HOW IT ALL BEGAN IN BUNKERS PARADISE

“Where is she?” I demanded with a pianissimo petulant note tiptoeing itself into my voice.

“She’s not playing today” Gill answered back with a mezzo-piano smattering of petulance in her reply.

“Shenanigans at Snape?” I postulated, allowing a slight sforzando on the last word to slide into our exchanges.

“Handel, Alexander’s Feast” came the ringing rinforzando reply.  “How did we get to be so orchestrated?” Gill added.

Our exchanges on the first tee would have been no ‘surprise symphony’ to Haydn but, as neither he nor Sally was around to witness any of this concerted wit and we had a game of golf to play, it made sense to stop our symposium now and get on with the job in hand.

The triumvirate of Gill, Sally and I was depleted today, for Sally had become erstwhile and abandoned us and golf for the allure of the cathedral concert hall at Snape.  Sally had gone culture vulture, leaving us - dare I say the dreaded “plebs” word that Sir Bob Geldof’s friend Andrew Mitchell categorically denies was ever on his lips? – behind as a mere two-pony trick on the starting grid of our local golf course to carry on as best we could.  And carry on we did.

If we three queens of golfing are asunder, those who remain are obliged to carry on regardless.  There was a point in our career when we tried to augment our numbers but when we put it out there, not a single suitable soul, shockproof enough to withstand our witty wisdom and whimsical wittering, was to be found - nor could we finger anybody capable enough of mixing it large with our magnificent sense of the sublime and ridiculous and, most importantly, of matching our standard of play.  We expound the golfing aphorism #GoLow every time we play but I’m very sure our result is more like #HowDidWeEndUp WithThatScore.

Sally, having sallied forth to Snape, left me gyrating on the starting grid with Gill.  Gill and giggling go hand in hand.  I knew that from the off – not today’s off but from the first time we met.  There I was, deep into the course on the sixteenth fairway, lodged in a greenside bunker and busy testing the mettle of the handicap secretary who had switched from a traditional scoring card and was now using a ream of paper and the five-bar-gate tally system.  At last, she was getting a handle on my scoring.

The handicap secretary had long abandoned the first requirement of any self-respecting golfer (see “What a load of balls”) while I was committed to the execution of the second and third requirement of any self-respecting golfer (see a load more of “What a load of balls”).  I was also busy working on the fourth requirement of any self-respecting, which is encompassed in the golfer’s immortal mantra “Keep your head down”.

Non-golfer, you need to know: the importance of this mantra is biblical in its statement and application.  Should the four horsemen of the Apocalypse happenchance by in their fiercely primary colours or Richard III rise from his Leicestershire car park burial ground and cartwheel down the fairway with his courtiers in thrall or the lissome Victor Dubuisson glide by with his beau visage et son derriére soignée and proffer a “Bon jour, ca va”, do not lift your head till you are almost tilted round full circle from the force of your swing.  There is a technical term for all of this follow-through stuff but, being the inept golfer that I am, it bypasses my solitary brain cell.

So picture the scene.  I’m head down in the sand, Gill’s on the bank, the Handicap secretary is busy counting, and suddenly I see a pair of eyes looking up at me.  Gill, by some sleight of body morphing known only to those who have undertaken this position to kiss the Blarney Stone (Go on, google it.  You’ll be amazed), was looking up into my eyes.  But I remained unswerving in my application of the fourth requirement of any self-respecting golfer and made a mental note that, if she ever chose to pack in her current career, she’d make a great limbo dancer. 

“I sent you a message”, she said.

“That’s nice”, I replied politely, swallowing sand, “but I never got it”.

“Must have sent it to…”  Hang on a minute.  Wwwwwwwhoa!  Did I mention Victor Dubuisson?  Did I mention the gorgeous Victor Dubuisson?  Let me tell you if he swishes by, I will be breaking all requirements of any self-respecting golfer – and that is the naked truth.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, we were busy ascertaining that Gill had sent that message to a wrong number. 

“I never got that message”, I said, ingesting another mouthful of flailed sand. 

“I know that”, she rallied, “because you didn’t reply”.

Fighting the urge to state that I had a choice in not replying to unsolicited texts from randoms, emptied of energy by the effort of increased peristalsis required to digest builder’s sand, and secure in the knowledge that my mother had banged some great manners into me which I could access under the most extreme of circumstances, I said the only thing possible.

“Perhaps I should give you my number” I grated between sand-gritted teeth.

And with that, she pulled a blank sheet of paper and a glue pen out of her golf bag.  As I dictated, she scrawled my number in glue across the sheet. 

“Keep playing”, she cajoled as sand splattered in miscellaneous fashion across the page.  Five minutes later, Gill shook the loose sand off the sheet and my personal number appeared in all its sandblasted glory.  Never one to waste time on dark clouds when you can find the silver lining, I knew that girl had got my number in more ways than one.  As she walked away laughing, I knew she was on the friends list. 

