ERR NER SNER

Long before the first snow drop fell, a watchful eye was being run over the daily weather bulletin.

Three days earlier the Metronome had flagged up the possibility of frosted temporary greens and it had been agreed that decisions to play would be made by via the WhatsApp group account.

At 7.00 am the bedroom curtains parted to reveal an overcast sky but a frost free ground. No WhatsApp comments, it looked as if it was game on. Wrong.

The first to bail was the Metronome with the announcement of a flat tyre, quickly followed by the Doc who had chosen to exercise indoors. The Consonant Kid meanwhile was golfing in 20⁰ of heat in T_rk_y and therefore could be legally excused. As we were still six strong,  Kryton suggested green balls would be the order of the day and then, the snowflakes began to gently fall.

Waiting in the club shop for the Judge to appear, mobile phones began to buzz. Due to ‘manic traffic’ he had taken a U-turn and would catch us up later.

As a five we moved off to the first where the Bandit regaled us with a story of daring do. He and the Doc’s most recent competition at Burstwick found them up against a 3 handicapper from Kilnwick Percy, whose language and game play bordered on the extreme. Foul language, demeaning comments and questionable rulings, were handled well by our colleagues, who ran out 6 and 4 winners, against the nutter from KP. Kryton suggested he should be reported to the authorities, the languid lothario however suggested a decking, which was the preferred outcome of us all.

As Kryton stroked one down the runway, the snow started to fall harder. The Bandit slewed one right and found the trees on the mound but no fear for his golf ball radar quickly kicked in, said ball was found and he was off again to bag a couple of points.

Following, Handy went down the middle as did the Beau, as for me  I had to chip out from the trees on the left. It appears in the space of one week any form that I had has deserted me big style, whereas Handy, regardless of conditions, appears to be producing some fine golf and pocketing the coins. To protect his anonymity perhaps a name change is necessary for said golfer. How about, the Greedy Golfer, Bagga Cash, or Turner Prize?

By the time we reached the second green, a blanket of snow had covered the course, making it extremely difficult to find the Beau’s white ball.  A 5 minute plus search only came to an end when I inadvertently stood on it but by that time the ladies man was beginning to wilt and picked up.

When struck well, green balls fared little better, the short roll would see them readily gather a fine layer of the white stuff. Honed on the high hills of Sheffield the Bandit however would use his wily trekking skills and follow the ball trail to the end of the line. Unlike we inexperienced golfers who would leave a haphazard set of clotted footprints.

At the par 3 4^th, while I lost a lofted green ball in the snow, Kryton took a pitching wedge to the short temp only to come up short, on the edge, of the cavernous ditch of no return.

While the weather front was more a Dowse from the South rather than a Beast from the East, it did have the desired effect to put one off one’s game and by the 5^th the Beau and I had had enough.  Handy saw it out with a fine par, although using the putter to draw a line through the snow, from ball to hole, could be deemed as illegal, it worked a treat.

Waiting patiently at the 7^th to indicate to the advanced party, that we were going in, they both hit fine shots into the green. The Beau was lucky not to receive a Sheffield Kiss as the Bandit’s iron landed in his newly made footprints. Kryton’s shot also hit the ditch a mere yard or two from the lad.  Normally, they would be considered decent shots, however with the temporary green being placed a good twenty yards back and to the right, they weren’t that good. Early onset perhaps, or just they couldn’t see through the fluttering flakes?

As we all trudged off, I inadvertently suggested we played the 9^th for 50p. Handy hit one slightly right of the temp’ and with money suddenly a factor, I hit my first straight one of the day and popped through the back. The Beau hit a tree and the Bandit and Kryton were more towards the main green’s bunker.  Chips of varying success, saw everyone take a putter for the third. As we all know, a rolling stone gathers no moss however a rolling golf ball gathers loads of snow and so it was with Handy last to putt he give it an almighty whack, ensuring it hit the pin and dropped in. More money for Bagga, the Cottingham Coin Collector.

On entering the clubhouse, it was awash with disappointed golfers, all waiting patiently for the cold snap to pass. They would be waiting for some time. The Bandit hadn’t even divested himself of his outdoor gear, with snood pulled up high and cap down low, his eyes furtively dancing from left to right, he reminded me of Eli Wallach, from the classic film the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Although not winning on the day, the diminutive Kryton tucked into a small breakfast, similar in size to his good self. I just hope his sausage isn’t as black as the one that was on the plate! The Bandit explained he had already had his sausage for breakfast, between two slices of toast! Apparently, he had inadvertently put the bread in the toaster before remembering he was having a sausage butty. What was that about early onset? In the interim the Builder had joined us and corroborated the Bandits narrative. He also introduced us to his new Garmin watch, that would not only aid his golf (not that he needs it) but also tell him where he was on one of his many countryside walks and take his heart rate at the same time. It was comforting to note that if he was having palpitations halfway up a mountain he would know exactly where he was. I just hope his phone can work as well.

Meanwhile the Beau who hadn’t been on holiday for over a week was checking out Jet2 and could get us to Majorca for £41.98 return. With a game of golf chucked in that would be one hell of a Sunday driver. Bagga as usual, was in his counting house counting out his money. Again!

As for the Judge, there was no sign of him. Did we need to call out mountain rescue or hastily muster up a search party of caring golfers?

Nah, he was tucked up in his Beverley abode, painting and decorating. Mug.