IIWII
None of these, the answer is simple, nothing to report.
Nope, sweet f a, diddly squat, bugger all!
Yet, if I look deeply into the mists of time, a few
interesting snippets raise their ugly heads.
The close season has seen the great and the good suffer from
debilitating injuries.
The Doc returning from a little winter sun on the Portuguese
island of Madeira suffered a devastating back injury and is now only just
competing after a long layoff.
The Metronome suffering from a self-inflicted hand injury, instantly
visited Doctor Google and laid himself off for several weeks. As ever he was philosophical
in his approach and was heard to mutter those immortal words, “It Is What It Is.”
When an image of him appeared in the national news and purported
to be Henry Staunton, Chairman of the Post Office, rumours were rife that he
was moonlighting. His return to the game coincided with Business Secretary Kemi
Badenoch sacking said chairman and and you would think he had never been away. Bang,
bang, putt, putt, two putts being for ever optional!
The loved-up Beau continues to develop the nid d’amour. Allegedly
he had a new front door fitted to ensure Kryton was unable to enter unannounced.
He has also suffered from a recent surgical procedure and is sorely missed on
the fairways.
As for the C_ns_n_nt K_d, between dog walking and kitchen
designing he continues to appear and disappear like an opening and closing Hi
Hat. At least his calm exterior prevents him from getting his paradiddle in a
twist as he swops from iron to putter.
Regardless of the elements, Kryton at the tender age of 1
under continues to defy all the odds and with a new pair of varifocals is hoping in
more ways than one, to better himself this season.
As for Handy Fairweather, the winter months have seen a
mixed bag for the jockey clubs best ever Event Marshall. Rumours abound that he
is pining for a house move nearer to his good buddy the Beau, who seems to have
ditched him for a weekly meet with the Judge in the Beverley C(onservative)
Club. I almost choked typing that blue shite!
As for me I have once again hacked my way through the winter
period but to no avail.
Taking all this into account, let us then consider our most
recent soirée into the land of golf.
As the latest tumult hurtled from the skies, the Bandit, lying
in state, with crown jewels in hand, relinquished his spot without raising a
club in anger. This left six hardy souls to arrive bright and early at the Cottingham
Parks venue. As the drips dropped, the Bandit was heard to say, “You’re all
mad”, to which we all agreed.
A quick visit to the pro shop saw mobile phones extricated
deep from within waterproofs, weather apps shared and unified despondent head
shaking.
It was a stark choice, head out, head home or have a coffee
and hope for the best. We plumped for the latter. Like forlorn little boys being driven away
from Hamleys our faces were firmly pressed against the panes. Would it ever
stop?
As the time passed inexorably slowly, the Judge used all the
power he possesses and made an executive decision. “I’m off to Skidby to do 9
holes”, he said. “So am I” said I, as did Kryton. The other three chose home
comforts, household chores and dog walking as ridiculous alternatives.
The game in the rain had its ups and downs, no money to be
played for, just a gentle game of Chairman. As we meandered the lakes, drains
and puddles, the rain eased, although the gear got damp and the gloves got wet.
At this juncture the Judge took the opportunity to share with me the marvel, that
is Footjoy Raingrip gloves. “You should buy a pair of these” said he, “should
I”, said I. and on we went.
Arriving at the final hole, the 10th, a mere 114
yard par 3, downhill all the way. Kryton hit a duffer well short of the green.
I was short by 2 feet and then the Judge stepped onto the mat.
“Love this hole me, every time I get up here its 3 points in
the bag, I never miss”.
Confident would be an understatement, he even talked us
through his set up.
“. . . . . and now we
gently stroke the ball off the tee.”
As I watched the ball shank right, out the corner of my eye there
was a silver flash. Had the sun peaked out from behind the murky sky, had a
magpie flown by in search of its partner. Oh no, flying by was a Benross
pitching wedge, which travelled further than Kryton’s ball. Looking back, the
Judge was stood in supplication to the God Golf. Taking his second in the hope
his prayers would be answered, he viewed a gap between tree and green, sadly the
thwack of polyurethane on birch gave an indication as to his success. Trying again he allegedly chipped on but by
that time Kryton and I were sat in the clubhouse warming ourselves with a bowl
of Janette’s Mushroom Soup. Mmm mmm.
A week passes and the Judge is now garnering a justifiable
reputation for avarice. Regardless of who he plays with, or against, his high
handicap is reaping financial dividends. Thankfully he keeps his success to
himself as he is not one to crow. Much!
For the first time in months the course had been opened to
18 holes. With the likes of Kryton, the C_ns_n_nt
K_d, the Bandit and the Doc in the far flung reaches of Flamborough, it was
left to myself and the Metronome to take on Handy Fairweather and the Judge.
As the balls were pulled from the hat a cheer went up from
the opposition as Handy realised, he had drawn the Judge. The Metronome on the
other hand, showed no emotion when he discovered he had me!
The Judge immediately showed his bulging prowess with a fine
birdie on the 1st. “That’s three for two, for four points” he said,
as he used his putter to sheath an imaginary sword. No words!
Not to be outdone, I responded with a birdie at the second.
“Two for one, for four points” I said, “Jammy” was the retort.
The third saw another four pointer, as the Metronome birdied
the temp. It was building up to be a fine
game of cut and thrust.
By the end of the front nine the scores were close, we lead
by one. Handy had not had a good nine and was feeling the pressure however
after a good, talking to himself, he rallied at key moments on the back nine.
The 10th saw the Judge renew his love of the infamous
hole and this time he birdied for four points.
Handy’s first of two key holes saw a good par at the 11th,
which the Metronome parried at the 12th with a fine four. It should be
noted that these two guys with handicaps of 11 and 6 must continually play well
if they are to add to the scoring. Unlike, dare I say it the Judge, whose generous
handicap is much overblown.
Handy then comes in with another fine par at the 14th
and all we can do is conjure up a bogey.
Is this illegal, is he a cheat, who knows the rules? Not me, but it would be awful to think this doyen of society has been found out. What further diabolical trickery could he have hidden under his Cutter and Buck sleeves?
Feel free to tick any of the following possibilities:
· Trouser leg drop ball
· Same model and number of provisional
· Use of the leather wedge
· Altering the point of entry
· Moving the marker
· Vaseline on the club face
· Announcing a self ‘gimme’
· Handicap banditry
· Deliberate slow play
· Deliberate noises during an opposition player’s shot
Moving on, Handy pulls one left at the 16th and after
many minutes of searching, three of us leave him to ponder what might have
been. As we putt out, in the distance, the disconsolate Jolly Jack Tar continues
to traipse up and down the long stuff. If nothing else his perseverance should
be applauded. He had no need to worry however for it is estimated 400 million
balls are lost on average annually. No wonder he finds so many during his
twitching expeditions.
By the time we reach the 18th the game is all but over
and courtesy of his partner the Judge has bagged another gold coin. Thankfully
we finish with pars and our pride is restored, thus ensuring our thirst for
further adventures in the golfing world continue.
After all, as we all know, “It
Is What It Is.”
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