“Let’s just checked it’s right”, I called after her.

“0751…….”, she called back.

I’m not giving out this number in public but, V-Dub, if you cartwheel by as a naked exception or a knight in shining primaries, well, who knows?

http://www.aldeburgh.co.uk/

http://www.blarneycastle.ie/

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/11/27/andrew-mitchell-plebgate-judgement_n_6231956.html 

@Vdubush 

@BunkersParadise

https://www.facebook.com/BunkersParadise?fref=ts

WHAT A LOAD OF BALLS...

We were at it again - me and the girl crew that consists of a trinity of tyros – out on the course plying our peculiar brand of golf where laughter and gossip rank equal in importance with the skills of the game itself.  There is not a whiff of competitive testosterone in the air – unless a male fourball is unleashed on our pert tails too soon after we tee off.  We were playing with our usual aplomb and consistency.  Lest anyone should labour under any illusion that we aspired to anything great in consistency of play, honest me would have to confess that, on a scale of one to ten, we’d probably score a minus nine.  I can’t think of a better way to graphically explain our brilliance, or lack thereof.  Laughing our way through our minuses, though, has always been our plus.

We talk about everything too – no topic taboo, nothing is too large or too small for our incisive minds, nor is anything sacrosanct either.  It is a no-holes-barred sparkling conversation and fest of wit – a show fit to rival anything “Loose Women” might dare to share. Nowt is spared.  And so we found ourselves waxing lyrical on a myriad of subjects while delving in the proclivities of the sixth hole, a nice par 3.  Two of us were gadding about while one of our numbers was busy digging herself deeper into the greenside bunker.  We were not in a hurry and had offered her the usual round of inane advice that seems to be the first requirement of any self-respecting golfer.  Sally listened to everything we had to offer and then proceeded to ignore just about everything we had to say – this being the second requirement of any self-respecting golfer.  By now, she was intent on burrowing herself into a close encounter with just about every mole that inhabited the golf course.  Gill and I were left standing in awe at the power and drive executed through every swing of the insubordinate sand wedge by the pretty and petite Sally as she blasted her way through the bunker and created a waterfall of flying sand.  But the little white ball just sat there, ensconced in it orb of self-satisfaction and smug in the knowledge that it was totally immune to the carnage that was going on around it. 

The third requirement of any self-respecting golfer is to continue to rain down innumerable shots on any ball that refuses to move, and this route Sandbunkered Sally was following unswervingly. It was a sight to behold and served only to prove what a self-respecting golfer she really was.  Gill and I were in full empathy with this sort of unreasoning mentality for we both instinctively recognised that before the present nine holes were over, we too would have followed this third requirement to a tee.  Our turn would soon be upon so we waited patiently while Sally bravely stepped up to the plate at the sixth. 

It was then we noticed him – Mr Lone Ranger, standing aloft on the tee box, iron in hand, looking hot to trot off the yellow markers.  Being the ladies that we were, we stopped our endeavours and waved him through.  From tee-off to touchdown kiss on the green, it was a beautiful shot.  Confident, well-timed, well placed, well done.  And so impressed were we that we stood still in unfamiliar silence as we followed the ball’s perfect trajectory.  Our eyes bulged in astounded wonder as it stunned itself against the close-shaven green and gently rolled to within six feet of the pin. Profound poetry in motion.  What a man!

But that’s when I noticed the incongruous.  Before my eyes and nestled on the green was Mr Lone Ranger’s ball but it was not the bête noire of the white ball type that Sally had been beating the guts out of seconds ago.  Lo and behold, him-of-the-perfect-testosterone-packed swing was only playing with a pink ball.  Yes, that’s what I said: pink, dayglo, neon, bright in-your-face girlie pink.  That’s the one I’m seeing before my eyes on the green deck.  Plume de ma giddy tante, I thought, Quel n’importe.

He strode nonchalantly along the fairway to the pin, secure in the knowledge that one putt would see the ball home safely in the pot for a birdie.  At worst, a two putt for par.  And who could blame him?  But as he approached our silent, admiring ranks and before I had time to engage my conscious brain, out from my mouth popped the immortal phrase “I love your pink balls”.  As I like a bit of emphasis in my tone, you can well imagine which word my unconscious mind underlined!

In an instant I recognised my subliminal mistake but the sentence hung in the air and took on an ambience of its own as Sally and Gill descended into a cascade of laughter and I tried hopelessly to hide my embarrassed self.  He said not a word but his shaking shoulders as he stood over the ball, putter in hand, demonstrated what is definitely not the fourth requirement of any self-respecting golfer: laughter and putting do not go hand in hand.  Suffice it to say that, after four strokes to the ball, he had not holed out.  He picked up his ball, still laughing, walked over to me and said “I think you need this more than I do!”

