Winter League - It’s All Over

And it came to pass, after several gruelling months playing in the Winter League, that the Douglas & Russon combo failed to reach the final. In this week’s last qualifying round of the campaign, our performance ended up typifying our hapless season as we fluffed our lines yet again to end the competition closer to the bottom of the table than the top. For this I hold Douglas solely accountable, but more of that later.

It was a glorious blue sky Sunday when we alighted upon the first tee, myself in modest, understated navy attire, Douglas looking like a circus clown in bright orange breeks and sporting a naval touching beard. If you’re on your A game, by all means make a spectacle of yourself in garish orange, but if you’ve spent the winter hacking the course to within an inch of its life, it’s best to dress rather more soberly Douglas, you gormless goon. Regardless of his wardrobe malfunction, we crashed our opening tee shots alongside Hitler’s Bunker and set off on our final voyage, Douglas fluking a birdie on the 1st having thinned an approach shot which miraculously grabbed on the heavy turf when it deserved one bounce and oot.

We scored well on several of the early holes, both parring the difficult 2nd before Douglas notched another birdie on the 3rd, his reaction leaving a lot to be desired mind you, cavorting around the green as he did,  like a jack-in-a-box, high fiving imaginary spectators and cupping his ear in my direction. No class some people, but two birdies within the first three holes wasn’t to be scoffed at, I’ll give him that. 

But then the pantomime started. Standing on the 5th tee, he discovered he’d left his plastic fairway mat back on the previous one, so started a marathon trudge all the way back to collect it. Ten minutes and eight hundred yards later, he shuffled back without it only to discover he’d left the blessed thing in his golf bag side pocket, the cretin. He’d already had me walking back from the 2nd green to the tee earlier, to retrieve his 3 wood cover, and then as we crossed the gully, to complete the hat trick, he was handed his plastic rake attachment by club captain, Ian Wood, another accessory he’d littered the course with. It was like playing golf with a child unprepared for his first day at school, surely a miracle he’d managed to put his trousers on the right way round.

By now Douglas’s caperings with his golf equipment had muddled his mind and this in turn adversely affected his golf. Having given it the big one on the 6th tee, bragging about his three early birdies, he wasn’t to make another meaningful contribution until deep into the back nine, the 14th to be precise, and even then it was with a lamentable three putted bogey after my tee shot had wound up on the beach. (In my defence, I’d started to struggle under the endless weight of responsibility, finally it told. I’d played the four field holes in one under par while he was stinking them out, and I’d completed the gully in one under too, it was about time he came to the party).

Before we finished, there was still time for another three hundred yard yomp back down the 16th fairway when Douglas lost his wood cover yet again, although he did birdie the hole to be fair to him, but his two,  lame, missed short putts on 17 and 18 had us notch a final total of 64, a long way from earning us a finals day appearance. Still, at least the torture is over for another season, it only remains for us to wish the finalists well while we contemplate our navals in front of the telly. 

I’d like to thank Keith for his pleasant companionship this season, but I won’t , because it wasn’t. Instead I wish a pox upon his house and for a career opportunity to present itself in Outer Mongolia, one that I advise him to take advantage of. I’ll be looking for a new partner next year, one who can walk the walk and not just talk the talk, who can play golf under pressure and who performs to a standard at least remotely adjacent to his supposed handicap.

Over and out for another season 😎

Winter League - penultimate round

Just two weeks remain of this season’s winter league at Stonehaven Golf Club, the competition boiling down to the penultimate qualifying round this weekend past. The finals are to be held in a fortnight’s time and I now have grave doubts that myself and Douglas will be participating after our latest fiasco, a reprehensible 70 in grade A conditions. The fat lady hasn’t so much cleared her throat as completed her first verse as far as our chances are concerned, in fact she’s probably in her taxi home by now.

There’s no point sugar coating it, we were bowf this weekend, neither of us getting our act together until Douglas fluked a couple of consecutive birdies on the back nine. We started badly and went downhill from there, our mojo deserting us as we slapped, duffed and muffed our way to a four over par total when four under was begging to be carded. The portents weren’t good when Douglas’s electric golf trolley ground to a halt before he’d even left the car park, his overnight charging of the damn thing proving futile as, like a bucking bronco, it refused to comply with his instruction. We therefore had the ludicrous sight of him lugging an enormous pro bag all the way around the course and reaching a state of virtual collapse long before the 18th. By then he’d grumbled and mumbled his way to a collection of bogeys, aided and abetted by my own lame performance as the wheels came off of our winter league wagon.

