27 - Lucky And The Klingon Putter...

After our round at Bootle the other week Lucky decided his putter needed to go. Apparently the mallet that came with his set is too heavy meaning that it is his putter’s fault he hilariously hit the ball so hard on the green that he had to chip back on. It wasn’t his lack of talent, no way; it was all down to that evil putter.

Being Lucky he selected his next putter with care. He jotted down a wish list, decided on a budget, did thorough research including trying a variety of different makes and models at his local Pro Shop before committing to his next purchase. Who am I kidding? He did an online quiz and then hotfooted it to eBay to see how little he could pay for it!

He did the quiz on the Odyssey website which asked him all kinds of questions about what type of Odyssey putter he preferred then Odyssey used all their years of experience in the putter business to suggest what they thought would be best for him. Unsurprisingly they suggested an Odyssey. They reckoned an Odyssey Sabretooth (right) would suit him down to the ground…or an Odyssey White Hot XG…or an Odyssey Dual Force 2. Those guys are good.

In the end he settled on the Odyssey Sabretooth as it was their first suggestion. It had nothing to do with it looking like a Klingon Battlecruiser at all and any suggestions of the type would be wide of the mark. Lucky is not one to be swayed by cosmetic flippantly, he would never, for instance, buy a set of clubs because the woods that come with them “look like a Beluga whale”!

To be fair, it does get a lot of decent reviews in the mags and it does looks great (an important factor I’m sure all you serious players out there will agree). We are going to try and play a round again soon so I’ll have a few putts with it to see if it really makes that much difference. Actually I want a Titleist Scotty Cameron beast but it cost £200 fucking quid…for a putter! Not happening. Why is it that Titleist does so many objects of desire?

26 - Swanky Clubs, Cheap Hybrids And The RSPCA...

So, now I’m back into the game (and I’ve just been paid), I thought I would indulge in my new favourite pastime of drooling over golf porn (not the bunker babes (click here to check out what I’m talking about, it isn’t pictures of Eva Braun either, wrong sort of bunker) or the likes of Natalie Gulbis or Michelle Wie – do a search), I mean clubs ‘n shit.

I started flicking through the reviewed section of Golf Whine Monthly to see what was shiny and new and the answer was a fucking lot. Ping have got some weird aluminous green shafted monsters called Rapture V2 that look the absolute dogs bollocks. Apparently they are even good for people with high handicaps…I wonder what they are like for useless clowns like me though? Hmmm, might investigate.

Talking of clubs that are good for people with high handicaps, TaylorMade have whipped up a set of clubs called Burner Plus which are apparently “ultra, ultra forgiving”. The magazine goes on to say “Game improvers should strongly consider these new irons”. Well that is me sold! The only problem is, they are TaylorMade and I would look and even bigger bellend than I already do if I step up to the tee with a set of swanky clubs only to start hacking the shit out of the fairway/rough/bunker with them.

Anyway, that kit is off my radar until I’m good enough to be classed as shit (as opposed to fucking useless – the rating I have at the minute. I need to whip up a table showing my progress from where I started all the way up to my ultimate aim of average). I need to improve before I can justify the expenditure of a set of clubs which is why I’m experimenting with the likes of my £10 56* wedge. This brings me on to my latest purchase, a £10 Howson Comp Plus Hybrid Wood.

I’ve had a couple of cracks on the Driving Range with other people’s Hybrids and they felt good but I didn’t have enough time to practice to see if they were worth blowing cash on. I saw that little Howson on offer for just a tenner and thought it was a bit of a no-brainer buying it. When it arrives I’m going to give it a full test at the range to see if it will improve my game. Reading magazines and websites it seems these clubs are a revelation so I’m hopeful they can help me.

My golf bag has more mongrels in it than the local RSPCA dog’s home. The bulk of my bats are Callaway Steel Head irons and Big Bertha woods but there is also the Knife 56* wedge, the Howson Hybrid and the recently acquired Hippo John ‘Arthur’ Daly driver. Add to this a rogue Dunlop 6 iron that I noticed the other day and it is fair to say it is literally a mixed TaylorMade bag (which has a Nike umbrella and a Maxfli towel attached to it incidentally). I’m such a brand whore.

Richie has lectured me in the past about buying random stuff. “Will it improve your game?” is the chant from him. “Fuck that, does it look good?” is my retort. He has given up now and just tells me to buy whatever I like as he knows he will inherit it once I chuck the towel in and give up. At this rate he is going to have some utter shite in his bag!!!

25 - Operation: Snide Round...

To see if I was going to continue playing golf in the future I gave myself two tests to pass. Firstly, I had to have a good session at the driving range with Richie (including reducing my horrible slice, getting the balls to go in the general direction I wanted them to and, most importantly, to enjoy myself). Secondly, I decided to play a round at Kirkby on my own to see if I could do it without any help or encouragement.

I had fallen out of love with the sport in the last few weeks. I had been putting the effort in, practicing hard, devoting time and money to the game yet was getting nowhere fast. To be honest, the only part of golf I was enjoying was writing this blog and drooling over golf porn (monster drivers with weights you could customise, expensive wedges, putters that look like ships from a Star Trek film etc).

If things didn’t go well over the next two days then I was going to jack the lot in or at least drastically reduce the amount of time I was devoting to it.

Yesterday I went to Aintree with Richie and had a great session to be honest. I even won the blue net challenge! He tweaked my game slightly (back to what I was doing properly a few weeks ago ironically) and I was back on track. All I needed was a decent round at Kirkby and there would be no more hissy fits and no more posts on here filled with tales of woe and sorrow, I could get back to trying to improve and hopefully enjoying the game again.

I wanted to play in peace so I arrived at the course at 7:10 confident that I would be the only person there. Was I shite. The car park was a quarter full and there was a queue to tee off. Haven’t this lot got anything better to do than be playing golf on a beautiful, crisp autumnal morning? Hmmm, just read that back and think I know the answer!

History will show that I always slice my first shot on a course and today was no different. Knowing that I would slice the ball I compensated by aiming at the river which runs the length of the first hole to the left. I may have compensated a little too much though as my training, allied to the Hippo John Daly driver Paul from work lent me helped the ball sail perilously close to the water, eventually rolling inches from the rough on the left of the fairway.

A decent, if a little short, second shot put me within chipping distance of the green. Time to bring out the 56* wedge and get the control on the green I needed. After today’s round I know I need to practice my chipping…a lot. I managed to top the ball which resulted in the ball fizzing across the green and into the trees at the back of the hole. A second chip was required. A third was needed seconds later as the ball shot back to where it had originally come from. Fuck this, I decided to use the putter from the fairway, it is easier. Minutes later I had a six on the first par four – a par in Rob’s Scoring.

This was pretty much the pattern for the entire round. Decent tee shot (majorly happy with this by the way), half decent iron to the edge of the green (sometimes in the rough though but you can’t have everything) then hacking the ball all over the bastard place with my wedge or 9 iron (pain in the arse) before two or three putting (not happy with this, my putting has gone down hill I reckon).

Playing your second shot from the fairway makes a big difference. The last time I played Kirkby and all through the round at Bootle my second shot was usually an exercise in trying to get the ball back into a playable position rather than going for the green.

I was impressed with the Hippo club Paul lent me. I was able to hit the ball relatively far and reasonably straight which helped me attack the green with my second shot. I was so impressed with the wood that I sent Paul an email via my BlackBerry on the 13th green to say that he wasn’t getting it back and asking him how much he wanted for it. “A 20 spot” came the reply. Job done, it now lives in my bag permanently!

Talking of the 13th, it is a big dog leg right par five that I struggled with last time. With the help of the ‘Arthur’ (John Daly – Arthur Daly…geddit?) and two good iron shots I was on the green in 3. I three putted to give me a score of 6 or a birdie in Rob’s Scoring! Get in. Oh and I managed not to completely fuck up any of the son-of-a-bitch par 3’s either! At this rate I’ll crack the magical sub-100 mark in the next 12 months I reckon…

I continued my way around the course and even played through four auld fella’s who seemed to spend as much time arguing as they did playing! As I was passing them they were discussing a ball one of them had found in the rough, I swear (and so did they – a lot) the conversation went some thing like this:

“Have you found your ball yet because there is one here? What are you playing?”
“Golf.”
“I know you are playing golf! What fucking ball are you using?!”
“Well why did you ask what I was playing then soft arse?”
“I meant what ball are you playing.”
“Well why didn’t you fucking say that?”
“For fuck sake. What ball are you playing?”
“A white one.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“Eh? Oh, does it say Terry on it?”
“No, nothing. Hang on John, who the fuck is Terry?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well why would your ball have Terry on it?”
“You never know!”
“Are you trying to fucking wind me up?”

