Two Days In The Rain

 In times of yore, immediately after the gaiety and debauchery of an annual pagan festival there was a deep desire for the hunter gatherer to leave the domicile, venture out onto the rolling plains and  make a killing.

Nowadays this deep desire reveals itself as a desperate need to get out the house, shake off the Christmas stupor and have a game of golf. It may not be as genetically inherent but at least it is a little less bloody, just!

Between the revelry of new year and the family commitment of Christmas it is only right that the main provider gets out there, dusts off the clubs, cleans the balls and wears the latest haute couture provided by the fashion houses of Sunderland, Stromberg and Sports Direct!

The 28^th and 29^th of December therefore provided me with the opportunity to do just that, lining up on day one with the Welsh Wizard, The Fitter and The Boomster. A shotgun start, to an individual stableford, encapsulated our usual paired match play comp.

Ganstead was dull, dreary and dim but only in terms of the weather. The course was damp, some holes were temporary but the banter was high. With the Wizard arranging the time and date we all dutifully arrived at 8.15 sharp for a 9.15 start and with said organizer turning up late in his soft top  crimping car, he was, a sight to behold.  Slacks tucked into socks, BOA fit shoes, with tightening dial at the rear of the heel., four layers of Callaway all topped off with an Adidas 3 stripe flat cap peeking out from under the Welsh woolly bobble. Meanwhile

The Boomster had a lovely sparkling grey/black UA turtle neck and the Fitter rocked man at Gortex.

As I entered the fray in my usual chunky layers, the remnants of an old fashioned winter disease hung heavily. I had what they called in gone by days a cough and cold! Having had more lateral flow tests than you can have parties in No 10’s rose garden I was happy to share the love in the car park, although any form of cough saw me produce a fall out epicentre of atomic human proportions.

Moving off to the par 4 16^th in good time we waited in anticipation for the hooter to sound and allow battle to commence. BB was soon in full flow with a particularly fine birdie at the par 5 1^st and the Fitter having taken it upon himself to knock 40 balls the day prior was holding his own against the barrage. By the halfway mark we were all square.

The fairways had been boggy, the temporary tees uneven and uncut and the temporary greens shameful. No attempt had been made to cut the grass surrounding the bucket sized holes and the chance of putting had become a lottery. It was however the same for all the players on the day, so no advantage was gained by anyone bar the green keepers.

With the opportunity to win a prize for nearest the pin at the par 3 4^th and 10^th we were forced to get the tape measure out at the 4^th as mine and the Fitters  shots sailed close to the flag and remained on the dance floor but sadly waltzed too far away.

By the turn the Wizard hadn’t had the best of days although any shots banging into trees appeared to find the middle of the fairways. Regardless of form or function he continues to converse with the trees as only he and Clint Eastwood know how.

By the time we reached the final hole BB had put together a healthy 37 points on a day less than conducive to the glorious game and the Wizard hadn’t.  Irrespective of the stableford scores our competition had gone down to the wire. The par 3 15^th at 184 yards, saw the Boomster once again in prime position, I had gone right of the green, the Fitter and the Wizard had faltered. BB parred and with a 12 inch putt it was down to me to save the day and ensure we finished all square., Squaring up for the putt I was under duress, as my partner suggested that if I miss, the pointy end of the putter could be irretrievably inserted where nothing has ever been inserted before. I fluffed, we lost but thankfully I was far enough away to prevent said insertion taking place.

As we sat in the club house awaiting the results, a fine all English was washed down with a lager of choice. It was that enjoyable we stayed for another, courtesy of the Fitter, who getting out of his chair stood like a newly born giraffe. As he stumbled off to the bar, I enquired of his schoolboy buddy, who was the eldest. It appears it is BB by 60 odd days. You could tell there and then which one had never done a hard day’s work in their life and it wasn’t the torpefied propped up at the bar.

Finally, the presentation ceremony commenced and a hushed audience was anxious to see who had won, who had got nearest the pin and who had achieved the ignominious award of last place.  Nerves were jangling around the room but even more so to my left and right. To my right the chance of a winner’s trophy, to my left the chance of a wooden spoon.  Boom Boom achieved an admirable placing only 4 points behind the winner and the Wizard escaped major embarrassment in his home club by the merest of points! To be fair to the Wizard he had driven up from South Wales the night before in some horrendous weather and with his Boa dials clogged with mud and grass they had probably restricted the blood flow to his feet.