Not much more to add really, the disappointment of our apparent failure to qualify rendering me speechless. A few years ago, when we last competed in the doubles together, we qualified for the final with plenty to spare, this time however we’ve spent the majority of the winter stinking out Stonehaven Golf Club like a decomposing pilchard on a summer’s day. I’m not prepared to take full responsibility for our demise since my handicap is significantly higher than Douglas’s, the onus was really for him to step up to the plate. While I’ve not played terrifically well myself, he’s underperformed on a scale akin to Liverpool FC this season and needs to have a long hard look at himself before deciding whether his golfing career really ought to continue. Every sportsman has his day in the sun but when that day passes he needs to take stock and consider if it be best to continue or hang up his boots, perhaps the time has come for Douglas. He’s had a good innings but is well past his sell by date, a membership at the bowling club might be a more prudent option, or twice weekly game of cribbage when the pubs open again.

One qualifying round left then and the finals to follow. With us seemingly out of contention, I might wear fancy dress for our last hurrah like away fans do on the last day of the football season. I’ll dig out my Gorilla outfit and Douglas can just turn up looking, and playing, like Mickey Mouse as per.

Winter Leaguery

I’m guilty sometimes of truth economy with my write ups on here, exaggerating my contribution to our team score a little. Keith Douglas and I play in the Stonehaven Golf Club winter league doubles competition, our best individual score on each hole counting towards the team total, and I’ve been known to big myself up on occasion, claiming a larger portion of credit than perhaps I ought. 

This week, however, I can confirm in no uncertain terms that I dominated proceedings, leaving Douglas to trail in my wake as I sank putts with gay abandon, he may as well have stayed at home. He chipped in here and there (not literally, his short game was bowf) but mostly it was my score which was scribbled onto the card as we departed each green. I was on fire with putter in hand, the hole the size of a bucket, I couldn’t miss, birdieing holes on the front and back nine while Douglas scratched his backside. No one warms to a big head so I’ll leave it there but believe me, my golf this weekend was SOLID, A1, gold plated quality, I deserve a plaque.

Not all of it was edifying though, for example we turned the 3rd and 11th fairways into X-rated zones during the round, both disrobing to reveal blubberous white torsos since the weather had become unseasonably hot. The sight of two out of condition, topless middle aged men, albeit momentarily, removing excess undergarments, is not one Stonehaven Golf Club needs to become accustomed to. If anyone had the misfortune to lay eyes on us I must apologise. If it’s any consolation, we didn’t remove our trousers and we bogeyed both holes. 

Other incidents of note; Douglas duffing his chip into a green side bunker on the 5th having bragged about out driving me, both of us birdieing the 6th (but me first so his was effectively meaningless), Douglas interrupting our game of golf with business talk when bumping into Neil Cattanach on the 11th (bang out of order, there’s a time and place), me completing the last three holes in one under par while Douglas fluffed his lines with a ball out of bounds (16th), a yanked tee shot virtually onto the 3rd tee (17th) and a hapless bogey (18th).

There are two rounds of the winter league still to play before the top four go through to the final. We lie 7th out of 9 teams, the two teams behind us having pulled out 😏. There’s work then to do, but we’re up to the task, I look forward this time next week to describing a barrage of birdies and a sub-60 round.

Winter League - blows yer wig off

After a weather enforced four week break, the Winter League reconvened this weekend, a procession of golfers delighted to be back out on the course. Saturday was wet, Sunday was windy, Douglas and I playing on the Sunday with his backside competing to be heard above the gusty elements. The elements lost, he has no class that man.

His golf trolley broken, Douglas had to carry his bag around the course and such is his laziness, he brought only a half set of clubs so his load wasn’t too heavy. Diddums. He played well though, to be fair to him, shoring our scorecard up with agreeable golf, low on flair but low on scoring too. It was left to me to provide the fireworks, driving a par four and narrowly missing my eagle attempt, but comfortably negotiating our only birdie of the first nine. If I had my putting boots on our score may have been better than the 69 we carded but I couldn’t sink anything beyond a foot, and even that was a struggle.