I played through, laughing my head off. It was good to see that it wasn’t just me who got frustrated with the game. I heard them effing and blinding on a fairway later on in the round and in the car park on the way out. After all the abuse they dished out to each other and all the ripping the last thing they did was arrange another match next week. The power of golf is strong!

After just over three hours I eventually trundled up to the 18th tee and was knackered to be honest. One last swing of Arthur left me perfectly positioned on the fairway, a cracking iron shot put me in chipping distance of the green, after a fluffed chip I eventually got the ball about 20 feet from the pin. With some people looking on from the putting green behind the 18th dancefloor I stroked my best putt of the day to finish on a five – a birdie in Rob’s Scoring!

I wanted to strut off the course in a “do you know who I am” kinda way but my legs had gone so I shuffled over to the benches behind the first tee and sat down for 10 minutes while I worked out my score. I did the front 9 in 55 and the back in 52 giving me 107 in total.

I started this post by stating that I had given myself two tests to pass. Last night’s driving range session was passed with flying colours and after knocking a massive 12 shots off my first score around Kirkby it is fair to say Operation: Snide Round was an overwhelming success too. Maybe I’ll give this golf lark another bash!!!

24 - Reports Of My Golfing Demise May Have Been Greatly Exaggerated...

Your sweary golf blog entertainment might continue after all. I had threatened to jack it all in if tonight’s session at the torture chamber, I mean, driving range went badly. I’m pleased to say that tonight went well…almost as well as it ever has. I blame Richie entirely for this.

While I practiced Richie stood behind me with his judging eyes, checking, ready to point out where I was going wrong. So it was inevitable that I hit six (it is always in groups of six remember) balls fairly far and fairly straight. I was embarrassed and a little bit pissed off. I had specifically asked Richie to come down to sort all my problems yet they had mysteriously disappeared.

Saying that, Richie still spotted a couple of things that he thought needed working on. In order to control my swing he suggested that I grip the club down the shaft a little. Apparently reducing the swing will mean that I’m not as wild and should have more control over the ball which in turn should stop the hideous newbie slice. Fuck me it worked! It worked so well I got adventurous.

Anyone who has ever played golf will tell you that the driver is the hardest club to use accurately which is why, on my two trips to a golf course so far, I’ve avoided it like the plague on the whole. Tonight my mate Paul from work (not Lucky Paul, another Paul) decided he would pop down to Aintree for a bit of a whack. He brought with him a present in the form of a metal shafted, John Daly signature, Hippo driver. He said I should use it to see if it would help my slice.

With Richie’s advice ringing in my ears and Paul’s wood gripped firmly in my hands (oo-er) I let rip and…the ball flew straight and true. For a change it went a properly decent distance too. Was it a fluke I asked myself? Was it fuck came the answer as I hit more and more balls acceptably straight and satisfyingly long. I switched to my 3 wood to see if I could replicate the magic and was more than pleasantly surprised to see I could.

Next it was on to my 5 iron. I wanted to show to Richie that although I might be a ham fisted gimp when it came to driving, I was doing alright with my irons. I hit my first shot so bad that he was laughing at me when I turned around. What a mate he is!!! The problem was easy to spot and quick to fix. I was standing too close to the ball and not keeping my head down.

Adjustments made I was back on course. The yellow basket challenge was on again and I failed once more. I got the same words of encouragement from Richie that I usually get from Alan though; I was getting close enough to be on the green and in a good position to two putt. I was back to being proud of my little ‘Fivey’!

Time for the wedge and the blue basket challenge. The game is simple; there is a blue basket around 50 yards away and we each in turn try and chip into it. So far I have played this game with Alan and Lucky and lost on both occasions. This time, armed with my 56* wedge, I was determined to win. After a few shots I realised that the wedge was just too lofty, the ball was flying higher than further.

I switched to Lucky’s 9 iron and, in the immortal words of Stifler, it was “on like Donkey Kong”. I was there or thereabouts from the start so it was only a matter of time before I hit the jackpot. A few balls later I was laughing like a loon as I bingoed the target. Get the fuck in! I won, job done, game over. Richie went one better though by doing a ‘Crossbar Challenge’ (watch Soccer AM on Sky) on the basket…the bastard.

With the prize won I moved to a spare bay, relaxed and fired a few balls off. It is amazing how much easier this game is when you have no pressure on you. I hit lots of creamy shots into the crisp Aintree night with a smug smirk on my face. I finished off with two 3 wood drives that were the best of the night. It is good to be the king.

23 - This Is A Low...

As you may have noticed after reading the last few posts on this blog, I’m not the ray of sunshine I usually am. It would be fair to say I’m about as happy as a bulimic with no fingers. The reason is simple; I’m not getting any better at golf despite putting a lot of effort in. I practice three times a week and get to a course every couple of weeks yet I’m still utter rubbish.

If I’m being honest I think I have actually regressed. When I first started I could hit the ball far but without any real accuracy, now, after all those hours of practice, all the tips and all the help, I can’t hit it as far as I could originally and I’m just as inaccurate. A lose/lose situation I’m sure you’ll all agree.

A few weeks ago, although I was what’s know in the trade as ‘shit’ I was enjoying it. Now I’m finding it more and more difficult to motivate myself to bother any more. The driving range used to be a place where I could practice and have a bit of fun, now it is starting to feel like a torture chamber where every screwed up shot hits me like a nail in the knackers administered by a particularly sinister jailer.

The last straw came the other night when even my 5 iron refused to play ball. I went through about 40 balls without hitting one straight (the vast majority not making it past the scrub in front of the bays before the grass starts if I’m being honest). Earlier my ‘fixed’ 3 wood went on the blink as the auld slice returned and then I couldn’t chip the ball into a basket just 50 yards away with a club just designed to chip the ball just 50 yards.

Even Alan’s words of encouragement couldn’t lift me and before you could say “you’ve just wasted an hour of your life and £4 because you couldn’t hit a cows arse with a banjo let alone the ball properly” I had wasted an hour of my life and £4 because I couldn’t hit a cows arse with a banjo let alone the ball properly. It was my worse performance at Aintree by some margin.

I’m meeting Richie at the range tonight and he has promised to give me some tips. I have a sneaky plan for Friday too but if these two sessions don’t go well I might have to face the fact that golf just isn’t for me and jack it in as a bad job. This is a low.

22 - Close Your Legs You Big Hussy...

After the good session at the range the other night I was eager to get back down there. I had started hitting my 3 wood properly by simply moving my left foot back half an inch (I know it shouldn’t work but it just does) and wanted to see if I could replicate the magic with my Big Bertha. I couldn’t. This game is shit.

I cannot understand how something that works on one club can fail so spectacularly on another. I was properly trying too. I was giving it so much thought and putting so much effort in that when it didn’t work I wanted to smash my driver to bits. I was on the verge of giving up in a girly huff, especially as the 13-year-old kid in the next bay was pinging the ball high, straight and handsome – the little shit – instead I moved on to my 5 iron, he wouldn’t let me down.

Sure enough auld ‘Fivey’ was as reliable as a Volkswagen. Time after time I got a good connection and more often than not the ball went where I wanted it to go. Again me and Alan had a showdown trying to get into the yellow basket thing 150 yards away. Again Alan won but only on a technicality as he had a Sally Gunnell that bounced into the net…the cheat!!!

Right, on to the cheap wedge that I’m trialling to see if I can justify buying a Vokey. Instead of doing any real practicing I was experimenting with the little fella, seeing how the ball flew differently when I hit it in different ways. Not too productive but I did get another little tip which worked a treat when Alan explained that unlike a prostitute I should have my legs closed to make it easier to get to the hole.

Closing your stance, keeping your arms straight and gently pushing through the ball will make it fly straight and true…if you hit it correctly that is. Currently I have an annoying tendency to top the ball making it fly low and far – pretty much the exact opposite to what I want it to do.

According to Richie I should give the driving range a miss, get on a field and hit the balls until I’m making contact with them consistently. After that I can start hitting the ball harder to work out what I can do with the club. I desperately want the wedge to work out as I know, from my two rounds, how important it is to get close to the pin when on the course…oh and then I can justify buying that lovely, lovely Vokey!

