New Rule #2.

To continue my blueprint for Stonehaven Golf Club 2016 I would now like to introduce new rule number 2, this one deals with the humps on the first hole.

There are few more pitiful sights in golf than someone failing to reach the humps on the 1^st at Stonehaven. Situated barely one hundred yards in front of the tee, the humps decorate rather than protect the fairway and there’s simply no excuse  for your ball to do anything other than sail over them.

As a youngster taking your first steps in the game it’s forgivable, as a grown man however it is nothing but a public disgrace. I am therefore advocating that players who fail to strike their opening drives beyond the humps must play their second shots with their trousers placed around their ankles. Such a policy will encourage members to improve their driving and as a consequence the club will develop quality golfers rather than the shameful duffers we tolerate today.

A portable vanity shield will be kept between the practice green and the cemetery should any member have ‘gone commando’ and require a facility to change into Y-fronts for the purpose of playing their second shot. A selection of under garments will be available should Y-fronts not be your style, eg. jock straps, G-strings and edible knickers in three different flavours. On no account may members bare their backsides on the first hole fairway, or worse, reveal their furniture in full view of the clubhouse.  We boast a vibrant Ladies section here at Stonehaven and have no desire to reverse this happy position. We cannot risk mass resignations because some old boy forgets to put his long johns on of a morning, duffs his drive beneath the clubhouse window and plays his second shot revealing his glory to the world.

Further penalties will be introduced should members repeat the hump offence. If a player on two consecutive occasions fails to reach the humps from the first tee, he must complete the hole in nothing but a leopardskin thong and should the offence be repeated a third time, the entire eighteen holes must be completed in a luminous green mankini*.

*This rule will be introduced at the commencement of British Summer time, we don’t want to make national headlines because a member perishes on the 5^th green in January with hyperthermia. 

SGC Blueprint 2016

Ahead of Stonehaven Golf Club’s AGM in a few weeks time,  I’m proposing a range of initiatives to benefit the club’s constitution (enormously). Over forthcoming days I shall be unveiling a ten point plan which, provided the committee has the foresight to implement it, will revolutionise golf in Stonehaven and generate new membership levels not seen since Tom Watson was rumoured to have bought the house behind the tenth.

To older members these proposals may appear too bold, over ambitious, however we mustn’t fall foul of retrograde intransigence. Progress requires bravery and I urge the committee to embrace change, put their best foot forward and grasp the future with both hands. Homer Simpson once said " You don’t win friends with salad", neither do you win new members with old ideas.  I respectfully ask the Stonehaven GC membership to join with me in appealing to the custodians of our club to approve these forward thinking amendments. 

1. Mulligans

The mulligan is a unique scoring mechanism which, while popular in bounce game circles, has never made it into the official R&A rulebook. Referred to by some as ‘cheating’, it enables a player to reload, without penalty, having slashed a ball out of bounds. It presents a welcome opportunity for despondent golfers to erase the latest blunder from both memory and scorecard before proceeding as if it never happened, the two stroke penalty expunged from the record. In a radical departure from our somewhat archaic scoring system, the proposed Stoney mulligan will afford players the chance of atonement, the opportunity to dust themselves down and start again. The system will be introduced as of the start of the 2016/17 season and apply solely to the 11th hole * before later being moved to the 2nd hole **.

*until I quit the duck hooking

**when I get the yips and start topping it off the tee again

Where it all began in 1982...

...and I knew it was meant to be because 29th August is my birthday and 1982 was Villa's finest hour when we won the European Cup thrashing Bayern Munich 1-0 via Peter Withe's shin.

Duo's days are numbered

2015 enters its final week and rumours abound that the winter league partnership of Russon and Douglas will not make it into 2016. The relationship has been a tempestuous one from the outset but recent developments suggest the final nail has been hammered into the coffin. Alex Russon, the primary member of the partnership in terms of golfing ability, takes up the story…

“ Douglas has been a difficult partner from the start. A player of my calibre needs someone he can trust, a person of integrity, a partner to be relied upon for support and motivation. From the very beginning though the bloke has acted like a right cretin, complaining that I don’t replace flagsticks, grumbling that I don’t complete the scorecard, running me over with his remote controlled golf trolley and breaking wind in my backswing. I’ve had a quiet word with him but his behaviour shows no sign of improvement. I was close to throwing in the towel when he abandoned our fixture a few weeks ago in order to attend the Klitchko v Fury fight in Dusseldorf and take a tour of the Becks Bier factory. What kind of commitment is that when your co-player dedicates his time to alcohol and international sport rather than play eighteen holes on a freezing morning in Stoney? In the rain”.