Hats off, there’s a man who knows how to handle his balls.

I keep that pink ball as my lucky mascot and I think Mr Lone Ranger more than demonstrated the ultimate requirement of any self respecting golfer: dignity and humour in the face of disaster is a clear winner every time.

www.google.co.uk/search?q=chromax+golf+balls+uk&oq=cromax+golf&aqs=chrome.2.69i57j0l5.10039j0j7&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=119&ie=UTF-8

http://chromaxgolf.com/

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https://www.stampyourballs.com/index.html

@stampyourballs

BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP

The tyranny of golf is its ability to tantalise and tease in the same time it takes you to knock out a quick swing.  That’ll be 1.2 seconds.  Its visceral grip never loosens, strangling the bowel and the brain and rendering the incompetent more incompetent and the clever more vexed. In no time at all, you can go from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again, swing by swing.  I am delighted to report that, while my game has remained consistently bad, there has been a tenfold improvement in my ability to trot out a litany of swear words I never knew I knew.  Not only that but I have managed to escalate this verbal deluge into a positive rosary of misanthropy that I can expound in a minimum of five languages and at the drop of a golf ball.  This Jekyll and Hyde behaviour only manifests itself as soon as I stand on the first tee.  It's the only bit of my play I don't need to spend hours practising.  All other times, I am a modicum of sensible and informed behaviour.

I have even worked out course management.  Of course this has nothing to do with my golfing skills and my ability to read the terrain in order to pull off an incredible shot.  No, it solely relates to which slurry of swear words I should be reigning down on a particular piece of course at any given moment.  The art of swearing I have mapped beautifully while the art of course management remains as strange and as foreign as the uses of a chocolate teapot.

I am also happy to report that I am never alone in these nefarious salutations.  A life lesson I learnt a long time ago stands me in good stead here: always surround yourself with people who uphold you.  (This always works well if you’ve had an-over-the-top-drinking sesh.) Joining me in my golfing outings are two ladies of a certain age who, between them, could turn the air blue.  In their professional roles, I am happy to report, they are jewels of sense and sensibility, the very epitome of a Jane Austen hero, models of angelic perfection that only dissolve into dissolute mode when they join me on the first tee.  I have not yet worked out if this is contagious behaviour and who is the prototype but my mother did warn me about the effects of one bad apple in the barrel.  However, as I have no wish to be the named singleton “bad apple” leading the rest south on the Highway to Hell (nothing like a bit of AC/DC; http://www.acdc.com/us/home ) or lose any of my companions because they are rotten to the core, I remain ignorant in my bliss and enjoy the freedom of expression we have fallen in to.  Laissez faire.  For the record, it should be noted that I always did the opposite to what my mother told me.  I’ve been a rebel black sheep for ever such a long time and, once you’re dyed in the wool, it’s a tad hard to turn back.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, standing on the first tee, swearing.  But not all things on the golf course are a negative.  On the plus side and by way of a free beauty treatment, I can recommend a good burn-up in a bunker.  Don’t hit the ball out first time.  It is by far the better method to have at least five strikes at the ball using the Seve Balesteros method of breaking your wrists for a straight shower of sand deluging up your body from ankles to eyebrows or, if you prefer a full facial, make sure you execute this method facing into a strong wind.  The effects are not immediately apparent but, later on in the shower, you will discover the full results of a glowing youthful skin and the benefits of a free exfoliation. 

Reader, you have to understand I discovered this treatment quite by accident.  Stuck in the morass of yet another bunker on the eighteen-hole journey, I had tried every trick in the golfers’ bible to dig myself out of a deep greenside sand hole.  I went deeper and sandblasted my entire body in the process. During my post-round ablutions, I discovered that scrubbing the thin veneer of sand - glued to every conceivable crevasse of my body by the sweat of my endeavours - did my skin a favour.

I offer this by way of advice for every lady golfer and any of the males who consider themselves city-slicker metrosexuals when not on the golf course.

Of course, if you don’t like any of the above advice, here’s another way to achieve the desired effect  https://vine.co/v/Oa3hXxFOMhd

It should be noted, however, that the procedure is a tad painful but a glass of vino in hand and a modicum of swearing to boot is allowed in the power shower – just to help you slice through the experience.

Meanwhile, improvements in my golfing career seem to come and go faster than the minute-by-minute changes in the Irish weather and I would dearly love to start a serious piece with the title “Oh yes! I think I’ve arrived” but that’s a long way off.  Meanwhile, it might be a wiser move to follow someone who is seriously trying to grow his game
http://hackertosinglefigures.co.uk/playing-better-golf/

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES???