21 - [RANT] The Fucking Ryder Cup...

I knew having an interest in the Ryder Cup would mean that Europe would lose, it was a cert. I have watched the competition over the last few years with a bit of interest but nothing too serious so this year, now that it actually matters to me, I could have bet a kidney on the fact that Team Gluttony & Arrogance would triumph over the brave, brave Europeans.

As predicted, it was a whoop and holla-a-thon from the unwashed masses that did their best to ruin my enjoyment of the tournament. I went on (at length) about that lot in another post but they exceeded even my expectations. “In the hole!”, “Bo USA!”, “Bomb Eye-ran” and other shite for three fucking days…utter, utter bellends. But the players were no better.

What is the deal with that bloaty headed fucker, Lil Kim? I saw him have a ‘mare, get saved by a peach of a shot from Phil Mickelson (the exception to the rule when it comes to arrogant Americans from what I’ve seen of him) then he sank an easy 4 foot putt and danced across the green like he had just hit a hole in one…on a par 5…with his putter. I was so pissed off with him I turned over.

Then there was that fat tit who was riding a pretend horse down the fairway. My toes nearly curled off at the sight of an adult prancing around like a backward kid at a birthday party. All he was missing was a tiny pointy hat and cake around his mouth. Yeah, the Ryder Cup was in Kentucky where they have a famous horse race, we get it.

The difference between that shower and us is that if the Ryder Cup is held in Amsterdam in two years time for example we won’t see the likes of Ian Poulter running around butt naked, firing ping pong balls out of his arse with a big, fat spliff in his grid despite the Dutch capital being famous for hookers and drugs.

So the weekend was ruined by the American players and fans and now my week is on the ropes by what can only be described as cunts. Me and Alan went to the driving range tonight and the place was heaving. The Ryder Cup has gotten people into golf which is surely a good thing? Well no it isn’t and I’ll tell you why.

Out of the 40 or so bays at Aintree, 35 of them were filled with kids or dickheads arsing around. Now, I’m no pro but I am trying to have a go which is why it messed with my head having to wait for a free bay and then put up with all manner of tosser who tuned into Sky Sports on Saturday and now think it is hilarious to spend two hours trying to hit 100 balls.

We had three bays behind us filled with what looked like the kids from Hansen (all shoulder length blond hair and faces you wanted smash in with a house brick) whose primary aim, as far as I could see, was to scream at the top of their squeaky voices every time they managed to hit a ball. Bliss.

The two bays in front of us were being used by a group of Spaniards who tried to smack the coating off of the ball in-between chain smoking about 600 ciggies each. Actually, that is unfair, they did stop smoking to swig their lager and spout incomprehensible nonsense at each other.

We were surrounded by people you would cross the road to avoid, all brought together by the power of the Ryder Cup. They had wiped the dust off their 10 year old bats, bombed to their nearest driving range and were all merrily trying to push me over the edge by screaming their head off, smoking and drinking. Oh yeah, this lot were good for golf.

The only plus point is that they were even shitter than me so they won’t bother coming back once the novelty has worn off. Talking of not coming back, if I don’t improve soon I swear to God I’m gonna put my clubs on eBay, throw my golf clobber in the bin and jack the fucking lot in. If this site suddenly disappears you know things haven’t gone well…

20 - Half An Inch Can Make All The Difference...

I got sick of waiting for a break in the apocalyptic weather so it was off to the driving range…for a change. I met Alan there armed with my trusty, but misfiring 3 wood, my 5 iron (the blue eyed boy of the bag) and my all new 56* wedge. The wedge is a just cheap club I’m using to see if I can use and get any use out of it. If it does nothing for me I might draw my little roo on it and give it away in a blog based competition! Watch this space.

After a couple of practice swings I realised that the wedge felt a lot different to the Callaway clubs I’ve been mistreating over the last four weeks. The club felt heavy and rigid and at first I thought it was just because it was new and therefore hadn’t been broken in but on engaging my brain it was simply because it was a totally different design to the Callaway’s.

The expensive clubs use flexible graphite shafts and have computer designed cavity backs. The wedge is a lump of iron on a metal shaft but you get what you pay for I suppose, although initially I thought a tenner was too much. It wasn’t until I started using it like a wedge did it start to make sense. The quarter swing magic worked again with the ball flying high but close, perfect for those little shots around the green.

After a few more shots I decided to use the latest tip given. My mate Ste said that the best bit of advice he ever got was to use the ‘club putter’ shot around the green. Yeah, I didn’t have a fucking clue what he was on about either. Turns out that you get a high angled club when you want a sneaky chip and run but play it like a putter with stiff, straight arms pushing the ball onto the green. The idea is simple and, after trying it for five minutes, works a treat! I’m desperate to try it on a course.

With the wedge evaluation done I moved on to my beloved 5 iron. As usual she didn’t let me down with shot after shot going a reasonable distance and, more often than not, straight. It is weird but I’m starting to feel good about using certain clubs, before long I’m gonna turn up to play with four clubs in my bag.

Then it was on to the errant child that is the 3 wood. For weeks it has been my saviour on the tee but at Bootle the other day it was about as much use as a condom machine in the Vatican. Time and time again I sliced the shit out of my drives to the point where I was almost teeing of at right angles to the fairway. Time for another piece of advice from Ste.

I was explaining to him how shit I had become and he said he had the same problem. He fixed it by moving his left foot back about half an inch. Now to be honest, I thought this was the biggest load of shit I’d ever heard…right up to the point when it worked like a dream. What the fuck?

Another simple tip that has worked miracles. I line the club up with the ball, get my hands right, sort my feet out but before pulling the trigger I slide my left foot back about half an inch. Apparently this makes me hit the ball square on thus counteracting my hideous newbie slice. At first I thought it was a fluke until I hit about seven or eight straight and long with only two stray shots when I got tired.

I went to the range excited about my new wedge and come home thinking about my 3 wood. Sometimes I don’t get this game. I tell you what else I don’t get; the prices in club shops. How can Aintree Golf Course have the barefaced cheek to try and charge £8 for a fucking Sharpie marker pen? The fella behind the counter even delivered the line with a straight face, like £8 for a crappy pen was perfectly reasonable.

Needless to say I went elsewhere for it. At ASDA they were a pound each or four for £3. I should scrawl a strongly worded letter to them in colourful permanent ink suggesting they are taking the fucking piss.

As we were leaving the range Alan lent me a book called ‘The New Guide To Golf’ which he said would be useful for me as it goes through all the basics and should help me improve from clueless golf clown to unskilled municipal hacker. You have got to have a dream haven’t you?

19 - Golf Trinket...

Yesterday I had a choice. Go shopping with my better half and her mum for food or wander around JJB Sport drooling over golf porn. So I was standing there, surrounded by all manner of putters, wedges, drivers and clubs wondering again if there really is THAT much difference between the different makes and models? I can see that if you are good slight differences might help hone your game but for clowns like me does it matter?

I did finally get to see that Titleist Vokey wedge I was talking about the other week. As I thought, it is stunning (well I think so anyway). If you have seen one you will know that they have what Titleist describe as an ‘oil can finish’ which is a fancy way of saying it is like a bronze colour. As the club is used the coating starts to get worn away and the face starts to rust. This is deliberate as the rust makes the face rougher and helps the ball spin more thus giving more control. Genius. Personally I’m getting one because it looks good.

There were a couple on display in JJB, one that was brand new and one that had been swung a few times. The second one was starting to rust and looked even funkier than the pristine version. They cost £80 though which is a lot for what could end up a fashion accessory so I had to get some sensible advice.

“If you can’t hit a 9 iron properly what is the point in buying a lob wedge?” Richie’s advice wasn’t quite what I wanted to hear. He explained that I should only buy one if it is needed to improve my game and that buying one because it looks good is “fucking stupid”. Pah, what does he know?! In the end he said I could borrow his 60* wedge to see if it made any difference.

Try before you buy sounded tempting but not as tempting as the cheeky little 56* wedge I spotted on the rack. The wedge was made by a company called Knife and was available for a very reasonable £10. Even Richie was happy. Spending a tenner on a club I would discard after two weeks is a lot better than wasting £80 on a ‘golf trinket’. I was sold.

