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Monday, 23 February 2015

THE FUTURE OF GOLF: a (serious) reflection


There is a rash of suggestions out there that bears witness to the impending demise in golf.  And indeed there is a downturn in the numbers of new participants being recruited to the game in the current times.  The past few years have seen the number of young players in Britain halved while the USA, the new and untraditional “home” of golf, has seen half a million regular players desert the game.  Fingers point continuously at slow play being the culprit.  The argument goes that if we somehow jump on the bandwagon of speeding things up, then all will be hunky-dory in the land of fairways and greens.  Instead of the normal eighteen holes taking over six hours to play, it will be done and dusted in half the time, and the young, the old, the great and even the not-so-keen will flock onto the tee boxes in their millions.

The debate was further fuelled by Rory McIlory’s comment in recent weeks, when asked by the BBC about the fall-off in players, and his response gave wings to this notion of slow play being the slayer of golf.  McIlroy was quick to point out that slow play needed to be eliminated at grassroots only, while players of his calibre should not be required, or penalised, for such play.  

In my humble opinion and as a newcomer and beginner in this great game, the argument does not hold up on many fronts.  Little does McIlroy seem to recognise that slow play, with its painstaking pre-shot routines, focused study of greens and the steady reconnoitring of terrain for course management, comes as a top down model.  Slow play is beamed out to every home on the planet through the media of TV.  We are all familiar with the edited cut, the pan of the camera from the popular player to the more obscure one when the popular player is in contemplative mode.  Anyone who has walked a tournament in full swing will know that it is precisely the interaction of variable speed and pause that causes the contrast, and therefore the drama of golf.  It is a head game that relies on the minute counterbalancing of concentration, nerve and conscious self doubt that renders a shot effective or a fail.  Slow play is therefore an integral part of the game and is necessary at amateur and professional levels in equal proportions.

Most sports are built on acceleration of thought, grasp of opportunity, speed and competitiveness but golf stands alone in that it is a game of focus, played one shot at a time, and is executed in such a manner as to render it almost pedantic as it is played primarily against the course itself and ultimately against the player and their capacity to control their clubs and ball.  It is also unique in that it is perhaps the only sport in which the ball is played away from the player.  Ball sports played against an opponent will trigger the natural fight or flight response which engenders, anatomically and physiologically, an adrenaline surge – and hence the capacity for rapid response – while golf requires the opposite: the calming of the monkey brain.  Its very nature is based on a downturn in response, a calming manner and a slower style of play.  These responses will vary from player to player.

Reducing game time by nearly half will not necessarily make a round of golf any more attractive to those in demanding and time-consuming jobs.  It is far easier to indulge in many more activities for relatively short periods of time on a daily basis – like tennis, football, running or cycling – and see greater results than the time required to grow a game of golf.  Golf is by its nature slow but that very essence is what makes it attractive, and to seek to speed it up – the latest fad being in football golf or increasing the hole size to pizza-sized holes – seems to rob the game of its greatest assets: being outdoors for long periods of time, employing the mind to work out the changing facets required in course management, the balancing of club against terrain and each other, the maintenance and endurance of mind and body in all elements, remaining calm and relaxed under pressure to produce and perform consistently, and the social triumph of a day well spent.  In our time-strapped society bent on instant gratification and rewards, the long traditions of golf hold small attraction to a younger audience.  Speeding up slow play will not solve these problems or increase its appeal.  There is so much more that needs to be addressed – like outdated dress codes, a myriad of stupid, anarchic rules, a misogynist outlook from a male-dominated sport, and the poor image perpetually propounded by the Royal & Ancient.

While sauce for the goose should equal sauce for the gander at all levels of play, it is naïve for anybody to believe that eliminating slow play has any solid evidence of increased recruitment of numbers or, indeed, that it is the only cause of the game’s loss of appeal.  I’ve read a million reasons why the game of golf is dying – and it is; I could add a million more of my own – and I might; but they are all down to personal opinions.  Not one of them is research-based and that’s because nil-to-very-little research has been done.  Without research, and the subsequent formulation of a concrete approach from that research, the best response we can hope for is hotch-potch solutions in isolated pockets of the world.  Am I the only idiot on the block who’s figured out that if golf dies, a whole lot of jobs might go?  It’s an industry, right?  I cannot fathom why independent studies, much less meta-analysis, have not been carried out.  I work in a world whose very existence depends on these sorts of reports and analyses.  There are many stakeholders and businesses with overt and vested interests in the business side of golf that could easily head up research, postulate solutions, pilot the ideas, and carry best solutions into reality.  But it’s not happening.  It’s looking like everyone is out to prove Charles Darwins’ theory all over again – survival of the fittest.