Trick-Shot-Jodie was on the loose and playing to the gallery.  I’m being kind in using that phrase.  You see, she could never be accused of playing to the fairway, or the tee, or the green – or anything remotely resembling a game of standard golf as you would recognise it.  Perhaps she was playing some perverse form of lay-ups but as I didn’t know or recognise that style of play at this point of my incipient golfing career, my best conclusion was that she was playing to the gallery.  And she certainly stopped players in their tracks and made them gasp – but I really wouldn’t like to be drawn on the quality of admiration that was being expressed in those gasps.  Shock and awe might be the closer ingredients but as it was mainly men who were nonplussed by her antics and we being female, we were easily able to discount their contributions and play on.

Being polite by nature, I did compliment her on her winsome ways with her whack attack on the ball.  At one stage, instead of responding to her usual request for the rescue club, I passed her a spade and shovel.  I felt the ground would be safer if she attacked with these implements.  And she certainly outplayed any strong male that day: the size of her pitch marks and divots were way beyond anything I’d ever seen.  In fact, if golf was scored on size and number of divots taken, Messrs Watson, Kaymer and McIlroy could hang up their golfing gear.  And her pitch marks were something else.  At one point so deep was the indentation, I thought we were heading for Australia.  Concave does not do those marks any justice.

Straight lines did not feature much in her maverick style of play either. She had a definite drive towards crisscrossing zigzags and a star-studded supernatural attraction for trees.  In truth, one stand of trees looked like they’d been attacked by a colony of beavers on a dam building expedition.  For the uninitiated, we don’t have much in the way of beavers in the UK and those we have are only fossils.  This was the crucial point at which I quit yelling ‘fore’ and capitulated into that well-worn cant of ‘timber’.  Trick-Shot-Jodie could certainly show those lumberjacks a thing or two about felling trees.  Our recent Storm St Jude had a lesser deleterious effect on the tree population of Seckford than the effervescent Jodie onslaught.

And things didn’t get any better.  Picture this: we’re back in the trees – for the umpteenth time.  TSJ’s ball is now lying on rough ground, snug between well-spaced trees.  Easy peasy pitching wedge shot between the trees, back onto the fairway.  Or so it would seem.  But TSJ only operates by Murphy’s Law which clearly states that if it can go wrong, it will go wrong.  And it did.  By now, I’d become chief adviser and caddy.  I handed her the necessary iron.  Reader, I really can’t tell you what happened next.  Jodie has this swing that is faster than anything even Dustin Johnson can produce.  Suffice it to say, she swung, she didn’t miss the trees, she did end up on the fairway - but the ricochet landed her a good thirty yards further back towards tee off than our original starting point.  I cried.  Big, big, BIG fat tears of laughter.  My abs worked harder that game then any gym session I’ve ever undertaken.

Now if you’ve ever had the burning need to prove Einstein’s Theory of Relativity – and I have to confess it’s not high on my shopping list – then this was the moment, the coup de grace.  Her standard of play made me look ‘professional’ – relatively speaking that is.  I have a feeling in my erudite waters though that it will be long and many a day before I look that good again.  Perhaps if I have a shot at believing in miracles or take up praying to St Jude.......  He is, after all, the patron saint of hopeless cases and golfers.  Hmmm!  He might have met his match in Jodie and me.  But here’s hoping.

@McIlroyRory

@bubbawatson

@MKaymer59

@DJohnsonPGA

@SeckfordGC 

Golfblogspot.co.uk

NEANDERTHAL MAN

Every golf course has one.  I don’t quite know how to describe him when I first meet him but I know a girl who can.  So I phone #1 girlfriend who has not the slightest interest in golf and can therefore be relied upon to give an unbiased opinion.  And she did not disappoint.  She’s the sort of girlfriend I could never fall out with – she knows too much about me.  I call her Tree (you got it: she’s strong, reliable, grounded); she calls me The Mad Irish One (don’t even bother working it out).  It works as friendships go.

I explain my predicament.  “It’s simple,” she says, “that’s Neanderthal Man you’ve just met.”  And I can’t argue with that conclusion: Tree is so right.  But let me tell you what happened.

Innocent me had rolled up at a local driving range to fit in an extra practice session.  It’s called Millers Barn.  (http://www.millersbarngolf.co.uk/)  I’m happily installed in my stall, shelling out shots, swishing through my swings and minding my own business.  Except nothing’s going right.  Or left.  Or straight.  In fact, nothing’s going anywhere, except to an early demise straight in front of my feet.  Behind me is Lone Ranger, merrily working away on his clubs and shooting off a shot about every ten minutes or so.  He’s slow (very) but he’s precise, pedantic, owns a pundit’s pitch, assimilated to a perfect execution, fabulous finish and to-die-for distance.  I know it’s happening because there’s that satisfying twack! only ever heard when the sweet spot meets the ball at exactly the right point.  The sort of shot that makes you want to spit or turn green with envy.  As I don’t condone the Tiger habit and I’m Irish – so that makes me green enough already – I pause and stand silently back, gaping in admiration.  And he was in a place where he wanted to show off his prowess.  I should have rolled up to practise with a placard that read “Don’t pick on me, mate.  I’ve already finished off petrolhead Alfa Romeo Guiliaetta back in 1975 and it took him a long time to recover” but I hadn’t had the foresight to do this and, anyway, it would have impeded my swing – which, if we remember, was in dire straits right at this moment in time.