Golf in windy weather can be something of a lottery, particularly when it’s a four club wind as it was today. Take the 6th hole, usually a one hundred yard dink with a pitching wedge, but today a full blooded six iron. It does nothing for your ego either when you’re at the top of the 9th fairway and find yourself battering a seven iron only for it to barely reach the green side bunker just eighty yards away. Douglas was merciless in his taunting of my approach shot, he seems to delight in my misfortune, hard to stomach when you consider we’re partners. I’d made a concerted effort this week not to get irritated by him and to be gracious, but he tested my patience. I even managed not to laugh when he attempted some limbering stretches on the 13th tee, taking some minutes to return to his full height, creaking upwards in instalments before almost toppling over. Athletic and lithe he is not.

Credit where it’s due though, he produced a fine shot on the 16th, improvising with a low chasing 3 wood from a hundred and fifty yards against a gale blowing hard in his face, negotiating his ball onto the green. No more praise though, it goes to his head.

Where we stand in the league table with just four rounds to play I don’t know. The winter league rules have it that your best ten rounds qualify towards a final total and the four best scores go through to finals day. I have a sneaking suspicion that we’re toast already but never say never, if Douglas ups his game and I remember how to hole putts again we may squeeze through. Regardless, great to be out there again and Spring is just around the corner 😎.

Winter League - beauty all around us

I’m no David Attenborough, or Sean Connery for that matter, but believe me I know what I’m talking about when it comes to attracting members of the opposite sex. You've either got it or you haven't right? Peacocks, for example, will extravagantly fan their feathers to attract hens, and some bird species construct ornate nests with which to tempt females into their company. For my part, with regard to fool safe methods that cause women to go weak at the knees, I find that crashing a fairway splitting boomer down the middle of the first hole at Stonehaven Golf Club does the trick. The ladies just love it.

I took the trouble to demonstrate this particular technique when golfing with my winter league partner, Keith Douglas, on Sunday past (not that he’s currently in need of advice on the romantic front, he’s already courting, but I showed him what to do just in case his situation changes). On the first tee, I’d seen a drop dead gorgeous lady due to play in the twoball directly behind us, a beauty and no mistake, so I decided to exhibit the Russon technique of impressing a woman. You might like to take notes gentlemen, you can thank me later. 

Addressing my ball with a shimmy of the hips and my bottom protruding ever so slightly, I pouted, with chin uplifted and proceeded to crunch a drive of immense proportions straight up the middle, so far up the fairway in fact that my second shot needed to be played backwards. It was a golf shot that purred, the driver literally smoking as I returned it to my bag. I stood nonchalantly next to Keith and whispered "that's how you do it mate, a cheeky wiggle, a look of confidence, a flex of the muscles and bang,  spank it into the stratosphere. They just love it". 

Douglas arched his eyebrows and suggested I look behind me whereupon I found my intended target had in fact been walking back to her car while I played my shot, she'd forgotten her hat. It turned out the only audience I'd had was Douglas, the bearded wonder, the lady's playing partner yet to turn up. No adoring ripple of applause then, or request for my phone number. Still, there'll be other fish in the sea, I just hope they play golf. At Stonehaven. On Sunday mornings. About 10.30am.

Somewhat chastened, my playing partner and I continued on our merry way, notching a creditable 67 in challenging, frosty conditions. Once again Douglas sleepwalked through the opening holes, offering little by way of worthwhile contribution and appearing not to be enjoying himself on any level. “Well this has been a waste of a Sunday” he mumbled while trudging up the 4th fairway, having muffed yet another drive. His mood didn’t improve given it was the 9th hole before our joint scorecard registered an outright entry from him. He had a shocker and no mistake, leaving me to, once again, carry him around the course. I should double as a pit pony.

Keith Douglas is a former club champion and deserves an, albeit grudging, degree of respect for having his name etched onto the clubhouse’s scroll of honour. That said, his attitude towards two juniors traversing the 4th fairway as he stood over his tee shot on the 12th belied this notion. The pair of them had teed off and were absentmindedly ambling into Douglas's line of sight as they pursued their golf balls, the fairways cross you see. Their innocent actions meant Douglas had to step away from his shot for a moment, allowing them time to clear, but not before he hollered “huv some respect eh?! D'ya nae ken I'm a two time club champion”. No class. I’m not sure the words ‘modesty’ or ‘humility’ feature in Douglas’s vocabulary, ‘big’ and ‘heid’ do though. 

