In the glittering chaos of Alexandra Palace, where the air hums with the sharp thwack of arrows hitting the board and the roar of a crowd drunk on darts fever, few rivalries ignite quite like the one between Luke Littler and Stephen Bunting. It’s more than just a clash of styles—the explosive teenage prodigy versus the seasoned scouser with a walk-on that could power a stadium. No, this is darts laced with football’s fiercest tribalism: Manchester United’s “Nuke” against Liverpool’s unyielding “Bullet.” Their latest showdown, in the semi-finals of the 2025 PDC World Darts Championship, wasn’t merely a step toward glory; it was a deliciously petty parade of club loyalties, culminating in Littler’s crowning as the youngest champion ever and a message that landed like a perfectly aimed treble 20. At 17, Littler didn’t just win the Sid Waddell Trophy—he hoisted it as a red devil’s banner, gleefully denying Bunting’s dreams of draping it in scarlet and white at Anfield.
The buildup had all the makings of a derby day thriller. Bunting, the 39-year-old from St Helens whose entrance to David Guetta’s “Titanium” never fails to send shivers through the arena, arrived in Ally Pally riding a wave of momentum. Fresh off a commanding 5-1 quarter-final demolition of Damon Heta, where he averaged a blistering 98.5 and nailed seven 180s, Bunting was in full warrior mode. But it was his pre-match banter that truly set the stage ablaze. A die-hard Liverpool supporter, Bunting couldn’t resist envisioning the ultimate crossover victory. Ahead of the Reds’ blockbuster Premier League clash against Manchester United at Anfield—just days away on Sunday—he let slip his audacious plan: “It would be fantastic. And I think it would be made even more fantastic because we’re playing Man Utd. So that’d be unbelievable. Just to shove that trophy down their throats as well.” The words hung in the air like a poorly aimed dart, a provocative jab at United’s faithful and, by extension, their adopted son in the darts world. Fans erupted in laughter and jeers, the Palace crowd—ever the neutral ground for such feuds—lapping up the Scouse bravado. Bunting wasn’t just gunning for the world title; he was plotting a football invasion, the gleaming Sid Waddell Trophy as his weapon of choice to rub salt in old wounds from past derbies.
Littler, the Warrington wonderkid who’s turned the oche into his personal demolition derby, took it all in stride. A lifelong Red Devil, he’s no stranger to the banter’s bite. Remember his cheeky hand gesture in Liverpool during a Premier League night last season, mimicking Everton’s derby upset? Or the way he shrugged off boos from the Kop faithful, his grin wider than a Glazer’s wallet? This time, though, the stakes were stratospheric. Entering the semis as the tournament’s darling—having dismantled Peter Wright 6-3 in the quarters with an average north of 100—Littler faced Bunting in a best-of-19 legs showdown that crackled from the first throw. The Bullet struck first, nabbing a leg with a clinical double 16, but that was the extent of his resistance. Littler, channeling the precision of a Bryan Robson tackle, reeled off six unanswered legs in a 6-1 rout. His stats were a symphony of destruction: a 102.12 average, eight 180s that had the roof rattling, and a checkout efficiency that left Bunting chasing shadows. The Welshman-turned-Liverpudlian, whose left-arm power has felled giants like Michael Smith in years past, looked uncharacteristically adrift, his doubles deserting him at the cruellest moments. As the final leg sealed it, Littler pumped his fist, the Palace faithful chanting “There’s only one Luke Littler,” while Bunting offered a gracious nod—defeat bitter, but the respect mutual.
That semi-final victory was the appetizer; the main course came hours later in the final against Michael van Gerwen. In a match for the ages, Littler edged the Dutch maestro 7-4, becoming the first teenager to claim the PDC crown since its inception. At 17 years and 361 days, he shattered records, pocketing £500,000 and etching his name alongside legends like Phil Taylor and Raymond van Barneveld. But amid the confetti and tears—Littler later admitted he “broke down” in his dad’s arms, overwhelmed by the weight of it all—his thoughts turned back to that thwarted Anfield parade. In the post-match press scrum, surrounded by flashing cameras and breathless reporters, the new king delivered his message to Bunting with the timing of a set-piece specialist. “Will I take the trophy around Old Trafford? If they allow me to then I’m sure I will go to Old Trafford yeah,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then came the dagger, wrapped in a grin: “I’m glad I beat Stephen yesterday because I’m pretty sure he was taking it to Anfield on the weekend.” It was six words of pure, unadulterated banter—concise, cutting, and quintessentially English. Social media ignited; United fans hailed it as the perfect riposte, Liverpool supporters fired back with memes of Bunting’s forlorn checkout attempts, and neutrals marveled at how a darts podium could feel so much like a Turf Moor terrace.
This isn’t just trash talk; it’s the lifeblood of what makes darts—and its crossover with football—so intoxicating. Bunting, a former BDO world champion who’s reinvented himself on the PDC circuit, has long been the everyman’s hero: the affable assassin with a Scouse accent thick as Lancashire rain. His 2024 Masters triumph and semi-final run here underscore a career resurgence that’s as inspiring as it is improbable. Yet, against Littler, the generational chasm yawns wide. The kid from Runcorn, who once hawked chips at a local takeaway before exploding onto the scene with that 2023 Ally Pally runner-up finish, embodies the future—fearless, unflappable, and armed with a social media savvy that turns rivalries into viral gold. Their paths have crossed before: a 6-0 whitewash in the Premier League earlier this year, where Littler urged the struggling Bunting to “relax and the wins will come.” Bunting, winless in the league at the time, took the advice to heart, eventually breaking his duck in Berlin months later. There’s camaraderie beneath the barbs, a nod to the shared grind of a sport where one missed double can rewrite history.
As the dust settles on Littler’s coronation, the football world braces for its own showdown. Liverpool, chasing a title dream under Arne Slot, host a United side licking wounds from a turbulent campaign. Bunting will be in the stands at Anfield, trophy-less but unbowed, while Littler eyes a potential Old Trafford lap of honor—perhaps timed for a United resurgence. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” one pundit quipped, capturing how this darts saga bleeds into the beautiful game’s lore. For Littler, it’s validation: the boy who turned ham-and-cheese omelettes into half-a-million-pound hauls now wields banter as deftly as his arrows. For Bunting, it’s fuel—a semi-final heartbreak that stings sweeter knowing the rival who denied him is a Red to the core. In the end, as Littler hoists that gleaming Sid Waddell aloft, his message echoes beyond the Palace: in darts and derbies alike, glory’s sweetest when it’s stolen from the enemy. The oche falls silent, but the rivalry? That’s just warming up.
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