Here are a few articles to whet your appetite on the state of play today:












Sunday, 8 February 2015

ON THE ORIGINS OF MAMIL

Crank up the volume.  Shout it from the rooftops.  Let it be known far and wide.  I’m in love.  His name is Vassos and he’s Greek.  He could be a Greek god but I have no idea.  He might even be dressed in an eclectic fusion of classic-on-contemporary, flamboyant-on-elegant metrosexual man-gear or a simple brown paper bag but I wouldn’t know.  You see, I’ve never met him.  But love him I do.  Vassos hangs out on The Chris Evans Breakfast Show and delivers daily potent pint-sized pieces that keep me bang up to date with the shenanigans of the sporting world.  I listen to him most mornings but the other morning, he grabbed me by the ears and I haven’t been the same since.  Perhaps I never will.

Every so often he comes up with a gem of an idea, a germ of a theory that takes my breath away and the other day was no exception.  Not only do I play golf, I digest vast tracts of theory, articles, forums, videos, vlogs, blogs and reviews like they’re going out of fashion.  I have enough golfing information-flow in my head to sink the Titanic all over again.

I’ve read a million reasons why the game of golf is dying – and it is; I could add a million more of my own – and I might; but they are all down to personal opinions.  Not one of them is research-based and that’s because nil-to-very-little research has been done.  Without research, and the subsequent formulation of a concrete approach from that research, the best response we can hope for is hotch-potch solutions in isolated pockets of the world.  Am I the only idiot on the block who’s figured out that if golf dies, a whole lot of jobs might go?  It’s an industry, right?  I cannot fathom why independent studies, much less meta analysis, have not been carried out.  There are many stakeholders and companies with overt and vested interests in the business side of golf that could easily head up research, postulate solutions, pilot the ideas, and carry best solutions into reality.  But it’s not happening.  It’s looking like everyone is out to prove Charles Darwins’ theory all over again – survival of the fittest.  Bring it on.

Now back to Vassos and time to get on with my hot topic.

Vassos found a man to blame for the decline in golf.  He pedalled out Bradley Wiggins (Yes, Sir) and then added the rider MAMIL (for the phonologists among us, sounds like mammal).  While I was doing my best impression of an Incredible Me Minion “WHaaat?” while on the traffic crawl to work, his dulcet tones continued to explain that Middle Aged Man in Lycra (Yes, MAMIL) has abandoned the weekend five hour golf outing for a much quicker two hour fix of serotonin and nor-adrenaline – with a massive cardiovascular workout thrown in for free.  Back home, smug and satisfied, he’s now ready to spend the day with family.  And this all started around the time Wiggo was making his Lycra-clad wheeling form famous.  It seems middle-aged golfing man is easily influenced, abandoning the fairways for the lure of polyester, spandex, and a saddle.  Who’d have thought?  And nobody has come close since to putting the brakes on this Diaspora.

But I have news for you, Vassos.  There’s one that got left behind. How should I best describe him?  More V-Tub than V-Dub.  On his own.  Practising his driving skills and approaches.  Not bothering to putt on the temporary greens.  Out on the course on a Sunday morning.  Not an inch of spandex.  Or a yard of lycra.

Like the polite golfers we are, we wave him through and he plonks his ball to the left but level with mine, just off the green.  Note the fact that he’s arrived in this lie after two shots on a par 5 while I’ve arrived there by way of a million laughs, a game of hide and seek in the gorse bushes, and by some anarchic miracle that results in me landing at this spot with the same ball in my possession that I started off the tee box with.  I’m feeling proud.  It’s a Titleist Pro V1. 

He passes by.  We exchange polite, meaningless words and he heads for his ball, except – wait a minute - he scoops up mine.  I was still reminiscing on the V-Dub moment and was deep in Francophile mode so I had to use all my reserves not to shout “Faux play”.  The phonologists among you will have spotted immediately why this would not be appropriate.  Me, I’m saying nothing more. 

But I couldn’t let him run away with the Lamborghini Veneno of golf balls and all the blood, sweat and tears I had endured to shift that little white ball up the course to that particular lie.  Once I got over the shock of non-MAMIL skirting away with my property, I yelled in my best Cockney parlance “Oi you, I think you’ll find that mine”. He dropped it pronto and took off like a scalded cat.

Well, Vassos, he’s one I haven’t seen for a while and I am rather hoping he has pursued your theory and has become new MAMIL man.  Should he ever steal my ball again, I shall be deploying a not-so-nice French technical invention.  It’s called the guillotine.  