I hung around in the car park for a good half hour after our round was completed, on the off chance that the afore mentioned beauty might show up following the completion of her game. This turned out to be a forlorn hope, she had in fact bolted after the 17th hole in case I approached her, my wolf whistles during the round apparently putting her off, and the love letters I left for her to find in each hole.

I’d stripped down to my tee shirt on the 2nd tee, despite sub zero temperatures, hoping my bulging biceps might impress her, they didn't, and my despair was complete an hour later when paramedics were called to attend to my hyperthermia. Three hours in a tee-shirt on Stonehaven Golf Club in January hadn't been the most prudent of moves. Hey ho, you don't buy a ticket, you don't win the raffle right? I’ll be back up this Sunday if any (desperate) ladies would like to form an orderly queue.

Timber!

While ambling home at 10pm on Friday evening, after another triumphant shift on Mearns FM radio, (my perspective only), my eyes fell upon the dazzling sight of our town’s famed Christmas tree. The town was empty, I hadn’t a soul for company, even the dog walkers had packed in for the night, but up ahead I found solace. On an otherwise dark, dank winter’s evening, there stood the Stonehaven market square Christmas tree, every colour of the rainbow represented by a myriad of twinkling lights dangling from its branches. And as its peak climbed into the pitch black sky, I reflected on how comforted I was by this happy scene, it brightened an otherwise gloomy night, giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. The market square doesn’t bristle these days, the hustle and bustle has gone thanks to Covid, what was formerly a hive of activity has become a tired location as we await the pandemic’s demise and a return to normality. The sight of this splendid tree was therefore a tonic.

I took a photograph of said tree, being careful to stand at a safe distance given the angle at which it was leaning was somewhat precarious, and I placed the snap on a Facebook page relating to all matters Stonehaven. A discussion ensued, some residents calling for the tree’s removal but the majority supporting its continuance since it represented a beacon of light, literally, during difficult times. All of which got me to thinking, where did I stand on the matter? To tree or not to tree? That was the question.

On one hand, I appreciate it’s a jolly sight for townsfolk and I’m a firm believer in the little pleasures being what truly matter in life. What would be the harm in leaving a brightly lit tree in the square if it was going to give folk pleasure, albeit only for a moment. On the other hand, however, if it stayed up too long the novelty would wear off and what began life as a handsome recognition of the festive season, could become a laughable embarrassment now its raison detre had gone. There’s no doubting that the tree represents Christmas, it is after all a ‘Christmas tree’, so while it gives pleasure beyond the Yuletide season, it’s no longer serving its original purpose. If we want cheering up with bright lights in downtown Stoney, let’s twin with New York’s Times Square and fetch their street planners in for some advice. Or perform a twice weekly strobe lighting set from the benches outside the Market Bar, throwing some shapes while we’re at it.

No, on reflection, I reckon it’s time the old girl came down. We’re approaching February and there are Easter eggs in the shops for goodness sake, carry on much longer and Santa’ll be on our case, sending an attaché of elves to chop the thing up since he’s losing his relevance. There’s a time and a place my mother used to say, particularly when I performed vulgar wind breaking virtuosos before members of her monthly knitting circle, and this isn’t it. We’ve had our fun and now it must end, let’s make way for the next season in our lives and quit harking back to the old.

Besides, and here we come to the elephant in the room, if we leave the decision much longer, it’ll soon be taken out of our hands, regardless. By month end there’ll be no need to chop the tree down whether by elves or tree surgeons, the thing’s seemingly about to go over of its own accord. Give it another week and it’ll be flat on its back, it’s so lopsided that the fact it remains (kinda) vertical is now the eight wonder of the world. I haven’t seen a car parked within forty feet of it since Christmas, no-one wants to come back from fetching their messages to find their motor totalled beneath a tree, even if its branches are flashing pretty colours and your bonnet’s decorated in tinsel.

No, it’s gotta go I’m afraid. It’s been a terrific spectacle and a credit to the town but enough’s enough. Goodbye Christmas tree, we look forward to your return at an appropriate juncture later in the year, meantime we’ll strive to brighten up our town in other ways. I’m thinking a Saturday afternoon parade of leopard skin thonged geriatrics in pink wigs. Do I have a seconder? 

Timber!!!!!