We asked Russon what had happened in recent days to push the partnership to breaking point. ..

“ To tell the truth, Douglas had been pleading throughout the Autumn for someone to partner him in the winter league. One member after another declined his advances, they were too polite to tell him to his face but I’d heard through the grapevine that his halitosis had turned most of them away.

Rumour had it that he could fall a horse from twenty paces with his veritable bison breath, but I like to do my bit for the community so agreed to partner him in the winter league regardless. I took pity on him yet have been rewarded by petulance, poor golf and a succession of petty incidents until this week came the final straw”.

Russon goes on…

“ Keith had promised some blokes he worked with that he’d take them for a Christmas jolly to the bowling alley at Codonas in Aberdeen. He dropped this into conversation during our last round and I waited patiently for an invite too, it was not forthcoming. Nevertheless,  rather than take the huff  I graciously offered to drive his entourage from Stonehaven to Aberdeen since my family motor accommodates seven. This would save him money on taxi fares . He accepted my kind offer and the time was set for me to collect them from Troupers at 12.30 that coming Wednesday. My PA duly shuffled my diary, rearranging appointments with customers and colleagues alike ( I have a very demanding senior executive position within the bank and my time is sacred). Out of the kindness of my heart I allowed two hours from my tight schedule to ferry Keith and his herberts into town. Rudely interrupting an over running meeting to leave Aberdeen at midday, you can imagine my disgust when  half an hour later I arrived at Troupers in Stonehaven to learn that they’d all piled into taxis and skidaddled. Pleased though I was to see my mother’s cousin George Soutar after a twenty odd year gap, I have to confess to being somewhat miffed to find myself sharing a drink with him in Troupers rather than giving Keith and his merry men a lift into town. So I telephoned Keith to voice my displeasure, the following is an account of the conversation”.

“ Keith? It’s Alex. Where are you”.

“ In a taxi, just passing Portlethen”.

“ But I said I’d take you all in”.

“ Aye but you didnae turn up so I got taxis”.

“ Didn’t turn up? I’m stood outside Troupers now”.

“  I said 12.15”

“ No you didn’t, we agreed 12,30”.

“ Aye but I texted this morn tae change it”.

“ I didn’t get a text”.

“ How nae? I sent it at 10”.

We then established that he’d sent it to the wrong number.

 “ Regardless of that,  I told you I’d be here and I am here”

“ Aye well, I’m nae”

“ Yes I’ve established that you tosser”

“ Up yours Russon”

“ Up yours yourself Douglas”

“ ~*#k off”

“ No you ~*#k off”

“ Come here and say that”

“ Tell the driver to stop and I ~*#king will”.

“ Hemmin, you and fa’s army?”

" Don't need an army, you're as hard as my first s~*#e and that was a skitter".

….and so it continued, the conversation degenerating into personal insult and without resolution. There I stood in my three piece suit, car engine running, waiting to take a collection of downbeats into town only to be stood up, let down and abused for my trouble. There you have my winter league partner ladies and gentlemen, as trustworthy as a chocolate fireguard and as useful as one. I’m not one for violence but in Douglas’s case it’s crystal clear that the only language he understands is a good hiding. I know a couple of lads at a boozer I used to frequent in Walsall, I’ll get them on the case. But don’t report that bit” said Russon.

We understand the duo’s respective management teams have organised peace talks with a view to the team fulfilling their winter league fixtures. The likelihood of a happy outcome is slim, not least because Douglas can’t be trusted to arrive at the meeting on time, if at all, the unreliable waster. Time will tell but as we stand today, the Stonehaven Golf Club Winter League trophy may be spared a terminal rusting by Keith Douglas’s breath. Every cloud has a silver lining so they say.