Suddenly, Mr Neanderthal Man took it upon himself to instruct me: no discussion, no preamble, no “would you like a bit of help unravelling what’s going wrong?” sort of intro.  In the flash of an eye, I was corralled in a lesson.  And being told with assertion what I should be doing.  Ahem! I don’t like to split hairs here but I didn’t ask him, nor am I the sort of hapless, helpless female who swoons at the slightest mishap.  It’s just not how my DNA is wired, coming as I do from a long line of ancient Brehons who knew a thing or two about female warrior queens.  Girls, if you ever want to know what early emancipated woman meant, read the life story of Queen Maeve @ http://www.queenmaeve.org/  Boys, if you want to find out about this wild and wanton woman... no, don’t do it.  I can’t be held responsible.  Enough.  Back to the impromptu golf lesson.

Problem: what do you do if the instructions you’re now being handed by NM are radically different than those from ebullient and kind instructor Simon?  Mmmmh...!  That’s when I phone Girlfriend #1.  Having named and shamed him, she then proceeds to tell me what to do: utilise my blood pressure cuff; wrap tightly round Neanderthal’s neck; inflate to max; leave in situ till he has turned blue.  I remind her we are both nurses and hang up.  She may be correct in her synopsis but inciting me to murder and mayhem is not a viable answer.  And she has led me astray too many times before.  We nurses have a duty to care – even when the golfing chips are down.

Next, I text Vintage Golfer for advice.  You must have gathered by now that VG is reliable, patient and pragmatic in all answers to my regular inane enquiries.  Imagine my horror when back came the inflammatory reply “tell him to .... ...”.  Maybe my dials are smashed because I’m a convent school product who was raised on good manners and politeness but, VG, I can’t say THAT to anyone.  For years, I have been aware of the negative influence of Lá Fée Verte, the Leprechauns and a cracking drop of Jameson Rarest Reserve * in my life: their combined forces have occasionally led me up the garden path and made me do things I never wanted to do but now it looked like my sangfroid Vintage Golfer had joined ranks with them.  As I couldn’t figure out whether he’d suddenly migrated to his emotional side or simply lost the plot, I did the only sensible thing a girl-golfer-in-distress can do – by return text, I send him Father O’Field’s number and tell him to have his Confession heard.  I expect it will be a long job.  Sorry, Father O’Field.  Mae culpa.  Mae culpa.

Meanwhile, I’m still at a loss as to how to deal with Neanderthal Man.  The solution to my current problem now demanded a whole new level of counterintuitive alchemy.  Like any good golfer, I looked in the bag.  And I found a diamond-calibre club to swing – in the shape of my long time gym buddy Sam.  She and I have exercised a host of muscles as we train together but none more so than those muscles we’ve exercised through laughter.  It’s our best medicine.  “At least she’ll help me find the hot spot of humour in all this,” I mused as I fired up her number.  I explain my predicament.  Phone-a-friend was bang on form.  She uttered one word and hung up.  I did exactly as she said because I knew she knew I could do it well.  When the chips are down, you don’t need a manual, just the right advice. 

“Run” was all she said.

·      

h      *http://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/P-8025.aspx

Confession time

Dear Brian Hartman,

I need to say something.  In fact, I feel I should really begin this piece by saying “Dear Father Brian Hartman”.  It’s not that I believe you are really a confessor but, you see, I need to make a confession.  I truly should begin then by saying “Bless me, Father Brian, for I have sinned”.

It’s been long and many a year since my last confession and my need to do so at this moment in time began with the article you wrote “What was your best shot ever?” ( http://www.golfshadow.com/best-shot-ever.htm )  That set me on the road to reflecting and, in particular, to reflecting on my golfing career to date.

First, I need to tell you that reflection is usually a positive experience for most people.  For me though, it’s not.  It usually produces the worst in me.  I’m not really sure why but, in a world where evidence-based statements are all the rage and random personal statements mean nowt, I offer you by way of excuse my Foley genes.  They were a perverse lot those Foleys and the name means “pirate” if you’re southern Anglicised or “descended from a foal” if you’re northern Anglicised.  I’m Irish – so how does that work?  Make your choice, Brian, it’s a free world, but if you understand these tenets about me – over which I have no control – then you have me down to a t.  Or should that be tee in this case?