Less than 24 hours later I was back on the tee at my home course on yet another wet and miserable day. The golfing paraphernalia from the day previous had been laid out on any radiator that could take it, the waterproofs looking more like mudproofs had been washed in the hope they would dry before the next outing and the bag and shoes were tucked next to the nearest radiator that could take them. None of which, was taken to kindly, by the lady of the house.

Six players turned up on the day , two sets of three were drawn from the ball bag and we were off. Best two to score all playing off  75% handicap, which I have come to learn benefits the low handicappers far more than the high. Its simple maths really. 75% of 10, 7.5 rounded up to 8. 75% of 27 is 20.  Who loses out?  No wander I’m permanently SAD in winter, and I thought that was just a reaction to the weather!

 Thankfully the internal, self-selected Wednesday morning committee has no need to meet and approve or disapprove of my handicap. Handy Andy however is another ball game all together. The committee mercilessly hacked him 7 shots and before he could even muster a complaint, we were up and running.

 Fortunately, we weren’t playing the game from the previous week, a Texas Scramble. This is a system of team play whereby each player takes a tee shot, after which the most favourable ball position is chosen. All the team's players then take a shot from this new position, and so on. It is the only game I have ever encountered in golf where if you tap in or pick up your marker,  team members berate you from afar. Two schools of thought surround this game, 1. It makes the individual concentrate more as there is a desire to do well for the team or 2. Others in the team are far better than you so why bother. Which side of the coin do you fall, I know which school I belong to.

 With the Builder and the Judge on my team and the Bandit, Handy and the Metronome on the other, it looked like there would only be one outcome. Credit where its due, the Builder having just returned from a holiday on a far-flung Spanish isle  worked wonders with his short game and birdied the 1^st and 10^th while parring 8 other holes.  Meanwhile the Judge and I supported as best we could.  By the time we had reached the 10^th the miserable weather turned for the worse and it absolutely belted it down.  Waterproofs, umbrellas, hats, snoods, boots, were no match for the onslaught, everything was wetter than a wet thing could ever be. Gloves were saturated hands and fingers frozen we were praying those in front would give up the ghost and walk in, thereby forfeiting the game in our favour. How wrong we were by the time we reached the 12^th tee they were on the 16^th green and flying.

 To keep my spirits high the two Yorkies engaged in a conversation that is always close to a Yorkshire man’s heart, money! It appeared one of them had taken his good lady out for a meal, requested from the waiter, a decent bottle of red  to go with the meal and was flabbergasted when the bill showed it had cost him £32 for the plonk. The other Yorkshireman was also upset by the price of cuisine, when his local store took the yellow sticker Grade A chicken off the shelf because nobody was buying it at the true retail price. He did  consider complaining to the management, although on reflection chose not to as he had a freezer full of 50p chicken breasts. I leave it up to you to dear reader to decide which one came from West Yorkshire and which one came from East Yorkshire!

 Eventually the 18^th appeared out of the murk and we were put out of our misery. On entering the clubhouse, the opposition were sat warm and snug, as they had been inside for over 40 minutes and with an accumulated score of 80+ we were no match for their golfing antics, handing over £1 coins, that would undoubtedly be recycled in the weeks to come.

 As to Handy Andy, he who was so savagely cut, it appears this has had little impact on his scoring prowess, for only this week he took it upon himself to birdie four holes as we played a paired betterball stableford. It’s great when he is on your side, but a bugger if he isn’t.  

As the £1 coins continue to leak out of his bulging winnings bag, the Bandit is starting to feel a little hard done by and quickly reported the outcome to the Wednesday handicap committee (aka the Metronome)  who on our most recent outing chose not to cut Handy again. Could it be he was on his side on that particular day?

One does get the feeling however that in some respects the Spragger in Chief  has been well and truly hoisted by his own petard.

Once more the wet gear appeared on the radiators perhaps a move too far for the good lady but it was Christmas and as the saying goes, goodwill to all men! Phew!

Till the next time.