I'm Barry. Bazza to anybody who's ever stood at my bar. Born in Darlaston, threw my first dart at nine in me grandad's local, and I've not put them down since.
From sixteen I played the pub leagues all over the Black Country — Walsall, Wednesbury, Tipton, Dudley, Brierley Hill. Tuesday league, Thursday league, Sunday doubles for a tenner a man. You learn quick when it's your own money on the board. You learn the lad with the best average doesn't always win. The lad who finishes does.
In 1994 I took the lease on a snooker hall in Walsall. Twelve tables, a tea urn and a dartboard in the corner. I've watched more frames than I've had hot dinners — grinders who'll bore you into missing, and break-builders who'll clear the table while you're still chalking your cue. After a while you can tell which is which by the way they walk in.
For years the lads in the hall have asked me, "Who d'ya fancy, Baz?" So now I write it down properly, once a day, with my reasons, and every bet goes on the record for all to see. I'll only do darts and snooker, because that's what I know. I won't back a heavy favourite that pays nowt, I won't dress a coin flip up as a certainty, and if the card's thin I'll tell ya straight and put the kettle on.
"Anybody can throw a hundred and eighty in the practice room. Show me who hits double sixteen when the whole pub's gone quiet."
Bazza's first rule of the oche