When Phil Taylor heard his mentor say those words, he didn’t just feel sadness—he felt the ground vanish beneath him. "He says, 'You know what that means, don't you?' I went, 'What?' He says, 'I'm no good anymore.' And it broke [me], it saddened me you know?" That raw, quiet confession, delivered on the oche, the sacred 7-foot-9.25-inch line where legends take aim, shattered something in Taylor that no world title ever could. The moment wasn’t captured on camera. No crowd roared. No trophy was raised. Just two men, one past his prime, the other still climbing, and a single sentence that carried the weight of an entire career’s end.
The Mentor Who Shaped a Dynasty
Eric John Bristow, the five-time BDO World Darts Champion known as "The Crafty Cockney," wasn’t just a role model to Taylor—he was his compass. In the early 1980s, when Taylor was a raw, teenage talent from Stoke-on-Trent with a handful of pub titles and a dream, Bristow took notice. He didn’t just offer advice; he showed up. He watched. He corrected. He believed. That belief, whispered in practice rooms and echoed in locker rooms, became the foundation of Taylor’s rise. By the time Taylor won his first world title in 1990, Bristow had already paved the way. Their relationship wasn’t formalized by contracts or organizations—it was forged in sweat, silence, and shared obsession with the flight of a dart.
A Moment That Echoed Beyond the Oche
It’s hard to overstate how much Bristow’s words cut. For Taylor, hearing his idol, the man who taught him how to hold a dart, how to breathe between throws, how to win under pressure, admit defeat wasn’t just about skill—it was about identity. Bristow wasn’t saying he lost a match. He was saying he lost himself. And in that moment, Taylor didn’t just lose a mentor—he lost the man who had taught him how to be a champion. "It broke my heart a little bit," Taylor told reporters, repeating the phrase like a mantra. That phrase, now etched into darts lore, isn’t just about decline. It’s about the invisible cost of greatness.
Two Icons, One Legacy
Together, Phil Taylor and Eric John Bristow defined an era. Bristow won five world titles between 1980 and 1986, turning darts from a pub pastime into a televised spectacle. Taylor, his protégé, went on to win 16 World Championship titles—more than any other player in history. Their rivalry was real, but their bond was deeper. Fans still reminisce about Bristow’s flamboyant style and Taylor’s robotic precision. The Professional Darts Corporation didn’t just benefit from their talent—it was built on their legend. Yet, for all the records and accolades, this moment—quiet, unscripted, devastating—reveals what no trophy can: the loneliness at the top.
Why This Matters to Every Athlete
This isn’t just a darts story. It’s a human one. Every athlete who’s ever pushed their body past its limits knows the fear of decline. The dread that one day, your hands won’t shake right, your eyes won’t track the target, your mind won’t hold the focus. Bristow didn’t retire because he was forced out. He retired because he knew—better than anyone—that the game had moved on. And in that admission, he gave Taylor the most painful gift of all: honesty. It’s why Taylor still speaks of it decades later. It’s why fans still tear up when they hear it. Greatness doesn’t end with a final throw. It ends with a whisper.
What Happened After?
Bristow officially retired from professional competition in 2003, though he remained a fixture in commentary and exhibition matches. He passed away in 2018, leaving behind a legacy that still shapes the sport. Taylor, who retired in 2018 after his 16th world title, now spends time coaching younger players and reflecting on his journey. He’s never spoken publicly about another moment that affected him as deeply as that conversation on the oche. No interviews, no documentaries, no press releases—just that one quote, repeated again and again, like a prayer.
The Unspoken Truth About Icons
We idolize athletes for their victories, but we rarely see their defeats. Bristow’s admission wasn’t a failure—it was courage. To say, "I’m no good anymore," when the world still sees you as a legend, takes more strength than winning ten titles. Taylor didn’t cry because his mentor was gone. He cried because he understood: greatness doesn’t last. And the people who carry it the longest, feel its loss the hardest.
Frequently Asked Questions
Why did Phil Taylor find Bristow’s comment so devastating?
Taylor didn’t just see Bristow as a mentor—he saw him as the embodiment of everything he aspired to be. Bristow was the first true champion Taylor looked up to, the man who taught him discipline, technique, and mental toughness. When Bristow admitted he was "no good anymore," Taylor heard more than a career ending; he heard the voice of his own future fears. That moment crystallized the inevitable decline every athlete faces, making it deeply personal.
Was this comment made during a televised match or privately?
The exact setting isn’t documented, but all accounts place the conversation on the oche—the official throwing line—which suggests it occurred during a practice session, exhibition, or backstage moment at a tournament. It wasn’t a post-match interview or public statement. The intimacy of the setting, likely with just the two of them present, made the admission more raw and personal, which is why Taylor remembers it so vividly decades later.
How did Eric Bristow’s legacy influence the Professional Darts Corporation?
Bristow’s charisma and dominance in the 1980s turned darts into a televised sport. His flamboyant personality, trademark mic and dart, and consistent wins attracted mainstream audiences. The PDC, formed in 1992, inherited the momentum Bristow created. Without his role as the sport’s first true superstar, the commercial explosion that allowed Taylor to thrive wouldn’t have happened. He didn’t just play—he popularized.
Did Phil Taylor ever speak to Bristow again after this moment?
While no public records detail their conversations after this exchange, Taylor has consistently spoken of Bristow with reverence in interviews, even after his passing. He has never contradicted or dismissed the emotional weight of that moment. In fact, Taylor’s decision to publicly share it suggests he carried it as a sacred part of their bond—not as a wound, but as a testament to their connection.
Why is this story still relevant today?
In an era where athletes are often reduced to stats and highlights, this story reminds us that behind every record is a human being grappling with time, pride, and identity. Taylor’s vulnerability—sharing a moment of heartbreak over a mentor’s honesty—resonates because it’s universal. Whether you’re a pro athlete or a weekend warrior, we all face the day we realize we’re not who we used to be. This is the story of that moment.
Are there any recordings or transcripts of Bristow saying this?
No audio or video recordings of the exact exchange exist. The account comes solely from Phil Taylor’s retelling in interviews and articles, corroborated by multiple darts publications including Darts News and Oche180.com. The lack of documentation makes it more poignant—it’s a memory preserved not by technology, but by emotion, passed down through storytelling, just like the sport itself.