Tuesday, 27 January 2015

Lesson One – part 1


Driving to my date with destiny.  In a swirling ferment. And I remember nothing of that journey so, Mr White-Van-Man, if I cut you up or, Mr Porsche-Carrera-GT, if I undertook you via the inside lane while you Sunday-drove as a middle-lane hogger, I make no apology.  Nor do I intend to wind you up.  Not this time anyway.  I am not in the physical journey, you understand, just cruising on auto pilot.  But while I’m here, may I suggest you try moving over?  Some of us have important dates.  I’m going to have a golf lesson. And why own a young man’s car if you drive it like a tractor?  OMG, why am I learning golf?  Who got me into this?  What am I doing?  That’s the sort of ferment I’m in... 
I live and die a thousand emotions on that drive.  I send up a silent prayer for the periodontal specialist who diligently ensures the health of my oral cavity.  If I’d had a set of falsies, they would have vacated my head by now.  Yes, my teeth are chattering uncontrollably and have taken on a life of their own.  Was it too late to invest in PolyGrip – just in case my natural teeth decided to move out?

I keep my hands firmly on the wheel.  I do not want them acting out any non-verbal anthems while I am girl-racing.  I need to keep the wrist action for later.  I don’t really want to girl race but the adrenaline surge, the rattling teeth, the nerves have all kicked in and there’s no stopping me.  Onwards, upwards and to Simon, Seckford, Suffolk.
Seckford Hall Hotel & Restaurant(Seckford Hall and Golf Course, Suffolk, UK)

Simon.  What’s to say about Simon?  He’s complex.  He does jokes back to back - with excellent timing.  He knows how to make a good pun follow hot on the heels of a double entendre and is not afraid to trot them out.  He wears a funny hat.  He needs to upgrade that - but first he needs a lesson in looking soooooooo good it’s bad.  I see a window of opportunity here to help him – or maybe I should just give him middle child, oldest daughter’s phone number.  After an encounter with her, his hat will soon be up to par.  Or should that be up to scratch?  (Really getting the lingo now!)

He’s also very adept at dealing with gibbering females with chattering teeth.  My peridontist could learn a trick or two from him.  Maybe I should give Simon his number too.
And he has a keen eye for golfing fashion.  My outfit was not wasted on him.  “Did he need Royal and Awesome’s phone number?” I asked.  No, he already had it but he was surprised I wasn’t a Loudmouth.  I fixed him with a sanguine stare.  Me, a Loudmouth??

Moving swiftly on and before I could say anything about a certain John Daly, he was off, fifty balls in a basket and a 7 iron in hand.  Without any more preamble, Lesson One was underway - with a swing.  And the swing was all mine.  Posture, grip, stance, knee flex, head steady, back swing, maintain even tempo, contact, follow through.  I recognize a good litany when I hear one.  It’s the Irish Catholic legacy in me.  It has become my new mantra. 

The lesson was going well until Simon decided to demonstrate certain points of the swing.  “Mirror me,” he said.  And that’s when I remembered Lee.  Lee Westwood? Nooh!  Trevino?  Nope!  Janzen?  Slattery?  Not even close.  Lee Watts, personal trainer and fitness instructor, ex-para.  That’s who.

Lee had uttered those same immortal words one fateful night in kettlebell class.  “Mirror me.  It’s easy, Anne.”  He rattled out those words as he swung his kettlebell with ease in a sweeping figure-of-eight through his legs.  I did as requested with gusto – until I lost my grip and the kettlebell swept from my hands in a mayhem moment of madness and headed on a trajectory for Lee.  All his moments of paratrooper training were as naught in that instant.  Ten kilograms of metal landing on your metatarsals is no mean feat and there can be only one outcome.  Lee’s currently in plaster and gives me a wide berth – and who can blame him?  I looked at Simon who was innocent of all the pandemonium I can cause and I felt a cold terror seize my innards.  I had no idea what fate might befall him if I swung my swing like that loose kettlebell.  I sent up a silent prayer to the golfing gods that they would not let the golfing faeries loose on my first lesson.  I needed to preserve Simon if I was ever to progress in golf.  He’s the one for me.

I’m guessing it will be a little while yet before I can execute a perfect swing like this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHneHZeD4d8  but, Greg Greksa, I’m working on it.

And in case you want an alternative golf clothing site, try http://uk.loudmouthgolf.com/

As for the excellent Lee Watts, this is the place to be http://www.lwfitness4all.co.uk/

Meanwhile, here endeth the lesson on the perils of kettlebells.  Be back with Part 2 soon.