Richie said I should buy one of those golf ball tubes and spend a couple of hours on a field practicing my chipping to see if it was worth splurging on the Titleist. He even said he would give me a load of old golfy's to use and help me learn how to hit the ball properly. I must say that both Richie and Alan have been brilliant with advice and help since I took up this ridiculously difficult sport, I like to think I’m giving something back with the constant mentions in this soon to be award winning blog!!! ;)

I left JJB with a shiny new wedge, a golf ball tube and a new glove (I inherited a couple from Alan with my set but there is nothing like your own, is there?) When we got back to my better half’s mums she had a present for me in the shape of two dozen Dunlop Loco golf balls. Perfect, they went into my tube and I was ready to go. All I need now is for it to stop bastard raining.

18 - Why Is The Ryder Cup held In Viking Heaven?

I’m getting excited about The Ryder Cup. I watched the history of the competition on ESPN Classic the other night and as we speak I have got ‘How The 2004 Ryder Cup Was Won’ on Sky HD. Normally The Ryder Cup is something I have a bit of interest in but this year I can see myself setting up camp in front of my big arse telly for the entire weekend.

It was interesting to see that the original idea by Bert Ryder was for a gentleman’s competition (in the spirit of the word gentleman not just that woman aren’t allowed to play even though they aren’t coincidentally) where fair play and chivalry were as important as winning. Each year the captains try and reinforce this ethos yet it seems to fall on deaf ears as far as I can see.

Looking at the highlights of the last few competitions it became apparent that despite getting mullered by the Europeans, the Americans still had an unbearable arrogance about them. For example Jim Furyk looks like he is doing everyone a favour turning up whilst Eldrick Woods looks like he would rather be at home, counting his billions (which he probably will be this year as he hasn’t bothered his arse turning up this time).

But it isn’t just the players, it is the fans too. Every time I hear some ‘stars and bars’ clad, hick gobshite scream “get in the hole” I want to ram a sand wedge up his big, fat, yokel arse. Shut your fucking mouth, what you say makes absolutely no difference to the inanimate object that has just been pinged up the fairway or stroked across the green. Screaming barely coherent drivel isn’t going to change the direction, trajectory or power of the ball and just makes you sound like a dick.

Every putt made by a yank is greeted with the same sort of screams of ecstasy usually reserved for a 2-4-1 offer on at Pizza Hut and if they actually manage to win a point there is virtually a tickertape parade on the green. Now, I’m not saying there shouldn’t be passion but that shower take the piss in my opinion. Are they acting in a gentlemanly manner? What do you reckon?

Saying that I’ve seen a few clowns from the right of the Atlantic too. There was a bloke done up as a Pearly King with his arm around a tool dressed as a leprechaun. Although it was toe curling it did show how golf can bring people together, I mean, do you think they would be embracing each other so readily when the IRA were trying to blow up big chunks of England and our soldiers were gunning down protestors in Ireland?

This years event is held in the Viking heaven of Valhalla which strangely seems to be in America rather than Asgard (ruled over by Odin) so I expect my ears to bleed with the sound of whoops and holla’s every time a USA player moves a muscle while every miss or skewed shot from a European is cheered like the opening of a new McDonalds.

17 - Fat Kangaroo's and Mork vs The Fonz...

I mentioned in another post that I was considering including Bootle in my mini tour as part of the Rob’s Irregular Golf Society (R.I.G.S.). After my game there the other day I’ll have to have a rethink. I know that playing tougher courses will only help my game but with the credit crunch biting I can’t afford the box of new balls required to play the front nine of the fucking place.

As we were paying I remember seeing a box behind the cashiers shoulder in the Bootle clubhouse (I say clubhouse, it looked like a garage with a drinks machine in it to be honest) selling lake balls. I smirked at the thought. After playing a round I reckon they will have no shortage of stock.

If you visit, buy one of my Kangaroo marked Callaway’s, they will be worth money in the future…not because I’ll make it as a golfist but because I’ll be infamous for gunning down punters in a golf shop after slicing another drive out of bounds.

On a totally unrelated note I’ve just turned on Five US and Mork from Mork & Mindy is in Happy Days having a fight with The Fonz. Seriously, what the fuck? In the end Mork abducted The Fonz and took him to Ork. I haven’t even been drinking.

Anyway, back at the course… I’m just watching the European Tour on Sky Sports to see if I can get some tips. So far all I’ve learned is that to be good you have to be tall, skinny, blond and from Scandinavia. Seeing as I am none of those it looks like I have shit it. Where are all the fat golfers (hacking their way around municipal courses is the obvious answer).

Does being fat make it harder to be good at golf? No seriously. Is having a gut bad for your game? Is there some evidence to say that having a ‘Cocky’s Hut’ impairs your ability to strike a ball straight? Saying that, Richie is an athlete like me and he has no trouble so I must be talking out of my arse!!!

But the fact of the matter is you don’t see many fat golfers playing professionally…well there might be some but see how many of them at the Ryder Cup (see, I even know some of the big competitions and that now…I’m such a golfist).

16 - Guess who’s back, back again? Lucky’s back, tell a friend!!!

Another week, another attempt at playing on a course. As before I was hunched over, polishing my clubs the night before, getting all my clobber ready, marking my balls with a dodgy looking little kangaroo. Things were looking good; I was looking forward to having a good walk ruined.

Got in touch with Alan and Lucky to confirm they were still up for it. Lucky, ever the optimist, said that now he had committed to playing it was a cert that the heavens would open…to be honest I was half expecting to hear an appeal on Radio City from some guy called Noah asking for as much spare timber as he could get his hands on.

As it had been relatively dry over the last few days I was confident that not even Lucky’s powers of negativity could cock this up. “Alright mate, can we book a round at Kirkby for about 3 please?” “No chance lad, the fucking course is waterlogged, we’re closed” came the reply from Sweary McGeary. I then heard the unmistakable sound of skull on wood as Lucky butted the desk in pure despair on the other side of the office.

I fired off a text to Alan updating him, a few minutes later he phoned me back. After a bit of discussion we decided to try another course. The two possibilities were Bootle and Aintree, Alan was going to ring them and see what the odds of us playing today were. An hour later we had a confirmed tee time of 3:06 at Bootle. Lucky was as happy as Josef Fritzel in a cellar.

As I had the afternoon off I had plenty of time to get changed, get my kit and collect the latest crap bought off the internet. In my last rant, I mean post, I moaned about Nike not doing clobber in big enough sizes. They have struck again. I bought a Tiger Woods cap that apparently is ‘one size fits all’ because it is elasticated. Hmmm. I tried it on, it fitted but it squashes my head SO much that I’m certain Nike got the design from a piece in the London Dungeon. I swear if I kept it on for more than 10 minutes my eyes would have popped out.

I arrived at Bootle and got everything ready. Lucky was supposed to meet at the same time but come screaming into the car park 10 minutes before we were due to tee off. I was disappointed. Not as disappointed as I was minutes later when Alan phoned me to say he was still on the M57! All this waiting around was doing nothing for my nerves.

It is a weird thing playing golf when you are shit. Because it is a completely solo sport you are judged on every shot you do so the pressure to get it right can be overbearing. When other people are watching it is 10 times worse which might account for my unerring ability to slice my ball 30 feet into the rough off the first tee. Needless to say I was true to form at Bootle.

Bootle is a golf ball swallower. All in all I think I lost six Callaway Warbirds over the day, the majority on the first nine holes. The first nine fairways are skinnier than Kate Moss on a crash diet with the rough so deep that there was a load of American tourists driving around it on safari. To be honest it was too difficult for me and Lucky as we still haven’t learned to control the direction of our shots enough yet.

There weren’t many highlights for me on the first nine to be honest with the exception of hitting the flag with a little chip. Alan was playing a solid game in difficult conditions (it was blowing a gale and threatening to rain all day). Lucky was smashing some impressive drives but his putting was hilariously bad at times. At one point he hit a putt so hard that he had to chip back onto the green!

I couldn’t hit one drive straight with my 3 wood. It got so bad that I tried using the hybrid that Richie donated to me. This was worse. In the end I resorted to using my 3 iron which again was slicing but it was at least controllable. I really need to get down to the range and do some serious practice with my woods as this part of my game is so poor that it is actually putting me off playing at the minute.

We played the front nine and took a minute to refresh ourselves on the way to the 10th tee with coke and Mars Bars from the little Tuck Shop. It was a welcome injection of fluids and sugar but probably had enough calories to paralyse your average four-year-old. Thankfully, being the athletes that we are, our bodies were honed to take all these chemicals and convert them straight into fat.