Winter League - the reluctant resurrection

Back in 1991, my football team (Aston Villa) poached the then manager of Sheffield Wednesday, Ron Atkinson. It was just before the start of a new season and to suggest this event caused enmity between the two clubs would be an understatement. A couple of weeks later, when the fixtures came out for the new campaign, you just knew we’d get drawn away at Hillsborough on the first day and sure enough, that’s what happened. I was in the away end that afternoon  when Atkinson emerged from the tunnel to receive fearful pelters from a hostile home support, baying for his blood. As he walked along the touchline they decorated his suit and hair with spittle, and by the time he reached the dugout, his jacket was glistening like a starry nighttime sky.

Similarly, when it was announced last week by Keith Douglas that he was withdrawing from our winter league doubles partnership, I had a funny feeling I’d be crossing swords again soon with the gormless goon, and lo and behold, did it not come to pass this very next Sunday. Who should be waiting for me when I pitched up for my allotted start time of 10:20am? Yes you’ve guessed it. 

With tee times at a premium these days, given golfers are reduced to playing alone or in two-balls, Douglas had no choice but to place his name next to mine when arranging his weekend knock. Neither of us were over impressed with this turn of events, sizing each other up on the first tee with dismissive disregard. I’m not sure who was the more disgusted, him or me. Last week’s bitter shenanigans, whereby Douglas withdrew from our partnership, had left a bad taste between us, but we reluctantly agreed to deal with it like men, or in his words ‘jist get on wi’ it’. 

The conditions were freezing, but not as cold as the sub zero atmosphere as we alighted upon the first hole, (see the photo attached for an indication of the somewhat cool atmos). It had been a mere seven days since he’d pulled out of our winter league participation, yet we now found ourselves gurning across the fairways at each other once again. Without wishing to rake over old coals, he’d withdrawn from the event last week claiming my attitude to be insufferable, pretty rich coming from a duffer who....oh let’s not get into that all over again, it was dealt with last week. Suffice to say we commenced our eighteen holes this week daggers drawn, and ended it likewise. He wasn’t pleased when I told him we’d continue in the league despite his outburst of last week, but I explained I’d be sueing him for libel if he didn’t comply so he reluctantly, and gracelessly, agreed. 

Three hours of awkward silences later, we shuffled off the course with a respectable 65 in our back pockets, albeit barely having said two words to one another the whole way round. I’d attempted conversation when we reached the 8th fairway but he’d pretended not to hear, unless he genuinely couldn’t hear since he was concentrating on finding the result of his latest duck hook off the tee. He did manage to volunteer conversation on the 15th green, demanding an explanation for my missed putt, a demand I didn’t demean myself by answering, particularly since he’d just three stabbed his way to yet another bogey. He collects bogeys like some people collect stamps. 

It was champagne golf from my good self as I racked up the birdies (12th, 16th, 17th) while narrowly missing countless other attempts. I’m pleased to say I’ve successfully addressed my short game yips, those nervy jabs from just off the green that have your playing partners diving for cover as your rocket speed knifings threaten to fracture ankles. That said, there was a slight altercation with Douglas on the 13th when I elected to putt my ball onto the green from five yards away while he opined that  ‘proper golfers’ would chip it. Imagine my pleasure then when rolling said putt to the hole side for a tap-in while his chip shot, from virtually the same spot, ended several feet from the cup. Talk about letting your golf do the talking. I nonchalantly nudged my par putt into the hole before, wordlessly, vacating the green for him to attempt his. I don’t know whether he holed it or not, I couldn’t care less, our three was in the bag thanks to me and I had no time to hang around for his superfluous contribution. 

All in all 65 was a pretty good return, particularly given our days in the competition seemed over just a week ago. To be fair to the bearded wonder, he did negotiate a birdie on the 10th (the shortest par four on the course) although beyond that failing to come to the party with any serious effect, except for an unseemly stagger to a par on the last. Overall it was a paltry contribution from Douglas as he left his partner to pepper the communal scorecard with low numbers.  

Reports of our early exit from this year’s winter league doubles competition then are somewhat previous as we have, albeit kicking and screaming, agreed to fulfil our obligations after all. Having entered the league in good faith at the start of the season, we shall complete it and look forward to receiving our appearance money in due course. May it be placed on record, however, that it wasn’t I who flounced off last week to release a statement to the press announcing my withdrawal from the competition, it was Douglas. I’m proud that I had the good grace to continue our partnership, despite his intense provocation, and when we lift the trophy at the end of the season, it’ll be only right that it is I who delivers the winner’s speech. It couldn’t be Douglas anyway, the trophy would simply get lost in that preposterous foliage beneath his chin.