In the electrifying world of professional darts, where a single dart can shatter dreams and forge legends, few names loom larger than Phil Taylor. Known as “The Power,” the 16-time world champion dominated the oche for over two decades, amassing a record haul of major titles that still casts a long shadow over the sport. His precision, psychological edge, and unyielding intensity turned every match into a high-stakes drama. But even titans have their thorns, and for Taylor, one particularly prickly opponent stands out: Paul Nicholson. What began as a series of on-stage upsets in the early 2010s escalated into a feud fueled by bold words and simmering resentment, leaving Nicholson convinced that Taylor harbored a deep-seated hatred toward him—one that simmered long after the final checkout.
It all traces back to a string of audacious victories that caught the darts establishment off guard. Nicholson, a tenacious Australian with a flair for the dramatic, first stung Taylor at the 2010 Totesport Players Championship. In a match that had fans on the edge of their seats, Nicholson’s steady hand and tactical nous outfoxed the reigning king, sending shockwaves through the Professional Darts Corporation (PDC) circuit. Taylor, ever the competitor, dusted himself off, but the upset lingered like a poorly thrown dart. Just months later, in June 2011, lightning struck again at the UK Open in Bolton. This time, the stakes felt personal. Taylor, fresh off another world title defense, entered as the overwhelming favorite. Yet Nicholson, with his unorthodox throwing style and unflappable demeanor, dismantled him in a best-of-31 legs thriller.
The moment that etched itself into darts lore came right after the final leg. As Taylor trudged off the stage, visibly deflated, Nicholson didn’t just celebrate quietly. No, he channeled the spirit of a victorious gladiator. “I waved at him, then I high-fived someone in the crowd, then I walked over and shook his hand,” Nicholson later recounted with a mix of glee and reflection. “And he hated me.” It was a gesture laced with cheek—part sportsmanship, part provocation—that amplified the sting of defeat for a man unaccustomed to losing. Taylor’s face, usually a mask of steely focus, twisted into something rawer: frustration bordering on fury. In the cutthroat arena of darts, where mind games are as potent as a 180, this wave became the spark that lit the fuse.
But Nicholson wasn’t done twisting the knife. Just a month later, at the prestigious World Matchplay in Blackpool’s Winter Gardens—a tournament Taylor had claimed five times and would win twice more—the tension boiled over into verbal sparring. Speaking to Sky Sports after dispatching Colin Osborne in the opening round, Nicholson turned his gaze squarely on The Power. “Me and Taylor will meet at some point,” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of quiet confidence, “and he had better bring his ‘A’ game, because if he doesn’t I will put him to bed.” The words hung in the air like a poorly aimed treble. For a player like Taylor, who thrived on intimidation and expected deference from the field, this was no mere banter. It was a direct challenge to his supremacy, implying that without his peak form, he was vulnerable—mortal, even.
Taylor, never one to let slights slide, fired back swiftly. Fresh off a commanding first-round win over Mark Hylton, he sat down with BBC Radio Stoke, his tone laced with barely contained ire. “I haven’t actually heard the comments but people have been telling what he’s been saying,” the 15-time world champion at the time admitted, his Stoke-on-Trent accent sharpening the edge. “It’s silly because he’s not really done anything yet. I think he’s very, very silly.” The dismissal was classic Taylor: patronizing, pointed, and designed to belittle. By branding Nicholson “very silly,” he wasn’t just rebutting the taunt; he was diminishing the man’s entire career arc. Nicholson, who had already notched multiple PDC titles and was climbing the ranks with wins over the likes of Terry Jenkins and Wes Newton, must have felt the barb keenly. Yet, in hindsight, he saw it for what it was: a sign of deeper animosity. “At the time, was I influenced by hate towards him? No,” Nicholson reflected years later. “Did I want to take him out? Absolutely.”
This clash encapsulated the era’s darts landscape, a golden age where Taylor’s hegemony was both a blessing and a curse for the sport. On one hand, his dominance—16 world championships, 214 professional titles, and averages that routinely hovered in the high 90s—elevated darts from pub pastime to global spectacle, drawing crowds to sold-out arenas and millions to TV screens. On the other, it bred resentment among peers who toiled in his shadow. Nicholson, with his infectious personality and willingness to engage in psychological warfare, embodied the underdog spirit that fans adored. Born in Bathurst, New South Wales, he burst onto the PDC scene in 2004 after stints in the British Darts Organisation, quickly earning a reputation as “The Asset” for his asset-stripping prowess against top seeds. His victories over Taylor weren’t flukes; they were proof of a player who could match The Power’s fire with his own calculated cool.
The feud didn’t end in Blackpool. Taylor advanced to face Wayne Jones in the second round, while Nicholson drew Raymond van Barneveld—a heavyweight clash in its own right. Though they didn’t meet that summer, the bad blood colored future encounters. Nicholson claimed another scalp over Taylor in 2012 at the European Championship, but the momentum shifted as age began to nibble at The Power’s edges. By 2018, Taylor had retired from the PDC, leaving behind a legacy as complex as it was colossal: beloved by fans for his showmanship, yet a polarizing figure in the locker room for his sharp tongue and unapologetic competitiveness.
Looking back, Nicholson views the rivalry as a badge of honor, a testament to pushing the greatest to his limits. “He hated me,” he said plainly in a recent interview, the words carrying no bitterness, only the satisfaction of a warrior who stared down the dragon. For Taylor, those “silly” comments from a brash Aussie likely served as fuel, sharpening his resolve amid a career of conquests. In darts, where glory is fleeting and grudges eternal, this episode remains a vivid reminder that even the mightiest can be rattled by a well-aimed word. Today, as new stars like Luke Littler dazzle the boards, Taylor’s story—and his simmering feud with Nicholson—serves as a cautionary tale: in the game of arrows, the sharpest wounds often come not from the dart, but from the dart thrown off-stage.
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