Luke Littler had waited long enough. At 18, the PDC World Darts Champion had already banked £1.6 million in prize money, sat second in the world rankings, and stared down the barrel of a potential £1 million defence at Alexandra Palace come December. But on a grey Monday morning in early November, the only target that mattered was the practical driving test. His weapon of choice? A gleaming black BMW 120 M Sport he’d bought back in May, complete with a private plate that whispered rather than shouted. The car had sat under a cover for months while Littler wrestled the theory exam—eight attempts, eight failures, until the ninth finally clicked. “I just wanted to pass as soon as possible,” he said, grinning through the memory. “Believe it or not, I bought the car in May. I didn’t buy it yesterday. When I put it on my story, I’ve had it for quite a few months now.”
He’d chosen automatic—“none of all that manual stuff”—and squeezed in the bare minimum of lessons once the theory was conquered. Test day arrived with a stranger in the passenger seat and a pulse that refused to settle. “It’s very different and it was a bit nervy on my test,” he admitted. “I didn’t know who the instructor was but I’m glad I passed. I got zero minors.” The examiner’s nod unleashed a roar of relief; Littler snapped a selfie with the certificate, slapped it on Instagram, and let the fireworks emojis do the shouting: “Get innnn, first time and 0 minors.”
Freedom tasted like open throttle and fresh tarmac. Two days later, Wednesday afternoon, he pointed the BMW toward his girlfriend Faith’s house. The motorway was a snarl of lorries and hatchbacks, the kind of river where lanes merge like arteries and exits flash past in a blink. Littler eased into the flow, still savouring the new-car smell, when the rear-view mirror betrayed him. A silver hatchback tucked in tight, then tighter, weaving with the single-minded focus of a heat-seeking missile. Inside sat a freelance photographer, lens primed for the money shot: darts’ teenage tycoon behind the wheel of his £40,000 prize.
“I was driving up to Faith’s and I was getting followed,” Littler recalled, the words still carrying the tremor of the moment. Panic flared; he spotted an exit at the last possible second and hauled the wheel hard right, tyres howling. The hatchback mirrored him, a shadow refusing to peel away. “I made, like, the latest exit that you could possibly do on a motorway. I came off so late and then so did he.” What followed was a frantic ballet of U-turns—three in rapid succession—each one a gamble on wet asphalt amid blaring horns. “And I think I did about three U-turns, he did the same, but I was just shaking with nerves. I’d been driving for two days getting followed on a motorway.”
The road offered no refuge, no hard shoulder to hide on, just an endless ribbon of traffic and the thud of his own heartbeat. “I know it’s the job,” he allowed, a grudging nod to the paparazzo’s hustle, “but following me on the motorway—it’s dead busy. I was nervous and stuff.” Then inspiration struck, sharp as a 180. If the photographer wanted exclusive shots to flog to the tabs, Littler would beat him to the punch. He thumbed open Instagram, snapped a quick photo of the BMW’s interior, and fired it into his disappearing story. Scoop ruined. “That’s why I posted the car so he couldn’t sell his pictures,” he explained with a sly grin. “So that’s for him… I know it’s the job, but… yeah, that’s why I posted the car so he couldn’t do it.”
By Thursday the full reveal landed on his main feed, turning potential tabloid bait into a victory lap shared with 1.2 million followers. The photographer slunk away empty-handed, and the internet crowned Littler a genius. It was classic Luke: cool under fire, whether the pressure comes from a double 16 or a determined hatchback.
The episode capped a surreal week for the kid from Warrington. Days earlier, an online poll had declared him the world’s sexiest sportsman, a title that left him blinking at his phone in disbelief. “I saw something on the news on my phone. I thought, ‘Surely, this can’t be true’,” he laughed. “When then I saw it on ITV news. I was just like, ‘Fair enough’. I have no idea if there’s a trophy, I didn’t even know it was a thing.” No trophy required; the real hardware awaits in Wolverhampton next week, where he defends his Grand Slam crown, then in Milton Keynes for the Players Championship Finals, and finally under the Ally Pally lights where retaining the world title would push his career earnings past £2 million before his 19th birthday.
Yet the motorway chase lingers like a rogue bounce-out. Littler once daydreamed of a modest Mercedes A-Class; the BMW was the practical upgrade. Now every journey is a reminder that the spotlight follows faster than any speed limit. He still plays Call of Duty between sessions, still orders Nando’s like any teenager, but the rear-view mirror has become another opponent to outmanoeuvre. Two days on the road, already dodging paparazzi at 70 mph—welcome to the fast lane, Luke.
As the BMW cools in the driveway, engine ticking down like a post-match heartbeat, one thing is clear: whether he’s threading arrows or threading traffic, Littler’s reflexes are championship calibre. The kid who needed eight theory attempts just aced his first real-world pressure test. And if the paparazzi try again? He’s already got the perfect counter—post early, post often, and let the story write itself.
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