Round 5 - Gale Force 18

Imagine standing on an aeroplane’s wings as it flies at thirty thousand feet. Now imagine yourself standing on said aeroplane, this time with a golf club in your hand, and being asked to strike a golf ball into the 200mph headwind. There you have an accurate description of today’s playing conditions in round five of our winter league journey. 

A six club wind buffeted us from pillar to post, balls oscillating on the greens, tree branches flying through the air, flagsticks broken in two, the netting around the 2^nd tee uprooted and blown onto the train tracks, the greenkeeper's shed last seen flying over Muchalls in a wind strong enough to blow your hair off never mind your hat. Mercifully there was no rain but the wind itself deemed the course virtually unplayable. Those that completed their rounds have been invited to Buckingham Palace to receive honorary knighthoods for bravery and services to golf.

Yet despite the veritable hurricane, the Russon/Douglas combo notched a very creditable 67 and for once I’m prepared to concede that Douglas was the main man, standing up to the howling winds with a heroic back nine culminating in a miracle birdie on 18. It all started so differently though as the photo above illustrates. Yes that’s former Stonehaven club champion, Keith Douglas, suffering the ignominy of playing his second shot from the humps on the 1^st having delivered a worm burning drive that had no right to call itself a golf shot. Just as crap footballers shouldn’t wear pink boots, golf club duffers ought not play in bright orange Rickie Fowler breeks. A retrospective stripping of Keith’s championship title seems rightful although on reflection he did redeem himself in spectacular style, knocking his second shot to twenty feet and draining the birdie putt. 

A succession of pars followed, as did random chases across fairways in pursuit of tumbling golf caps, headcovers and towels. It was like a scene from the closing credits of the Benny Hill Show and I lost count of how often my backswing was serenaded by the sound of my carry bag crashing to the floor.

For those who know the course, check out some of these club selections from the back nine. 14^th – rescue, 15^th – rescue, and on the last hole Keith nailed a full-on driver to be pin high for his birdie. That’s a driver on a 172 yard par 3. Conditions were brutal, we felt like we’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson by the time we reached the sanctuary of the clubhouse whereupon we were greeted by the sight of a dozen elder members in their John Daly slacks and Christmas jumpers, embarking on their annual festive shindig. If their all dayer in town was anywhere near as wild as our eighteen holes I expect to be reading about them in the Sunday papers.

PS. Thanks to Darren for his pleasurable company today. He’s a taxi driver by trade, I'll keep his number handy for when Villa's latest manager gets the bullet and needs a lift to the airport.

Round 4 - Stick the flag right up yer ar$e

After the fireworks of round 3 it was back to meat and potatoes golf for the first half of round 4, we couldn’t get anything going. Conditions were ideal, dry, not a breath of wind, only the zero temperatures spoiled it. Keith’s brother, Jack, played too, he was limbering up for a game at The Old Course the following day. He trudged the first seventeen holes with us before bailing out, the 18^th at Stoney claiming another victim unprepared to clamber from the green back up to the locker room.

Jack casually birdied the 1st to take the honour only to dump two balls out on the 2nd, I'd soon dragged him down to my level.  His presence was important, not for his sparkling repartee although  that's always a bonus, but because the pair of us needed a referee following the argy bargy the previous week, Keith complaining (amongst other things) about my unwillingness to replace flagsticks before vacating greens. He’s so small time that he took the attached photo for posterity, claiming this was the first flagstick I’d replaced in 28 holes of golf. He’s so petty.

 

Which brings me to a letter I received following my report on round 3 last week, a letter which accused me of shameful bias regards my own performance while deriding my partner’s efforts. I won’t embarrass the author by revealing his identity so let’s just refer to him by surname, Douglas. No, on second thoughts, we’ll just call him by his Christian name, Keith. The letter was vitriolic, accusing me of undermining the valiant efforts my partner had made the previous week, at least I think that was the gist, I could barely decipher the childlike handwriting, poor grammar and diabolical spelling. Anyhow, I brought this letter up with Keith at one point during the round…

“ We really ought to rediscover the harmony in this partnership Keith” I suggested. “ After all, there’s no ‘I’ in team”.

