It must be something
to do with Vintage Golfer for it is beginning to look like anyone who knows him
ends up in “the wrong trousers”. I
wasn’t the only one (see my pants of an adventure with VG at foleysmith555.blogspot.co.uk). There’s his good mate - named after an
English king who managed to get himself buried under a council car park and
caused no end of expense getting himself dug up again only to be reinterred (I’m
a taxpayer: what was that about?) - who shall forever more and amen be known by
us for his style in trousers.
This Richard is very
much alive and wears cargo pants - or at least that’s the nearest description I
could pin to those trousers if I were blind or had my sight dimmed by the
bedevilment of cataracts. As I’m
neither and I pride myself on having a good eye for fashion, I have to confess I’m
hard pressed to find a synonym that comes close to capturing the essence that
constitutes Richard’s trousers. To
be more accurate, it looks like he’s wearing two golf bags, one on each leg,
and, like any self-respecting golf bag, they have oodles of pockets. Trillions, in fact, and as Richard
doesn’t push a trolley round, I have to assume he stuffs his clubs in his trouser
pockets.
I think he borrowed the
idea from journalist Vincent Graff (I’m a fan, Vincent), who beat Ryanair at
their own baggage game with the aid of a Royal Robbins Field Guide Vest aimed
at huntsmen. Seventeen pockets, myriad
zips, strips of Velcro, the kitchen sink later, and he is on board a flight
without the hassle of the shape-shifting baggage allowance getting in the
way. Don’t quote me because I
haven’t had this confirmed straight from the horse’s mouth but this pony of an
idea seems to be the germ for Richard’s baggy trousers. It’s a prototype. Well done, Richard. Patent it and I’ll head up the sales
team. I am already working on a
snazzy pitch: “The Legend of Golf Bag Leggings: what every golfer needs to take
in his stride”.
We have had close
encounters with those cargo pants on several occasions. In the distance and with that entire
diatribe about keeping your head down while taking shots, it is difficult to
identify who is out there. Not so
with Richard. He’s a man
outstanding on the golf course in more ways than one.
“Is that Richard” Gill
or I will enquire.
“Not sure but those
are Richard’s trousers” comes the evergreen reply.
“It must be Richard
then” we opine in opulent harmony.
Woe betides if the man
should ever change his garb. We
could be barking up the wrong tree there.
Gill and I like to do a good character assassination from time to time when
we are bored or just being plain silly and it is always good manners to
identify the right character before you make a start. Richard could never duck under our radar with those trews.
And so it came to
pass, in biblical parlance and on the occasion of some sort of a club “man
medal”, that we found ourselves on the tenth hole of our home golf course. The peerless pants, Richard and his
practice session are behind us on the ninth. He and VG have an important match coming up so he’s alone
and focused. He is busy reading
the green while I am busy hitting a pretty naff drive. It hadn’t gone any distance and is
sitting in a dreadful lie, and my swearing genie was having a party in my head. Gill, meanwhile, has hit a crackin’
shot and is heading off into the great blue beyond.
There is only one
thing to do when you shoot a duff shot: follow it with the most brilliant shot
you can muster. And I did. Rescue club was the rescue remedy and I
hit an excellent shot out of the rough on a left-to-right trajectory that saw
the ball coast up nicely onto the skirts of the seventeenth tee. Not any old tee this one – it was the
medal tee. For those of you who
read this piffle for the superlative standard of English and don’t have a clue how
sacred the medal tee is to men, let me explain: think football aficionado wallowing
on Wembley turf, the Pope having a lip-smacking tarmac snack at the airport,
the Queen romping with her corgis (I said corgis, not Philip…) or for me, an
audience with the late great Mahatma Ghandi. Too sacrosanct to mess with on even the most innocent level.
I am so stunned that I missed my
first opportunity to shout “fore right”. Yup, it was a corker!