We teed off on the 10th and there was a noticeable difference. The fairways on the back nine were wider but the rough was still littered with camera wielding Americans in 4x4’s. We headed down towards the green and then the heavens opened…it was like God was ringing out a giant sponge or summat. I put my waterproof jacket on and found that Dunlop were fucking liars. It is shower proof but certainly not waterproof.

I looked over the fairway and Alan had the same jacket on so was presumably getting as wet as me which is why he got his massive brolley out. There was no sign of Lucky though. Eventually I spotted him in the distance. He was on the opposite fairway having an all in wrestling match with himself and some piece of golfing equipment.

The rain got so bad that I took shelter in some trees and waited for it to dry off. Minutes later Lucky come traipsing onto the green in a full rain suit, hood up looking like a garden gnome. He went on to explain that his new umbrella literally fell to bits when he tried to open it. Only Lucky…

That rain was like a baptism for us. We felt invigorated, less conscious of our mistakes and personally I started to enjoy myself for the first time all day. Now I was relaxed I would surely get my score down? I then hit my customary 9 on a son-of-a-bitch par 3. I hate par 3’s.

After that though we all played pretty well. The lost ball count fell dramatically and there were numerous good shots from all three of us. Alan was playing right down the middle; Lucky was smashing his drives irritatingly long and, with a switch to my 3 iron, I was finally starting to take my second shots from the fairway. Alan was full of tips and advice and was keeping us focused.

Eventually we made it to the 18th tee with the light fading rapidly. As it was the final hole I decided to bring out Big Bertha and smash the piss out of the ball for shits ‘n giggles. Just to take the piss out of me my drive was straight and long. For the first time all day I was level with Alan and Lucky and on the fairway and in with a shout of hitting the green in two. My second shot was a little short of the green and my third ended up in the bunker. After doing an Adolf I eventually sank my putt to finish the round.

When we totted up the scores Alan had a respectable 92 and only one lost ball. I went around in 115 and lost six and Lucky, who was playing on a course for the first time remember, went around in 130 losing too many balls to count. It had taken us close to 5 hours and we were all fucked. At Kirkby I think I walked about 8 miles all in all, with the lost balls and terrible slices I think we were closer to 9 on Bootle.

I spoke to Lucky the next day and he was telling me his legs were so stiff that he was having trouble walking. He also said that he slept like a log and was dreaming about golf. I think it is safe to say that there is another with the bug.

15 - It’s All About Looking The Prat, I Mean Part…

After much searching I finally found a garment that no golfer should be without. As I type a Woodworm cotton slipover from the Ernie Els 2008 range is winging its way to me (in case you hadn’t worked it out a slipover is a sleeveless jumper). Next on my list is a pair of plus four kecks. I think it is important to look the part even if you can’t actually play the fucking game.

As expected the top is black. Black is rapidly becoming my trademark. I’m the Roy Orbison of amateur golf in the north Liverpool area only without the shades…or the quiff…or the voice…and I’m alive. I also splurged on a couple of caps which are obviously black and could, from a distance, look like a quiff I suppose thus making the Orbison comparison valid again.

On the subject of clobber, why don’t manufacturers like Adidas cater for the salad dodgers out there? If, as expected, darts becomes an Olympic sport then Adidas will be fucked when trying to kit out Phil ‘The Gut’ Taylor for the Team GB parade at the opening ceremony. What are they going to do, wrap him in a giant Union Jack and then stitch it up like a massive nappy?

Even Nike are uncharacteristically limited in their sizing considering they come from the country that invented gluttony. They can make a basketball shirt to fit one of those room sized grazers that get fork lifted onto the back of a flatbed lorry to appear on the Sally Jessy Springer show yet they can’t do a golf shirt that fits a podgy bloke from Liverpool, England.

You’d think, given that half of their target customers are so fat they have their own zip (post) code that they would do bigger sizes but no. Either that or I’m looking in the wrong place in which case I apologise unreservedly for using tired and frankly obvious stereotypes to describe the American massive.

I bet the reason Craig Stadler retired because Nike didn’t do a top to fit him. The poor sod was desperate for an XXXXXXL shirt but the fascists in Oregon simply wouldn’t make it. You don’t see much of John Daley anymore do you? He was last seen in ‘Sports American Soccer Yaaall’ looking for a pair of natty Adidas kecks to fit his bit fat arse but they only go up to 38. Cunts.

14 - The Curse of Lucky (Part 2)...

After the washout that was my second trip to the golf course we decided to go to the driving range so it wasn’t a complete loss. Me and Lucky got there at about 5 and started playing. A few minutes after hitting our first balls the rain stopped and the sun come blazing from behind the clouds. “Fucking typical” was Lucky’s assessment of the change in weather.

To cheer him up I told him I would teach him how to chip. This news was received with all the enthusiasm of a man being told that he had a boil on his arse that needed lancing with a rusty spoon. Ten minutes later and Lucky was all smiles again. The chipping witchcraft had worked on another new golfist!

After showing him the freaky quarter swing chip there was no stopping him. Once again the inevitable challenge raised its ugly head as hacker took on hacker to see who could be first to be crowned ‘The Least Shit Shit Player’. Once again I fucking lost. What’s more I started practicing with my 5 iron later on trying to hit a yellow basket thing about 150 yards away and Alan got it in there before me too. I’m piss poor…no seriously.

As you can guess from the last sentence, Alan joined us a little later and was his usual helpful self, giving me and Lucky tips and generally geeing us up when our heads dropped. He also had a quick go of the ‘Lucky 13’ but had to give it back to Paul as he couldn’t get used to it – his drives were going long but in no discernable direction. Once back to his own driver he was spanking the range balls annoyingly far and straight.

We finished and went into the bar for a sly pint and a bit of a natter. It was the first time he had met Lucky and was intrigued to find out how he got his nickname. Paul regaled him with tales of broken fingers, dislocated shoulders, stab wounds and cycling accidents. Lucky is a funny guy anyway but some of the things he has gone through just have me in stitches.

Before we all went our separate ways we planned to play the following week. With Lucky coming I’m expecting unseasonable snow flurries or for it to start raining frogs or summat. I’ll put money on it that it gets cancelled. Watch this space.

13 - The Curse of Lucky (Part 1)...

I was itching to get on the course again to try and put into practice everything I had learned when, erm, practicing. At the driving range I told Alan that myself and Lucky were thinking of playing later on in the week. Alan looked shocked and happy at the same time (shappy? shoppy?) and said he was going to ring me to see if I fancied a round on Friday. It was fate. It was a date!

I saw Lucky in work the next day and told him that Alan was coming with us so he would get more tips and have a bit of a helping hand. The both of us were as excited as those kids who got asked if they wanted to stay over at the Neverland Ranch before it came to light that Michael Jackson was fiddling with them.

As I had cleaned my clubs thoroughly the week before my bats only needed a quick once over before being ready. I on the other hand needed a new top to play in (Alan can’t see me wearing the same top twice in two weeks, what would he think?) so I went to Liverpool 1 for a look around. I inevitably went to Sports Soccer or whatever it is called to see what they had on offer.

After browsing for too long I came out with a snazzy Nike therma-cool thingie top. As expected it was black and it looks dead good. My better half also made me buy this weird Dunlop Golf top that looked like a fat mans cycling shirt. It has a zip where the buttons should be on the front and doesn’t have a collar. I tried it on at home and she liked it a LOT. I’m not sure I’ll wear it on the course but I’m not taking it back!!!

I went around to the Nike store to see what they had in my size. Unfortunately I wouldn’t look good on the first tee wearing a changing room. There wasn’t any golf gear there anyway. They must spend a fortune getting Eldrick to use their stuff yet don’t bother their arse to stock any of his merch in their official store. To quote the Nan off Catherine Tate “what a facking liberty”.

I ironed all my stuff, got my cap and thick socks ready, dug out my waterproofs and went to give my clubs a bit of TLC. As I got my bag I noticed that it was raining quite heavily but was sure it would clear up soon enough so we could play a bit of ‘Army Golf’ (left, right, left, right – thanks Richie!) the next day.

I eventually made my way into work on Friday morning, fighting my way through monsoon-like rain. Optimistically I phone Kirkby golf course to book a tee time. The bloke on the other end of the line told me that “if the rain carries on like this I’ll be fucking home by 12”. Foolishly I asked if that meant we couldn’t play. “It’ll be fucking flooded, so no”. Hmmm, I was starting to detect a bit of negativity in his voice. “Tell you what, phone me at 12. If I answer you can play, if not your fucked.” This bloke really needed to stop swearing, it isn’t big, clever or funny.