I have broken the rules of golf and sinned against my fellow man or, not to put too fine a point on it, against two men in particular.

It all began on the day Catherine and I made our first sally out on the golf course.  Simon finally gave me his blessing.  What a moment of exuberance that was!  In a faith- confirming moment, I recognised all those novenas Sister Philomena-of-the-Thinly-Veiled-Threats made me pray when I was the younger side of little were finally paying off.  That long ago investment was finally returning a dividend: I was going to play my first game.  Simon also found me the perfect playing partner.  Actually we found each other during one of his lessons, in the throes of laughter at one of our many stupefying ‘trick’ shots.  Simon promptly stopped the lesson and paired us instantly.  We have never looked back. And that, dear Father, is where it all went wrong.

First of all, let me introduce Catherine.  Fellow profession.  Fellow black sense of humour.  Fellow victim of laughter.  As nurses, we do epitomise that saying that laughter really is the best medicine and, if you’re going to be a health care professional, you may as well practise what you preach.  We do. In abundance.  By the bucket load.

Now, let me introduce the victims.  Vintage Golfer had warned me that it was good manners to wave through the faster players.  I’m all up for good manners and I see no point in owning a shed-load of manners if you’re not prepared to trot them out regularly for an airing.  And use them I did, but after I had stood by and waved through a tsunami of fourballs and half-a-football stadium of pairs, I got fed up and decided the victims were the last two I was letting through for a while.

Now, Father Brian, you must understand: I bear no ill will against these two men.  There was neither a venial or mortal sin in the offing or shades of malice aforethought floating in my errant brain.  Indeed, the converse is true.  I love mankind in general and even a few people in particular. And it works - so I have no intention of changing this attitude in the foreseeable future.  I did not single them out.  They were victims of time and space - or maybe the theory of chaos if you believe in its existence – but my butterfly brain finds that a tad too hard to fathom.

Catherine and I have our own inimitable style of play.  It involves close encounters with trees, playing off the fairway as much as can conceivably be achieved, out of bounds is a definite must have, and topping the ball at every opportunity is also desirable.  Given we have so much to contend with in any one shot, it is not surprising that distance and direction are not high on our agenda.  And that is where I was led down the path to perdition like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Golf Gods 1 and 2 strolled by, passing with a nod of the head and polite words, driving big, soaring shots bang on target and looking to the entire world in control of their game.  They had a certain je ne sais quoi air that floated behind them like a ship’s wake in passing.  Regal.  Untouchable.  (Actually Father Brian, I lie; I know exactly what that air was.  It’s called ‘Pride in the name of golf’ and they wore it like an expensive aftershave.  I am tempted to call Bono, suggest he re-work his original ‘Pride in the name of love’ song and see if he can come up with a better result second time out.  Martin Luther King did not deserve such a poor tribute replete with an overload of vowel sounds, a dearth of consonants and a tribute that only works if you don’t understand a single word of English.  http://www.u2.com/index/home  But I digress...).  In truth, I was green round the gills with envy and Catherine was quailing in an unhealthy cyanosis.

They polished off that green like true professionals.  None of your common- fault, three-putt malarkey here.  All that remained was the usual re-setting of the hole for the next player (that’s us!) and they would be off to pick up their three- o’clock-parked trolleys just off the right of the green and a minimalist stroll to the head of the next tee.  Precision engineering golfers.

I blush as I recount the next step.

I turned to Catherine for guidance.  “Shall I,” I said.  Without hesitation, she nodded in the affirmative.  And, of course, she was right: there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of me pulling off a shot like that.  The distance was at least 130yds, uphill, and into an oncoming light wind.

But pull it off I did, landing it kerplunk!onto the right of the green.  And that was the end of precision engineering golfers. 

I have never seen two grown men head for the hills at such a pace, hunkered down on their haunches as they ran.    Yep! Brian, that’s when I pulled off my best shot, splintering their golfing aftershave in a thousand fragmented fragrances and served myself with a reminder that even the stupid can occasionally wear je ne sais quoi!

I didn’t have the time to shout ‘fore’ before play but I did manage to decant an obscenity I never knew I knew.  I stood frozen in that pose-y swing thing I like to think looks good on me.  It was only Catherine’s snorts of laughter - and the ensuing dyspnoea as she struggled to regain her breath between - that brought me to my senses.  She was turning blue again but for an entirely different reason.

“How did that happen?” I questioned in amazement.

“You’ve just shot your best shot EVER,” she gasped

For once, I had nothing to say.

