The roar of the crowd at the ETBF International Darts Open in Riesa, Germany, was supposed to herald another chapter in the PDC’s high-octane calendar—a weekend of precision throws, electric rivalries, and the sharp crack of darts hitting triple 20. But on a crisp April Saturday in 2025, the spotlight swung not to the scoreboard, but to a simmering tension between two of darts’ most contrasting figures: James “The Machine” Wade and Cameron Menzies. What unfolded was less a match than a masterclass in provocation, with Wade’s refusal to shake hands before the deciding leg drawing swift and searing backlash. For the 42-year-old Englishman, already scarred by the echoes of a “disgusting” incident with world number one Luke Humphries just a month prior, this latest act felt like déjà vu—a deliberate snub that reignited debates about respect, rivalry, and the thin line between gamesmanship and outright disdain.
Wade’s reputation as darts’ enigmatic contrarian precedes him like a shadow at dawn. A 2007 world champion and holder of 11 major PDC titles, including three World Matchplays and two UK Opens, The Machine has long been a polarizing force. His deadpan demeanor and surgical accuracy earned him the nickname, but it’s his penchant for mind games that keeps tongues wagging. In Riesa, facing the gritty Scottish qualifier Menzies—a player known for his steely resolve and underdog charm—the match boiled down to a nail-biting decider. Menzies, 29 and hungry for a breakthrough on the European Tour, had pushed Wade to the brink with a blend of fearless aggression and clutch checkouts. Yet, as the players lined up for what could have been a career-defining leg, Wade turned away, arms crossed, offering no handshake, no nod of acknowledgment. The crowd’s murmur swelled into boos, and social media erupted: “Disrespectful to the core,” one fan posted. “Wade’s antics are killing the spirit of the game.”
This wasn’t mere oversight; it was a pattern etched in recent memory. Just weeks earlier, at the 2025 UK Open in Minehead—a tournament that had already cemented its place as a crucible of drama—Wade had squared off against Humphries in a quarter-final thriller that transcended the oche. The world number one, “Cool Hand Luke,” entered as the favorite, his 2024 world title and string of majors painting him as darts’ unflappable king. But Wade, ever the grinder, clawed his way to a 10-9 victory, sealing it with a blistering finish: six 180s in the final three legs, a near-140 average in the clutch, and a checkout percentage hovering at an imposing 52.5%. His overall average? A modest 99 to Humphries’ 102, but it was Wade’s edge in the big moments that propelled him to the semis, where he demolished Josh Rock 11-2 before falling 11-2 to teenage sensation Luke Littler in the final.
Beneath the statistics, though, lurked a storm. Pre-match, as the pair exchanged greetings on stage, Wade leaned in and appeared to lick Humphries’ neck—a bizarre, invasive gesture that left the champion recoiling. Tensions simmered through the legs: staredowns that lingered too long, pauses pregnant with intent. By the deciding leg, the customary handshake evaporated into thin air. No fist bump, no eye contact—just Wade’s impassive stare and Humphries’ visible frustration. The world number one, lauded for his sportsmanship just days earlier when he graciously consoled 17-year-old prodigy Beau Greaves after her emotional exit, didn’t mince words in a now-deleted social media post. “Everyone loves to see people be a bad loser but I’m generally one of the best losers in the sport,” Humphries wrote, his words a raw vent of betrayal. “I wasn’t going to give someone who didn’t deserve my respect after what he was doing through the game a hug and be all happy about it. That’s just my honesty.”
The darts world didn’t hold back. Paul Nicholson, the former Players Championship winner and a voice of authority in the sport, branded Wade’s lick as “disgusting,” calling for an investigation by the Darts Regulation Authority (DRA). “There had seemingly been tensions building throughout, and they didn’t exchange the usual handshake or fist bump before the deciding leg,” Nicholson told Sporting Life, his tone laced with incredulity. “Wade licking Humphries’ neck before the match began may have been an issue. I’m with Luke on this one. I think sometimes as a competitor, you have to draw a line and say, ‘If you are going to play games and do things within a competitive environment that cross the line, then don’t expect respect in return.'” Fans piled on, with hashtags like #WadeOut trending briefly on X, and pundits dissecting whether The Machine’s provocations were psychological warfare or outright bullying. Even Wade’s post-match reflection in his Daily Star column sidestepped the controversy, focusing instead on his form: “The reason I have done so well when I have played in the UK Open is timing it right to perform at my best in the big moments. I did it in particular in the Luke Humphries match, where in the last three legs I hit six 180s, had something close to a 140 average and ultimately finished my doubles when those opportunities were given to me.”
The Riesa incident with Menzies only fanned the flames, mirroring the Humphries snub with eerie precision. Menzies, who had qualified through the grueling ProTour ranks, later shrugged it off in interviews—”It’s darts, emotions run high”—but the damage was done. On the Darts Draait Door podcast, Dutch star Damian Vloet quipped, “That’s typical Wade, isn’t it? Then there’s a fuss because of that lick on Humphries’ neck, which I felt was coming all the way.” Fellow commentator Vincent van der Voort piled on, referencing Wade’s leisurely walk-on at a recent event that outlasted even the most theatrical entrances: “He had also decided this weekend, ‘Well you know what, on the walk-on I’ll take longer than Dimitri Van den Bergh and Stephen Bunting put together.'” For Wade, whose career has weathered slumps—three straight second-round World Championship exits—and resurgences alike, these episodes risk eclipsing his talent. In February, he had already stirred the pot by slamming the current generation as “very robotic” and lacking the characters of yore, like Phil Taylor and Adrian Lewis. “I don’t think there’s many characters in the game,” he said then. “They feel much of a muchness.”
Yet, in the unforgiving glare of the PDC spotlight, Wade’s defenders are few. His antics have drawn parallels to a bygone era of darts, where bravado bordered on brawl, but in 2025’s polished, TV-slick product, they grate. The DRA has yet to act—no fines, no suspensions—but whispers of formal complaints linger. As the season barrels toward the World Grand Prix and beyond, with Littler and Humphries redefining excellence, Wade stands at a precipice. Is he the cunning fox, unsettling foes to sharpen his edge? Or a relic whose barbs now wound the sport he helped elevate? In Riesa’s aftermath, one thing is clear: The Machine’s gears grind on, but at what cost to the game’s fragile camaraderie? Darts thrives on rivalry, but when handshakes turn to cold shoulders, the oche feels a little less like home—and a lot more like a battlefield.
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