With that Lucky bounded into the office beaming like a Cheshire Cat. He then started to tell me how he had spent the majority of the night before getting all his stuff ready. Ironing his new clobber, cleaning his never used clubs, putting his new balls into his new bag and generally obsessing about his stuff. I let him know what Sweary McGeary at Kirkby said and his face dropped.

“Knowing my luck it will piss down all day” he said. “Nah, it’ll clear up soon” I replied. What followed was rain on a biblical scale. The news channels were littered with reporters in brown Berghaus jackets telling tales of the highest rainfall since records began, whole villages were hilariously swept away by flood surges and Kirkby Golf Course turned into Kirkby Boating Lake. The curse of Lucky had struck again!!!

12 - Marking Your Balls...

Paul in work (not Lucky) showed me the Titleist advert about marking your balls (no sniggering at the back). Basically the video is of a load of professionals showing us mere mortals how they mark their Titleist balls to identify them when playing in competitions. “Out on tour it’s not how you mark your golf ball; it is how you mark your Titleist. How do you mark your Titleist?”

I guess advert is supposed to highlight that loads of pros use Titleist balls and therefore have to mark them so they don’t get mixed up. There were all manner of cocky bastard showing how they use a Sharpie pen to put a dot or a line on their golfy in a cool manner. How cool can a dot or line look on a ball?

Actually, one ball stood out. Some Aussie bloke draws a little Kangaroo which got me thinking. As some of you may know, one of my nicknames is Roo so I decided I should mark my balls with a Kangaroo too although mine will be much better than his effort (whoever he is).

Using state of the art equipment I started to sketch out some ideas. It wasn’t long before my desk was covered in blue Post-it notes with little, badly drawn Kangaroos on them. After an afternoon of drawing (but not working you’ll notice) I had perfected my design. I showed it to people to see if they could recognise my stylised little roo. The initial feedback wasn’t great. Apparently my early sketches (top) looked like everything from an Egyptian hieroglyphic bird to a fucking satellite dish.

After some analysis I discovered that a couple of little changes could be made to achieve the desired effect. In order to make it easy to draw, initially I used straight lines but it seems that Kangaroos aren’t renound for their straight lines so I threw in a few curves and the difference was instant (left). Giving the little fella a pouch helped too. Finally I had a design that people could recognise as a Kangaroo (right).

The next step is to draw it on a ball but as my Calloway Warbird’s already have ‘Roo’ scrawled all over them I think I’ll need to practice on those shitty Dunlop balls I bought to twat away. Oh, and I need to buy a blue Sharpie…

11 - International Ball Chipping Legend…

Another day another trip to the driving range. I seem to spend more time there than at home which probably comes as a relief to my lovely, lovely fiancée. Armed with my 3 wood, 5 iron and 9 iron I was determined to exorcise my golfing demons and hopefully lower my frankly pathetic score.

I met Alan at the range and focused on not wasting a single ball (you all know what it is like, you hit a few then get discouraged and just go through the motions instead of doing it properly…or is that just me? It is just me, isn’t it? Fuxake).

I have a weird little drill that I go through. I hit balls in groups of six for no good reason. I’ll hit six one after another then have a break or change clubs. Thinking about it, I might do it because I can only fit five balls in my pocket at one go – maybe I need bigger kecks? Anyway, I do six at a time.

I started with my 3 wood and hit four straight, one a little wide and the last was all over the shop. Acceptable scoring. I then did six with my 5 iron but was nowhere near as successful. Out of that half dozen I hit two good ones, three shit ones and one toe-curlingly bad one. On to the 9 iron. When I went around Kirkby with Alan I consistently topped my chip shots making them fly low and long – the exact opposite of what I was looking for. I hit six stinkers on the range, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Alan.

Alan then showed me something so magical that it could have been thought up by Walt Disney – the quarter swing chip. You pull the club back to the sort of height of your knee then go through the ball and finish at the sort of the height of your knee. The result – a ball that goes about 20 feet in the air and fly’s about 50 yards! More witchcraft! I had been trying since becoming a golfist to do this shot but simply didn’t have the ability. Now I knew the secret there was no stopping me.

I was in awe of my chipping ability. No seriously. Chipping was by far the worst part of my game at Kirkby so to work out how to do it was a proper ‘eureka’ moment for me. I wasted no time at all chipping half of my balls away down the range. For the first time though, I had a target in the shape of a little blue basket with a net in it about 50 yards away. Alan said that if I got the ball pretty close to the basket it would mean a sinkable putt on a course but I wanted to get it IN the basket. The inevitable challenge started between Rob Skywalker and Alan-Wan Kenobi.

The two of us were chipping like loons trying to get it in but eventually the winner was…Alan. Shocker. Anyway, although I lost the game I was more than happy with my performance. I was getting the ball to within 10 feet almost every time with the odd shot plopping almost bang on. More practice and I could scale the heady heights of being shit (which is a vast improvement on where I am now – fucking useless).

I left the driving range itching to chip which is something I never thought I’d say after my round at Kirkby. Now I’m on the road to becoming an international ball chipping legend I’m definitely getting that Titleist Vokey wedge!

10 - I Have A Dream...

What do you need to start your own golfist society? Seeing as I’ve been around a course once, have got second-hand clubs and am totally useless I figure I could be the perfect person to have his own golf society.

I have limited experience of being a part of a golf society as I have attended the prestigious Woolton Golf Society dance ‘n award night extravaganza in the past. I can do that part. Dress up like a penguin, get all shitty if someone has the audacity to take their jacket off before the captain says it is ok and then try and drink my own body weight in lager. Yeah, that would be a piece of piss.

I assume we would need a ‘home’ course. Which one to choose though? Actually, why not have a few courses and do a mini tour? Can you do that? What am I saying, it is my society, I can do what the fuck I want?!?!? Right, let’s do the municipals as they aren’t arsed who plays as long as you pay. Kirkby and Allerton are in but what about the other scall ridden gaffs around Liverpool?

Bootle is an obvious one as football shirts and Lacoste trainees are almost a uniform down there so we’d look like Dapper Dan’s in our cheap crap from Sports Soccer. How about the short course at Aintree? Nine holes in the middle of the Grand National course should be a laugh if a little ‘samey’. I’m loathed to travel too far but Bowring Park in Huyton should be ok as it is, erm, another municipal I think and therefore will be strewn with litter and populated by people with kids called Chantelle.

Right, Kirkby, Allerton, Bootle, Aintree and Huyton will be our battlegrounds, now we need a name. Is it to egotistical to call it “Rob’s Golf Society”? What about “Rob’s Irregular Golf Society”? That would give us a cool acronym of R.I.G.S. too...like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Hey, we could use a picture of his grid as our society logo.

Seeing as this will be an exclusive and snobby society (like golf in general) it will be invitation only. Who’ll be on the list though? Gotta have Alan and Richie after all the help they have given me. Lucky is in purely due to the fact you KNOW he will be the first player ever to be hit by an engine that fell off a plane flying over a golf course. Jason, Paul and James from work will be in as will my good friend Gaz who can’t play golf but has said he will do security for us. Can’t be a golf society without some muscle.

Yeah, this starting to take shape. More news when I have it. BTW I’m looking for a motto, does anyone know what the Latin is for “We are shit but we have a laugh”?

09 - When Richie met Lucky…

My round at Kirkby highlighted some deficiencies in my game that I desperately needed to work on. Basically my driving is shit, my long game is shit and my chipping is shit. Plenty to work on. On the plus side my putting is not that bad according to Alan, I have a nice stroke apparently but what happens in the woods stays in the woods. Ahem.

I got an email from Richie asking if I fancied a sneaky trip to the driving range at Aintree. This could be a perfect time to work on the many, many facets of my game that needed more attention than a three-year-old with ADD. It would also be the first time Richie had met Lucky.

We got in and Lucky was already smacking balls up the range with his latest pissed purchase. On a recent late night, alcohol fuelled shopping trip around eBay he spotted a Nike SUMO driver that was called ‘Lucky 13’ because it has a 13* loft (is that the right term?). The fact it was called ‘Lucky’ was enough for him to spend £140 without thinking about it. After my round he asked me did I learn anything, I told him not to bother with a driver as they are too hard to control. You can imagine his face after this nugget of information!