I tried desperately to compose myself but it clearly wasn’t working.  By the time I got myself to the green, my victims were preparing to tee off.  I did apologise, Brian my confessor, I did - but only after umpteen attempts to straighten out the laughter lines and wipe the tears that were freely coursing down my cheeks.  Catherine was no help. She was still lying on the ground, comatose with laughter.  I am forever thankful that these two golfing gods were bestowed with a sense of humour similar to ours and eventually went on their merry way in fine fettle and with their resplendent aftershave fully restored.  Long may they be precision engineers.

So now and before I relieve you of your temporary pastoral role, do you think I should be forgiven for my faux pas?  After all, I could have caused a serious injury. 

Before I sign out and you answer, the question has to be asked: would I do it again in the same circumstances?

In a heartbeat!

After all, I can safely say “Catherine led me astray”.

Lesson one continues... part 2

Half way through Lesson 1, I made an announcement.

“I’ve set myself a target for this session,” I expounded.  “By the end of this lesson I will know if golf’s for me.  The number of balls I want to hit will tell me if I have a future.”

Nothing more was said and the lesson continued in litany form: posture, grip, stance, knee flex, head steady, back swing, maintain even tempo, contact, follow through.  And this I repeated time after time under calm tutelage, landing my shots either straight on or drawing them off to left of field.  Nothing spectacular, you understand, but at least I was hitting them.  That ‘Baggy Trousers’ Madness refrain slipped its way happily across my mind and I was chillin’ into ‘Oh what fun we had’ mode when Simon ruined it all by mentioning two words: ‘memory’ and ‘muscle’.  It seems I have to build it.  Trouble is, I can’t remember in what order:  memory muscle, muscle memory – who knows? Now this is the sort of concept that totally flat-spins my brain and, mid lesson, my memory mapping suddenly takes on a life of its own and distracts me.  Instead of concentrating on the new litany, I get busy working out the permutations and combinations of ‘muscle’ and ‘memory’.  My shots immediately renege, take on strange angles, and the rangy rooks that were quietly snoozing to right of field rose raucously in a riot of resonating protest as they were disturbed by my altered delivery.  Later, I ask Guru Vintage Golfer’s advice.  He was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. “Get paper and pencil and write it down,” he texted back.  But he singularly failed to tell me in what order I should pen those two words!  I’ve sacked GVG.  Girls, when you need a classic answer, do not rely on a vintage man.

Strolling back to the clubhouse at the end of the lesson, Simon was busy re-visiting the holes in my performance while I was busy re-visiting the holes in my make-up.  I was slowly slipping back into my contented everyday world when he dropped the second bombshell. 

“Your golf swing needs to be as automatic as you’re driving” was all he said but that was enough to make the hairs rise on the back of my neck: me and driving, we don’t get on – well, at least not automatically.  I’ve been at it a long time but it’s always been something of a work of art.  It began when I was learning to drive.  Busy roundabout, East London.  L-plate and I are doing just fine, giving way politely to traffic from the right. Along comes Alfa Romeo Male – a special breed of petrol-head who, back then, drove a Giulietta Spider – and decided to hoot loud and long at my cautious driving.  Never a good move in my book.  I exit my car with a hard-backed copy of the ‘Highway Code’ in hand and dumped it, with a “read that at your leisure” opprobrium comment attached, straight into his lap.  It was a long time before he regained sufficient composure from that painful encounter to engage his clutch.  Then there was the curious incident with my driving examiner.  Slap bang in the middle of my driving test, he decides to cancel my indicator when I’m pulling out from stationary.  That started the arguments and we argued about everything after that – speed, distance, parking, procedures, world politics, the price of maize and everything else under the sun.  I passed my test first time though and Mr Examiner is still wandering round Snaresbrook, London, gibbering away in gobbledy-gook.  My heart dictates I drive an Audi A5; my finances dictate otherwise.......but I drive my Vauxhall Agila with Audi attitude.  German Audi attitude to be precise.  If you’ve ever driven German autobahns, you’ll know exactly what I mean: let no more be said lest I upset my German family.  Vorsprung durch Technik. http://www.audi.co.uk/

My most recent escapade involved the curious incident of fifty escaping golf balls.  In my haste to get to Lesson 5 (Yes, I’ve got that far and Simon is still sane), I accidentally tipped them out of the boot of my car. If you’re going to pull off a stunt like that, you might as well do it on a busy highway in prime-time traffic.  I did - beautifully and ingenuously, and to my utter embarrassment.  Apart from the expected honking of horns and screeching of brakes, I saw gestures that even Jeremy, James and Richard would find hard to interpret and those Top Gear presenters are a pretty hardened bunch.  By the way, Jeremy, James and Richard, I’m a bit of a Top Gear ladette and I’m up for a test drive with The Stig. (Team Top Gear: https://www.facebook.com/topgear?fref=ts ) 
So you see I’ve had trouble with my driving for a long, long time and now it looked like I was heading for the same relationship with golf. Mmmmh!  I suspect an interesting, exciting, rollercoaster ride ahead. 

