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.
It may come as a shock to some of you but it is much easier drawing a little roo on a Post-it Note at your desk than it is to do on a ball on your couch. This accounts for the variation in quality of design on the balls (the one on the bottom looks like it has a massive stiffy for example whereas the one on the top and the left one look hot to trot). I’m proud of that little logo though and might stick it on more stuff.
