‘There’s a lot of people playing darts who haven’t got no character,” Stephen Bunting says in a matter-of-fact tone, his voice still a little croaky from the cold that has been laying waste to him for the last week. “They’re boring to watch. And that’s probably why they’ll never be in the Premier League. You need to have a personality as well as being at the top of your game. You need to balance both.”

And frankly, has anyone in the sport made a better fist of it than Bunting himself? A few years ago, the man they call The Bullet was little more than a capable journeyman on the fringes of the elite, as well-known for his resemblance to Peter Griffin from Family Guy as for his darts. Now he is the world No 4 and a multiple tournament winner, with a loyal and passionate following that – in its most spine-tingling moments – seems to transcend sport itself.

The interesting part is the way these two narratives have unfolded in harmony with each other. The rise of Bunting the dart player, and the rise of Bunting the snackable social media phenomenon who can bring a stadium to its feet, are really a single development with a single root: the story of how an ordinary lad from St Helens learned to embrace his authentic self. Learned to be happy again.

“I always wanted to be a dart player,” he says. “Sixth form, we used to wag off school and go down to the pub, a game of snooker, a game of darts and a few pints. But I also want to be remembered as one of the nice guys. For being a bit stupid and having a laugh.”

To watch Bunting take the stage these days is to witness a quasi-religious experience. He walks on to the song Titanium by Sia and David Guetta, chosen for no other reason than that his son liked it. As the music swells to a crescendo, the crowd rises, belting out the top notes in a kind of mass ecstasy. Bunting stands atop the platform, cajoling and conducting them like a preacher, the entire room in his grip. Eventually the music dies and the crowd launch into a chorus of “Let’s Go Bunting Mental”. It is a stirring, albeit deeply strange spectacle.

There is no artifice to this, no masterplan. An infinity of marketing geniuses locked in a room for infinity could never concoct a campaign this catchy. Nobody even really noticed when Bunting changed his walk-on music to Titanium from Bird is the Word – a Family Guy in-joke – around the time of the pandemic. Even now Bunting isn’t sure how or why it went quite so viral.

“I never really thought too much about it,” he says now. “But the song is brilliant, and the lyrics – ‘bulletproof, nothing to lose, fire away’ – all relate. When I get on stage and the fans are all singing it back, you feel like you’re orchestrating something special. And then it gives you the power to go and produce performances.”

Any feedback from either of the artists themselves? “I messaged Sia on Instagram. She didn’t get back to me.”

Of course darts has never been short of novelty acts and outsized characters. The difference with Bunting is that he backs it up with brilliance. Above all, it so clearly comes from an authentic place. “It’s 100% me,” he says. “I don’t hide behind fakeness. My dad taught me that from an early age. No matter how much money you’ve got in your bank, you’re still the same person.” The problem, for much of his early career, was that Bunting himself was still trying to work out who that person was. Right from his earliest years growing up in St Helens he had been a daft lad and a very decent player, good enough to be Lakeside world champion in 2014, but still never quite comfortable in his own skin. “Then you start losing,” he says. “You start doubting. It took a few years to rebuild myself.”

Bunting got help. Racked with depression and starting to take every defeat like the end of the world, he visited a hypnotherapist called Chris O’Connor to “get my mind in the right place”, as he puts it. “He taught me, no matter how hard things were, to try to take my mind away from darts. Don’t look at negatives, look for positives. That helped alleviate the demons.”

There were technical improvements as well. Bunting had always thrown a light dart, but over the years, through sweat and abrasion his copper-tungsten arrows had whittled away to around 12g. (The average pro throws around 20-25g.) “If I didn’t change my darts, soon I was going to be throwing with bookie pens,” he jokes.

“Moving up six grams gives me so much more control of the dart. It’s paid dividends.”

Slowly, the wins and the consistency began to come: a first major title at the Masters in early 2024, an invitation to the Premier League in 2025. Meanwhile, away from the oche his legend was building: late-night TikTok livestreams, YouTube tutorials, viral Instagram moments. In an intensely psychological sport where character and talent are often two sides of the same coin, Bunting was learning to master not just the craft but the business of darts.

“We do exhibitions, and a lot of the other players like to lock themselves away in a private room,” Bunting says. “They don’t really see the fans, unless it’s a meet-and-greet. Whereas I like to be the centre of attention, easily accessible. And listen, these fans are paying our wages.”

The burning question is whether Bunting can give his fans what they truly want. He’s never reached a world championship final. His Premier League campaign was a crushing disappointment. His recent record in the majors hasn’t been great. Even so, he reckons he’s in good shape. He beat Luke Littler in a recent exhibition in Portsmouth. “Hundred point three average,” he says. “Hitting lots of 180s, and my big finishing seems to be back.”

I ask again about the kid growing up in Liverpool, chucking darts in the pub while skiving off school. Did he ever, in his wildest imagination, think it might ever turn out like this? Bunting pauses for a moment.

“Maybe not thought,” he says after a while. “Maybe dreamed. I always dreamed of becoming this darts player that everyone looked up to. To play on the biggest stages and win the world championship. Half my dream’s been met. Now let’s try to make the other half happen.”