I introduced Lucky to Richie; we found a couple of bays together and started practicing. It wasn’t long before Richie was looking over with a confused look on his face. He was studying Lucky’s swing and shaking his head. Lucky is right-handed but plays kinda left-handed with his right hand at the top of the shaft on top of his right.

Richie couldn’t help himself and offered some words of advice to Paul. “The first thing any professional will say to you if you ask for help is put your hands the right way around. I’m nowhere near a professional and I’m telling you to put your hands the right way around!” Seconds later Paul had his hands the right way around and was instantly back where he started a week ago.

Having to literally learn how to hit the ball again was tough on Paul but with some patient tuition from Richie he was soon just as shit as me! After an hour or so Paul was hitting the ball vaguely straight and quite long. His injured shoulder was now aching from having to hit the ball properly but he was as happy which was the important thing.

I continued to practice but soon found it irritatingly difficult to control my 5 or 9 iron shots to the point where I considered lashing the clubs down the range in a scene eerily reminiscent of that son-of-a-bitch par 3 at Kirkby the week before. I took a couple of deep breaths and switched to my 3 wood…which now seemed to be possessed by someone who had a stroke and couldn’t swing properly. Fuck it, time to go home.

08 - Nickname...

I was dropping the kids off at the pool the other day (figuratively speaking) and got to thinking about nicknames. Every great player deserves one, some average players have been given one and I want to be the first shit player to have one.

Ernie Els is ‘The Big Easy’ because he is tall and has a smooth swing, Sergio Garcia is ‘Il Nino’ (The Kid) because he is erm, 28 and Phil Mickelson is FIGJAM (Fuck I'm Good, Just Ask Me) because he is a big headed cunt. Even Eldrick Woods goes by the name ‘Tiger’ but that is because Eldrick is a twat of a name.

I was trying to come up with something catchy, appropriate and most importantly, cool. After literally seconds of thought I came up with ‘The Cack in Black’. The first part of the nickname is obvious, the second because I realised the other day that all my golf gear is black.

So there you have it, I’m one step closer to making a living out of golf, as I now have a nickname. I’ll have to get it printed on golf balls, embroided on caps and splashed up the side of my bag. Live the dream...

07 - Slaughter on the Dancefloor...

With Richie’s words of wisdom ringing in my ears and about 400 balls smashed away down the driving range I decided it was time to take the next step – play a round. I contacted Alan and he said he could finish work at 3 on Thursday so why don’t we just book a round and get on with it. I like his spunk – in a non sexual way you understand, I mean in a get-up-and-go kinda way.

I phoned Kirkby Golf Course and booked a tee time. We were to go to war on the green battlefield at 3:15. When I say war it was no doubt going to be a slaughter as Alan can play and I can only just manage to keep my shots within the confines of a driving range that is literally half a mile wide.

I turned up early and got all my shiny equipment out and ready to use. I looked like a complete blert to be honest with my gleaming shoes, pristine kecks, polo shirt and Callaway cap. Even my clubs were sparkling. I read in Golf Whine Monthly that a dirty club face can ruin your shots and seeing as I was useless to begin with I didn’t need anything else hindering me. I spent two hours the night before with a golf tee scraping shite out of the grooves.

I wanted to get away from the clubhouse as quickly as possible as I couldn’t relax so it was a knap that my tee shot flew 30 feet to the right and into some trees. I put another ball down, closed my eyes and spanked the piss out of it. Predictably I sliced it but was happy as it went about 150 yards and got me away from the sniggers. Alan was full of encouragement which helped but there was no escaping the fact that I was just fucking awful.

After a crap second shot I hit a peach of a 5 iron to get on the green in three which was ok. I eventually sank my putt and got a six on a par 4 which was great in my book. Before starting Alan said I should give myself a target of two shots per hole as I hadn’t played before (so a par 4 is a par 6 to me etc). So far I was on target for a shit, but acceptable, score.

The next few holes flew by…well, flew from rough to bunker to woods with the net result being one seriously pissed of new golfist. Why is this stupid game so bastard hard? HOW can it be so bastard hard? All you have to do is hit a ball up a field. Oh, and if I play another son-of-a-bitch par 3 in my life it will be too soon. I’m no expert but 9 shots on a hole that is only 160 yards isn’t good.

That par 3 was the low point in my golf life. I was just about to throw my sand wedge into the River Alt when Alan gave me a stern “don’t”. I half jokingly said I give up and was going home when Alan hit me with some Zen like words of wisdom. He basically said that if I give up now I might as well not bother anymore as I’d just be a loser like the whining bastards he has played with in the past. They have never felt what it is like to win and are happy to be losers. I didn’t wanna be a loser!!!

Alan said I should forget what has gone before and focus on my next shot. Make my next shot be the best of the day. Guess what? My next shot was shit. Bastard. A few shots later though I hit another peach of a 5 iron onto the green to get my second par of the day! Oh yeah, I got a par earlier in the round, forgot to mention.

To be honest, with the exception of my aberration on the par 3, I was starting to get into it and my scores were coming down. After the first nine I was looking at scoring something like 140 but after the back nine it was down to 119. If I’d have doubled my back nine score I would have got 92 which is pretty good considering I didn’t actually know what I was doing.

I traipsed off the 18th and slumped on a bench by the clubhouse. I was shattered. Thing is, I wasn’t fed up or disheartened; I was literally just physically shattered. It has been mentioned that the average golfer walks around 6 miles per round. With all my forays into the wilderness I reckon I zigzagged around 8 miles all in. My back, thighs and shoulders were stiffer than a Saudi jail sentence by the time I got home.

That night I ended up thinking about shots I had played earlier that day. Trying to break down where I had gone wrong, trying to fix my mistakes. I think I have the golf bug.

06 - Golf Whine Monthly...

Now that I can effectively hit the ball in the general direction I want it I was eager to start playing but first I had to obsess about the game some more. There is an easy way to obsess quickly – I entered the world of magazines (not THOSE magazines, golf magazines).

I tried two to start with, Today’s Golfer and Golf Punk. Today’s Golfer is exactly what I was expecting in that it was quite serious and focused on helping you lower your handicap and all that shit. It has product reviews, player interviews and workshops – all good stuff no doubt. Golf Punk is Nuts Magazine with putters. Nice. Both were ok, nothing that made me think I should subscribe and receive some implausibly shite gift or anything though.

One thing I did notice was that the reader’s letters were so dreary. “I paid 150 Euros to play on a top course in Portugal and when I got there the fairways were lined with villas. It was like playing in an expensive housing estate. Blah blah blah.” So fucking what? Just smack the balls up the field sink the little bastard and move on, don’t whine like a bitch about it in the hope of winning a wedge.

I’m seriously considering writing to the magazines to see if I can inject some humour and wit into the letters page [insert your own joke here]. If I’m being honest I think I would have to tone down the language, stop the aimless rambling about shops and thongs and have something interesting to say. Hmmm, maybe I’ll give it a miss.

On the subject of wedges, is there really THAT much difference between the six million that get reviewed in the magazines each month? In all honesty, how can one be significantly better than the other and therefore justify being significantly more expensive? It isn’t just wedges though. Why is it that Ping stuff cost so much? How much better can Titleist Pro V1 balls be to a cack handed moron like me? Are Footjoy shoes really as comfortable as carpet slippers? Will wearing Tiger Woods’ Nike gear get me a harem of horny ‘bunker babes’?

Ok, if I buy Ping clubs, Taylor Made Woods, Callaway wedges and use Titleist balls will I suddenly be a better player or is it all a big swiz? The fact that I’m using expensive Callaway clubs yet couldn’t hit a cows arse with a banjo says it all I think. Fuck it, I’m only buying stuff that looks good from now on, starting with the Titleist Vokey wedge (above) because you can buy it with something called an ‘oil can finish’ which is like a rusty brown but looks boss…unless I win a wedge with my ‘hilarious’ letter to Golf Whine Monthly.

05 - Lingo...