 



Thursday, 15 January 2015

FIFTY SHADES OF PLAY



I’m worried about our Sal.  I don’t like to put it out there large but she’s not been the same since she returned from a Saga 50+ sojourn in some exotic location.  Far be it from me to put two and two together and come up with an answer of fifty but, since her zingful return from Lanzarote, she has developed a notable penchant for grey.  That’s right, she’s gone all grey on us.

Back she bounded on the golf course, full of zip and zest and promptly issued us with belated Christmas presents.  We were given a hat each. Warm, cosy, over the ears, woolly and grey. They are even bedecked with jazzy jewels.  Beautiful.

As I think I’m a bit of a gem myself and I know a diamond geezer vintage golfer (VG) to boot, I asked him about pale grey on me.  I wasn’t really sure it suited my colours and Cousin Sondra had gone to great lengths to ensure my harmonious colours were up to par on every occasion.  His reply left me in no doubt: he was sure I’d look great in grey every time – even classy!  Maybe he should have gone to SpecSavers first, or had a word with Sondra about my need for blue, but a compliment is a compliment and I decided to bask in it and worry about his eyesight and fashion sense later.  Grey it is then.

I have no objection to wearing a great hat.  In fact, I have a sterling collection of them but only one silly head to wear them on.  I mentioned this once to VG and he was profuse in his swift reply of agreement.  I am sure this is not gallant behaviour but, as he’s recently had a milestone birthday and is beginning to show the tetchiness that comes with age, I have decided to ignore these idiosyncrasies.  I was out on the course with my bejewelled grey hat on display.  All should have been well at this point but then I discovered Sally’s agenda or, to be precise, her shopping list.

Right about now it’s time to introduce you to the late, great James Foley.  Long before Stephen Hawking, Jimmy devised the Theory of Everything and, like the outcome of the great professor’s theory, it really amounted to nothing at all.  Sorry, dad, to diss you in so public a manner but at least I have bracketed you with the best brains of our times.  Be grateful.  My dad coached me well in thin edges and wedges.  Of course, he never played golf or held a club in his hand. Rather, his discourse was all about that old chestnut “the thin edge of the wedge” and Jimmy had a prophetic feeling that his youngest daughter might develop a penchant for finding thin edged wedges and following them to crises point.  He wasn’t far wrong there but he had my best interests at heart, bless his cotton socks…and so he taught me well on how to spot a thin edged wedge at a hundred and fifty yards.  It’s just a pity I can’t apply the same distance to my shots.

And that’s exactly what Sally’s gifted hats were.  Sally was bent on arming us with all things grey: socks, scarves, gloves, fleeces, trousers – and I could only marvel at her generosity in providing all this girl-power grey.  I was up for it until I spotted “Lingerie”.  Nothing wrong with a bit of grey underwear, you might say, and I would be the first to applaud a sliver of silver- grey raw silk next to my skin – though I have to confess it’s mainly Bridget Jones’ black “Sensibles” in deepest winter – but come the summer of scorching skorts, I’m up for it.  It was then I remembered the label on the hats: brand F&F from You-Know-Where.  Oh yes, every little helps!

And that “Every little helps” has a fifty shades of grey underwear range.  Now, call me a snob if you will but before you do, pay a visit to your nearest Tesco and tell me that that fifty shades range wasn’t designed by an Ann Summers dropout designer on crack cocaine with a fetish for faux leather and tawdry satin.  I shudder at the thoughts.

It’s time I had a word with Gill.  We need to head up a Rebuttal Committee; otherwise, our butts might be clad in fifty shades of F&F.  I think a set of protocols, pathways and the obligatory flow chart might keep the saga of Sally contained for a while - till the winter sales are over.  Meanwhile, there is one shade of grey Gill and I will need to indulge in while we’re on the committee.  A few fingers of Grey Goose won’t go amiss.









Tuesday, 13 January 2015

AWARD TIME :D

My best award in 2014:
http://www.bunkersparadise.com/43415/bp-community-best-of-the-year-awards-twitter-facebook-and-instagram/4/
In fact, it was my only one but I'm very proud of it.  Thank you, Bunkers Paradise.

Friday, 2 January 2015

SERIOUSLY...???!!!

I was having one of those rare moments of seriousness.  I don’t have them often and it’s not that I haven’t tried - for the Sisters of Mirthless Mirth and Countless Hymns insisted that every Catholic girl should be graceful, seen but never heard.  Serious was the order of the day back then.  Well, I got the right name for this sort of malarkey.  Anne means “full of grace” in Hebrew.  As I’m neither an Israelite or speak the lingo, I’m unsure as to how that might transfer into England-residing, Irish passport-holder me.  They did a good job in knocking the joy out of me, and I will applaud them for their twelve-year persistence, but I am thrilled to report they never succeeded and I’ve been making up for lost time ever since.  I laugh a lot and focus on catholic with a small “c”, applying the universal adage that “he who laughs last laughs longest” – and possibly loudest.

