Tonight Tony will be competing in a local darts tournament, when he'll be hoping to win the first prize of three hundred pounds.
To get in shape for the big event, the boy has spent all day perfecting his skills, by spending hours in his bedroom throwing darts.
I reckon Tony's got a fair chance of walking away with the first prize, even if the tournament will be bringing together some of south-east London's finest players.
However, I remember last year's tournament as if it was only yesterday, and still curse Tony's rotten luck, when in the final his game fell apart, with him eventually losing to an outsider.
Of course, it wasn't Tony's precision throwing that failed him on that occasion, but instead the vast amount of lager he had consumed during the opening matches, which he says was necessary for him to calm his nerves.
Naturally, by the time he made it to the final (somewhat miraculously) he was so hammered that his first three darts found their way flying into a rather excited crowd of supporters, who somehow avoided serious injury by ducking just at the right moment.
Tony went on to lose the final seven games to zero, complaining afterwards that his drinks had been spiked, and that "mysterious forces" had played havoc with his throwing arm.
I've told Tony that three hundred pounds would come in very handy right now, and if he wants to walk away a winner tonight, he's got to stay off the beer, and stick to drinking orange juice.
Tony can't remember the last time he drank orange juice, but because he sees himself as the next Tiger Woods of darts, and he realises that drinking beer and throwing sharp pointed objects don't go together very well, he's assured me that tonight not only will he end the day sober, but he'll also be a lot richer than he was this morning.