not only darts but the whole of the human race. A comforting, reassuring presence in his black suit, hair greased back like a fifties car sales conman, buckets of bling dripping from his wrists and neck, just the right amount of chest hair on show to tease and tantalise the mortals. As a pundit he knows that sometimes he must break hearts, but after unleashing his wrath upon a sobbing young sportsman, his are the hairy hands that rebuild that man's confidence and career. A diamond geezer and darts' father figure, long live BG.