“You hit thirty balls.  What was your target?”  Simon asked as we parted.

“ONE,” I laughed in reply.  Now it was my turn to feel like a peahen on steroids and I knew exactly where fairweather golfing son got that gene from.

DRESSING THE PART - PART 2

Now you have to understand my colour is blue.  Royal blue to be pedantic.  I’ve had my colours done.  First time I met Cousin Sondra, she came right out with the “what’s your colour?” number.  Cousin Sondra is American, retired fashion guru, well-dressed, well-travelled, well-spoken, well-versed in colour analysis and...well, we get on like a house on fire.  Fellow eccentric soul, I love her.  Not having a clue what she was talking about and feeling like the country girl on her first trip to the big city, I rallied with a “it constantly changes” retort.  “Not possible” was the answer and, despite my carefully culled counterpoint of “it’s Boots No.7 Beige when I’m in make-up mode, it’s Celtic freckles when I’m not, it’s ruddy when I’m outdoors in strong winds, and broiled lobster when I’m at the gym”, she was having none of it.  Sondra sailed off without further ado but returned next morning with a chart in hand.  I was diagnosed as ‘royal blue’.  “From now on you wear only clothes with these undertones” was my charge.  I wasn’t sure about blue but once she added ‘royal’ I was sold.  But today I was going shopping and I was intent on red.  Yes, red, that’s what I said.

SIMPLY THE BEST MAN U

Red.  I am nothing if not well-read.  How else would I know about the psychology of colours?  And red’s a winner every time.  Hence I’m a Man U supporter – oh! and the fact that golfing son insists I follow  There’s enough research out there to verify this fact so why wear royal blue when you want to win?  No contest.  Red it is then and I just hope I don’t bump into Cousin Sondra on the golf course.  I’m probably safe for a while yet: she lives in California and I in Essex, England.  But there are always those massive family reunions we hold regularly back in Ireland.......hmmmm...... that includes the Meehan Family Golf Tournament.  There could be trouble ahead!  But Cousin Sondra was currently the least of my worries.  I had just drawn up the definitive list of sports shops covering three towns, two counties and a long weekend.  Ready and primed for the big shop, I set off.  A lady with a mission in red could not fail.

But what a disappointment that turned out to be.

Go-faster striped gym gear – check.

You –can’t keep-up-with-me running apparel – check.

Bend-it-like-Beckham football kit – check.

Murray mood tennis clothes – check.

Knock –‘em-dead boxing garb – check.

It was all there in glorious Technicolor and when I inquired excitedly of a shop assistant where the golfing department was, he led me to a dark recess in the underbelly of the shop and left me there.  I groped around in a tiny enclave of tops and trousers in shades of bereavement black, muddy brown, pastel pinks - so pale they looked liked they needed resuscitation (I’m a nurse, don’t argue) - and deathly insipid greys.  To crown it all, not a thing remotely resembling decent ladies wear was visible.  And as for red.......

After a weekend of devoted shopping, I returned home empty-handed, several (sterling) pounds lighter for having drunk a gallon of coffee at my favourite chic coffee shop and several (avoirdupois) pounds heavier for having eaten a shed-load of their pecan yum yums (to die for!).  I was not winning.

That’s when strike two came from Vintage Golfer who now appeared in the form of fashion guru.  A week let loose at The Open, Muirfield, a wee dram of Bunnahabhain 25 year old and a chat with a sales rep had armed VG with the site of my dreams.  Clothes for pars and bars.  Take it as read, I was in love. KaBoom! Fireworks trousers, matching cap and red polo shirt bought in a flash of cash.  Kitted and fitted.  (A big shout-out to VG.  I think I will introduce him to Cousin Sondra.)

MY TROUSERS KA-BOOM!

Now all I needed was an honest opinion.  If you want one of those, ask middle child, oldest daughter.  She’s the sound bite queen, media buff and general geek in my family.  So if you’re feeling sensitive about a particular issue, don’t go there unless you can handle the answer.  For instance, girls, the “does my bum look big in this?” question is not one you’d casually trot out in her presence or, sensitive new man, unless you hold a burning desire to know if your middle age spread is fast turning into a muffin-top-mound, don’t ask because she’ll tell you.  She speaks at conferences.  Do you think she can’t handle fetching questions from lone inquirers?  I took my entire life in my hands when I posed for her in my new golfing gear and asked “Whaddya think?”  In an instant, she coined the phrase I’ve come to love, “Mum, that outfit - it’s so bad it’s good.”  Stamped with the royal and awesome seal of daughter approval, I headed off for Lesson One.

Royal and Awesome http://www.royalandawesome.co.uk/

Simply the best http://www.manutd.com/Splash-Page.aspx

Out of this world http://www.bunnahabhain.com/our-whisky/25-year-old