“ Aye, but there is in prick” he responded. He’s got no class that one. 

Despite our differences we soldiered on, exchanging pars until bogeys on 6 and 9 blotted the copybook. It was the 11^th before our first birdie (Keith) but we handed that advantage straight back with a bogey on 12. I’d lost patience with him fluffing his lines by the time we reached the gully so decided to take control of the situation. I birdied 14, drained a lengthy par putt on 15 and slammed in a birdie on 17. No messing. Someone needed to take the bull by the horns and thankfully my birdie blitz shamed Keith into upping his game, he birdied 16 and despite his best efforts, avoided a three putt on the last to notch a closing par. We ended with a 65, not earth shattering but respectable, a decent day’s work in contrast to my football team (Aston Villa) who were playing Arsenal at precisely the same time. We ‘shared’ two goals with them but weren’t at all greedy with our share, let’s put it that way. We were overly generous in fact. 15 games, 6 points, we’re goin’ down. As for the golf, I’m taking my A game next weekend and no mistake, watch out for an eye bleeding score.

PS. I mustn't go without mention of  Jack's headgear. It’s a shame I didn’t take my camera. He wore a bright red skin-tight head sock, an apparent cross between a bandana and a prophylactic. Standing on the 14^th tee he looked like Charlie Chan, the head sock stretching his eyelids skywards, all he needed was the fake moustache. Calling the fashion police....

Ryder Cup lies in tatters

It is with profound regret that 

I announce my unavailability 

for the forthcoming 

Ryder Cup at Hazeltine
Minnesota. 

Rumours have been circulating, understandably, that I would be an automatic wildcard pick by captain Darren Clarke however I must put the record straight and confirm that I will not be making myself available for selection. Clearly this has caused a great deal of controversy however I’d like to place on record my appreciation for the way Darren has received this ‘shattering news’ (his words not mine).

I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank my fans for their continued support. My withdrawal has not been an easy decision but given the circumstances I believe it to be the right one. Family comes first and I’ve to take my daughter Emily to choir practice in Stonehaven on the Saturday and my wife’s car needs taking in for a service the day before. She works shifts you see. Darren pleaded with me to at least play in the Sunday singles even if I couldn't participate on the Friday and Saturday but in my view team morale would be adversely affected if I bumped Rory off the anchor role to play Speith on the final day. Besides, we go to the in-laws on Sunday lunchtimes for a roast.

In conclusion I’d like to reassure the committee of Stonehaven Golf Club that I plan to honour in full my commitment to the 2016 schedule and as a gesture of gratitude for their continued support, will reduce my appearance fee by 10% for the New Year’s Day Sair Heid competition*.  

*provided I’m chauffeur driven to the course and given a massage in between the first and second nines. I will be available for autographs and selfies however these will be charged at the normal rate.

Round 3 - Russon steps out of the shadows

Welcome to round 3 of the Russon/Douglas winter league farrago. While the morning starters enjoyed dry and benign conditions, we spent the entire round wearing full waterproofs in unrelenting rain and back 9 fog. Thankfully however, one of us was up for the fight...but the less said about the other herbert the better.

Keith greeted me on the first tee with a grudging grunt.

“ How you doing?” I ventured.

“ Canna believe you talked me into this winter league sh#te” came the reply.

“ Looking forward to the game?” I countered.

“ Nae really, couldna hink o onyhin worse” he replied.

Upon such inspirational exchanges are successful partnerships made.