Yes, yes, I know there
are tech terms for this sort of golf ball trajectory. And for you golfers who are grinding your way through this
diatribe with gritted teeth, I know you know your slices from your hooks, your
fades from your draws but knowing all these terms doesn’t make you a great
golfer. How would you feel if you
visited me in my world and I insisted you speak only of your plicae circulares
or haustra? In fact, don’t mention those words to me in clinic. I’m cardiac and those words are much
lower down in the grand scale of your anatomy and physiology. Draw, fade, plicae circulares or
haustra: they are all flatulence and wind to me.
There is only one proper
thing to do in times like these: die of embarrassment and since I’m very au
fait with this sentiment, that’s exactly what I do. I would like to recount that I walked confidently down the
fairway to proffer my apologies to those magnificent men set for tee-off on the
seventeenth’s medal spot. I
didn’t. It was a sort of over arm
crawl along the ground, and possibly the only time I’ve kept my head down in
true golfing fashion. I looked
like a belly-rubbing-along-the-ground dog returning submissively to his
master’s voice after sojourning away in an indulgent spree of
disobedience. In short, I was
mortified.
Meanwhile, Gill -
still busy laughing at my debacle - took her shot. Laughing, swings and shots do not hang well together in the
game of golf. This is about the
only thing I can tell you with real assurance from my experience with this
gargantuan game. Oh yes, she hit
her ball with a dollop of backspin straight on to the green – except it wasn’t
the tenth green. Now, if she had been really clever, she could have executed a
shot like Rory McIlroy when he literally dropped a shot in a spectator’s
pocket. Heaven knows Richard of
the Cargo Pants has enough spare pockets but, instead, she plopped the ball down,
slap-bang, beside Richard who was busy minding his own business on the ninth green. Give that man his due, he responded
with stalwart dignity in the face of Gill’s unexpected right-to-left shot across the fairway. Straight-laced, straight-faced and straightaway,
Richard magiced-up a large white cotton handkerchief from the bowels of his pantalon
– with a sort of Tommy Cooperesque “just like that” flourish - and held it
aloft, flag-like, in the light breeze.
Shakespeare once said, “Brevity is the soul of wit” and I’m with Will
all the way on this one, but I now suspect Richard is a Bard fan too for he
uttered only two sterling words as Gill wended her way sheepishly forward to
retrieve her errant ball. “I surrender”
was his tongue-in-cheek comment.
There is now chaos on
the course. I have arrested medal
play on the seventeenth (cardinal sin), Gill has stopped play on the ninth
(mortal sin), and there isn’t anything happening on our tenth (to-hell-and-beyond
sin), as we are too busy apologising and swooning with embarrassment. I think this sort of behaviour might
cause a furrow or three with the “Frown on Slow Play” brigade but the only
wrinkles on everyone’s foreheads that notable afternoon were those of laughter. Respect to those medal men who made me
feel my game was a million dollars and a high five to Baggy Trousers who
gallantly dealt with Gill and her wrong-green gaffe. Golf legends were they or, in Richard’s case, golf leg-ends.
And now, Richard, a few
words in your shell-like.
Those cargoes are
worth their freight in gold, flying as they are in the face of fashion. A distinctive logo for your go-low
rounds, you might say, but should you abandon those, erm, pants, I have it on
good authority that HM Paras would be grateful for the yardage. In these harsh days of economic
cutbacks, they could literally be flying by the seat of your pants. What a profound and patriotic thought! Keep it in mind when you retire those pantalon. There might yet be a knighthood in them.
But a word of
warning. White cotton
handkerchiefs, sunny days, and a lack of protective headgear from those UV
waves seem to bring out the worst in men of a certain age. I’ve been on too many English beaches
and seen that four-cornered, knotted-hanky look being aired. It’s not elegant. If I ever find you’ve substituted your
golf cap for this odious look, there will be trouble. Let me put it to you gently like this: I’m out of oestrogen,
I’ve got a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.
Do I hear you say “Why
the French title?” Indulge me
here. I keep the French flag
flying in case Victor Dubuisson might swing by and follow my blog. It hasn’t happened aujourd’hui, nor is
it likely to happen au demain but je vis dans l’espoir. Oh yes, Richard, I live in hope!
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