Well, there I was, having a serious moment and up I pipe with my best observation about golf.
“It takes about ninety-three thoughts to make a swing happen but the pundits say you should have no more than three in your head when you address the ball”, say I.  “Which three thoughts would you choose?” 
We were out on the course, Gill and I, beating out our brand of golf and brandishing our thoughts to anyone who’d listen, except no one was, apart from us to each other.  I was expecting a reasoned discourse that would take us through the long travail that constitutes hole 2, par 5 or in my case hole 2, par 75.   

But in the blink of an eye, and in a conversation stopper swifter than a golf swing, back came Gill’s riposte.
“As many as three thoughts, really?  How can men possibly play golf then?”

In an instant I was gone, backwards, into a bush, my moment of seriousness dissipating on the afternoon air like chaff in the wind.  Laughter had resumed and I capitulated in its presence.  I could see this girl was not currently on the same mental train tracks as me but she had gone mainline in her reply and my question now looked like it was sitting on the local village siding. 

I wish I could tell you what happened to Gill but the next five minutes saw me buffered in the bushes, gasping for air, wiping the biggest, fattest tears of laughter from my eyes and rescuing myself from the embrace of the native furze.  Only an astute, observant and confident woman could have made such a wisecrack as that and I realised in an instant that I was never going to get a sensible answer to this question from Gill.

Naturally, I would have turned to Sally at this point to inquire of her input but that girl was missing again, this time not on a culture-vulture jolly, but on a pre-Christmas laze-up in Lanzarote topping up her suntan while the rest of us slogged through the lassitudes of the British winter, a wet Waldringfield golf course and an Everest orgy of Christmas gift and food shopping. 

Now I really do have a problem with unloading my mind.  A routine is not a routine if you have to think about it and, trust me, I can think for Britain, the Channel Islands and the entire Commonwealth – but only when I’m faced with a golf ball and have a club in my hand.  The remainder of my time is devoid of all thought.

Take for instance that week before Christmas.  Tee off and orientate myself, check.  Need to check how many are actually coming to Christmas dinner.  Found my marker, check.  One last present to wrap.  Stance one-tenth to front of ball, nine-tenths behind, check. Where is that last present hidden? Must remember to buy some tinfoil. Drop right shoulder, check.  No, that’s already on the shopping list. Gift tags, check.  Stick my bottom out, straight back, check.  Ruby or tawny port with the cheeseboard?  Visualise my shot, check.  Should I have Stilton or Roquefort?  Backswing avoiding collapsing arms, check.  Nice ten-year-old tawny on offer in Tesco, check.  Think I’ll plumb for that one.  Swing through, check.  Every little helps, huh ?  Random though, keep in check.  Left arm straight, check. Am I playing golf or writing my “Must-do Christmas List”, don’t know, check.  Have I got gift tags?  Said that, check.  Keep your head down, you daft cow, no need to check that.  I wonder if the Christmas pudding will taste all right?  Must check when I get home.  Move from the hips. Follow through, check.  Head down, head down, check.  Extend those arms, check.  Oh my golly gosh, I’ve forgotten to post the overseas Christmas cards, urgent check.  Ham cooked in coca cola or honey, haven’t a clue?  And finish, check.  I’m done and I haven’t a clue where the ball is either.  That’s the foreshortened version I’ve given you to suffer through.   Doesn’t matter what time of year it is, I can do this endless head gibberish ad nauseam. 

Have to hand it to Sam Snead though: he nailed it when he said, “Thinking instead of acting is the number one golf disease”. The course of true golf never did run smooth and in my case it seems I’m in chronic disease mode with regular exacerbations of acute-on-chronic flare-ups to spice it up.  I need to park my rush hour train of thoughts at the station and ease into a chilled action routine. So it seems, on best advice, my choices are: become a man, take the escape route to Lanzarote or have a full frontal lobotomy.  Hobson, choice, or lack thereof, are all terms that spring to mind.

Perhaps I could put it on my pressie list for the big fat man in the white beard and red suit to deliver on Christmas morn.  Now we’re talking turkey!

‘Tis the season to be jolly.  I’m off to deck my halls and ring the New Year changes with a swing.  Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, everyone!







Monday, 8 December 2014

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 

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