I was speaking to my mate Paul in work – not Lucky Paul, another Paul – and he started telling me about ye olde golf terms. Apparently each club had a different name, not just a number which intrigued me so I did a bit of digging in the internet. I couldn’t find much on the club names but I did find the following funny golf terms:

From the tee:
An Arthur Scargill - a great strike but a poor result
A Rodney King - over-clubbed
An O.J. Simpson - somehow got away with it
A Princess Di - shouldn't have taken a driver
A Michael Jackson - gradually fading
A Douglas Bader - looked good in the air, but didn't have the legs
A Sally Gunnell - not pretty but a good runner
A Ryanair - flies well but lands a long way from the target
A Glen Miller - kept low and didn't make it over the water
A circus tent - a BIG top
A condom - safe but didn't feel real good

Around the green:
An Adolf Hitler - two shots in the bunker
A Saddam Hussain - go from bunker to bunker
A Yasser Arafat - ugly and in the sand
A Chuck Berry - (in the trees) - no particular place to go

On the green:
A Dennis Wise - a nasty 5 footer
A Diego Maradona - a very nasty 5 footer
A Salman Rushdie - an impossible read
A Rock Hudson - thought it was straight, but it wasn't
A gynaecologist's assistant - just shaves the hole
A twelve-pinter - stroke after stroke and you're still not ready to put it in the hole.

After sinking the ball:
A Paris Hilton - an expensive hole
A ladyboy - looked like an easy hole but all was not what it seems

04 - Witchcraft...

Another trip to the range with Lucky followed but my improvement started to stutter. I found myself making the same mistakes as I did the first time I tried to play. I needed more help from someone who knew what they were doing. Enter Richie.

Richie is a good player who has been captain of the golf society he plays for. He told me recently that golf for him has gone from a pastime to an obsession. He is always playing, always practicing, always looking for ways to improve. I was looking forward to him helping me but also hoping my uselessness wouldn’t rub off on him (like when you rub a magnet on metal and it becomes a bit magnetised – or summat).

Richie started by asking me to hit a few shots so he could see what I was doing. That was a bit intimidating to be honest, I felt like a stripper on her first night in a flange palace – judging eyes studying my body, checking my form, looking for faults, wanting to stick a £5 note in my thong after I’d wiggled my arse in his face. Ahem.

After a couple of shots Richie got me to move my feet slightly and try again. Low and behold the ball skewed off to the right…but not as much! Hallelujah! After a few more surprisingly minor tweaks the ball was starting to go straighter and straighter. It was witchcraft I swear!

While I was sending Exocet like shot after Exocet like shot down the range Richie caught up with a couple of people he used to play with. They were testing new drivers and pissed me right off by smashing the ball 250 yards without any discernable effort. I was concentrating like a bastard and these were laughing and joking and out driving me. Cunts.

Richie told me to ignore them as they had been playing for years and got me back to my drills. Set the ball properly, address the ball, get my hands right, get my feet right, breathe, slowly back, smoothly round, good contact, follow through the shot then bask in the glory of not looking completely useless.

After my lessons I was flying and couldn’t wait to hit the next ball…until I started to tire and the whole thing turned to shit again. Richie could sense I was flagging although I think what tipped him off was me shouting “my arms are fucked” at him in the next bay. He was adamant that the last few balls would be good shots so I would have a positive memory of the night. Sure enough I hit a couple of crackers and waddled off the range as happy as a dog with two dicks.

03 - My hero, Lucky...

After the debacle that was my first soiree at the driving range I decided to get back as soon as I could to shake off the urge to wrap my clubs around someone’s neck and burn down a clubhouse. Instead of going with someone who knew what they were doing I went with my mate Lucky (well deserved nickname but a story for another time) who is also very new to golf.

Lucky, real name Paul, is a case (in the nicest possible way). I told him about thinking of becoming a golfist and he went all hysterical screaming about always wanting to play golf but never having anyone to go with. Within hours he had bought a set of clubs from eBay because “the driver looked like a Beluga whale and the shafts are Titanium”. He is my hero.

Over the coming days all manner of stuff was ordered by him including balls, shoes, a trolley, shirts, a rain suit. When he gets into something there is no stopping him. His enthusiasm is infectious though and soon I was looking forward to disappointing shot after disappointing shot. Bring it on!

When I arrived Lucky was already there, practicing on the putting green with his lad. He came bounding over, all excited, ready to smash the ball straight and true. You know what happened though, don’t you? After an hour he had gone through 100 balls and a fair chunk of his patience. It was comforting to see that it wasn’t just me who was as much use as an arse pocket in a vest when it came to golf.

I on the other hand was much improved. I was hitting a fair few straight and things were starting to feel more natural (like that stupid interlocking finger crap everyone does). I was connecting a lot better and hitting it roughly where I wanted although from time to time my shots were pissing off towards the fence on the right. Not perfect but better.

I left the range feeling good. Lucky left feeling frustrated. I could see he was going through exactly what I had the week before and told him so. He looked at me like he was about to burst into tears, gave me an eerily cheery goodbye and ragged his car out of the car park like he had robbed it. I could tell my words had made a difference. It was a good day.

02 - Merch...

In an attempt to rekindle my love for a sport that was clearly devised by a sadist, I immersed myself in the wonderful, wonderful world of merchandise. Before you could say “stop buying shit off the internet” I was buying shit off the internet. Balls, caps, head covers, whips, chains the lot.

The next day I took a wander around Sports Soccer or whatever it is called (that place in the corner of Speke Retail Park, near the Marks & Spencer, not the food Marks & Spencer by Argos but the one that sells all the bras and that…near Borders, well not THAT near but closer than Argos. By Next and Clinton Cards. In the corner, sort of behind the O2 shop…actually no, the O2 shop is further away than Borders isn’t it?)

Anyway, I went there and had a look around at the stuff on offer. As I’m a newcomer to the whole golf world I needed one of anything to be honest. I bought some essentials first including a trolley and some waterproofs. Because I’m not as svelte as I used to be I had to buy an XXL rain suit which was a problem. The jacket fitted well but the kecks were clearly tailored for a Basketball player or one of the Portsmouth team. The bottoms trailed along the floor like Princess Diana’s wedding dress, if her dress was made out of blue shell suit material.

I also bought 15 Dunlop balls with the sole intention of smacking them away as everyone I have spoken too reckons the range balls are utter crap and don’t feel or travel like proper balls. Hopefully it is the range balls fault that all my drives take a right turn after leaving the club face and not the fact that I’m about as much use as tits on a fish when it comes to swinging the wrenches.

After the waterproofs, balls and trolley I had shoes on my mind. A mate in work told me to get white shoes as he said he always feels special when he has to put his white shoes on and that it makes him feel good. I think he is weird but I fancied a pair trabs that looked like bowling shoes, or spats. The Bugsy Malone look is a good look I say.

I settled on a swanky pair of white Adidas shoes. They have some coating on them and are guaranteed to be waterproof for a year. Got a size bigger under advisement of numerous mates and the bloke in the shop then topped the whole thing off with a thick pair of golf socks. They are dead comfy and I look like I know what I’m doing which is important. Alan was clearly impressed with my shoes when he said “They’ll be a cunt to clean”. I’ve done well.

01 - First; The Sound of Shanking...

Let me start from the beginning. I’m 35 and about as healthy as a deep fried Mars Bar so my better half was on at me to do more exercise. I had a look around and decided to try golf as it seemed like a sport where you could amble about all day eating and swigging beer – perfect! After committing to the sport by buying a second-hand set of clubs (Callaway, they are good apparently) I realised that darts would probably have been a better option.

So now I have the bats, the metals, the bag (and know all the terminology) I just had to learn how to hit the ball and I’d be on the PGA Tour or at the very least hustling auld ones out of their pension on municipal golf courses around the North West. It turns out that hitting the ball is quite difficult but is a piece of piss compared to trying to hit the little white bastard straight. I needed help and practice.

Help arrived in the shape of Alan and Richie. I’ve know both guys for years and knew that they played golf a fair bit so I was confident that they would be able to turn this talentless mess into something resembling a golfist. Sure enough Alan was first to try and managed to teach me how to hit the ball. I was on my way…unfortunately the way was miles off to the right as I had a slice wilder than a 70’s porn stars bush.

After spanking 50 balls randomly up the driving range at Aintree I had an epiphany as I hit one straight! What a feeling, I was happier than Gary Glitter in a playground. Alan said all I had to do now was to hit another ball in the same way and get it to land in the same place. After another 50 balls I gave up and went home aching and disheartened.

Alan was quick to praise my ability to actually hit the ball and hit it quite far but I almost gave up there and then. He was adamant that I should persevere but I hate being shit at anything and boy was I shit at golf. The thing is, years ago I used to smack a ball up and down our local school field without trying. Now I’m trying everything to just make a clean connection; Jedi mind tricks, ritual animal sacrifices, even begging but nothing was working.

All the excitement and eagerness to play evaporated with 99 shitty, yellow range balls. What a cunt.