Little did I know that Keith’s mood had in fact peaked and would worsen from this point on. Brandishing a brand new Titleist Pro-V, he proudly showed me a red sheep he’d diligently drawn upon it, a testimony to his Sheepo nickname. He was well chuffed with this creation, jutting his chin out as he teed it up on the first hole beneath the clubhouse window. Thankfully he’d taken a photo of the ball (see above) because ten seconds later the object was making it’s way down the cliff to the north sea, a horrible slice sending it to an instant death. His language ripened as he skulked back towards the ball pocket of his bag for a reload while I turned my attention towards my opening drive. As a portent of things to come, I duly drilled my ball down the middle to within a flick of the green, taking care of business while my partner fluffed his lines. Every partnership has a dominant character and a follower, first string and second string, today Keith was to be (and pardon the vulgarity) my bitch. He might play off a handicap of 3, he may be renowned for steady golf but sometimes it needs something a little more than ‘meat and potatoes’ golf to sort the wheat from the chaff so I decided to take the bull by the horns and deliver some fireworks (not literally, that would be ludicrous, riding into Stoney on the back of a bull with rockets fizzing out of my pockets? No thanks).

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. With the conditions at Dreichter Scale 10, my partner could only stand back in wonder as I brought the first eight holes to their knees, birdieing 7 and 8 while parring the majority of others with a nonchalance that made a mockery of my 10 handicap. I hoped this might inspire Keith to a higher level but not a bit of it, he was playing second fiddle so loudly that the club captain had to march onto the course and ask him to turn the sound down. His streaky par on 9 provided only his second contribution to our scorecard (I’d deliberately three putted the third to allow him some of the limelight) and the back nine evidenced a similarly unequal distribution of contribution. By the time we reached the 16^th it was becoming a little embarrassing, I was having to instigate conversation about the weather to deflect attention from his pathetic inability to bring anything of value to the party apart from holding the flag while I putted. There was an awkward moment as we left the 15^th green, he verbalised dissatisfaction at having to mark the scorecard all of the way round, I suggested that it was the least he could do given I was providing the numbers to be recorded. I was doing the business, he wasn't. Had the roles been reversed and I were marking his scores instead we’d have been facing the indignity of a three figure total. It was a one man show for sure. Keith’s behaviour deteriorated as the round progressed due chiefly to the humiliation he was suffering so to improve the atmosphere, I kindly waited for him to hole his lengthy birdie putt on the 16^th before nudging in my own two footer for birdie, this way he could mark the birdie down as his and not mine since he was in first. Order was restored on the final two holes however as I notched two solid pars while Keith arsed around like a hapless amateur, plonking his drive at 17 on the railway line and shoving his tee shot on 18 closer to the clubhouse than the green.

So to summarise, a gross 65 achieved in abominable conditions before we adjourned to the bar for a hard earned drink which Keith rightly purchased, the least he could do under the circumstances. I congratulated him on the neatness of his handwriting, the card looked very pretty with all of those low numbers I’d provided for him to record. “ F#ck off Russon” came his reply . This is what I enjoy most about the winter league, the warm camaraderie. As he drifted back to his motor with his tail between his legs I bid him farewell but politely asked him to get a touch of practice in before our next outing. I have to say his response wasn't encouraging, standing as he did with the same number of fingers in the air as he had lost Sheepo motiffed golf balls during his afore mentioned error strewn round of golf.

Golf cancelled...again

It’s a frustrating caper the Winter League. You spend the week getting all revved up for a knock only for inclement weather to close the course. They don’t suffer this in Florida, their only danger is lack of water with which to hydrate sun bathed players or suspension of play because the sun’s too bright. Oh for a winter league abroad, to sign your scorecard while sitting in shorts on the veranda with a club soda instead of beneath five layers of clothing with a pen containing frozen ink.

That’s two weekends running I’ve missed my golf, first due to water logging following a monsoon and second because the course had become an ice rink. In truth it’s probably for the best, an enforced break can only do my game, and Keith’s sanity, good. If Villa’s strikers couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo then neither can I with a golf club. Every cloud has a silver lining (once it’s finished depositing it’s contents on Stonehaven Golf Club) and my rest from golf might bring back a new me. 

I was watching Rory play a tournament in Dubai at the weekend (on the telly like) and spotted something in his game that I just might put into practice myself. To let you into a secret, he was standing on the tee, taking the club back then despatching the ball 320 yards down the middle. Buoyed by this discovery, I propose to replicate it when next I have the chance. And they say watching telly’s bad for you, pah! I’ve still to work on my short game but at least it looks like I’ve got my driving licked.

choosing Auchenblae

I’m kinda glad we didn’t move to Fife or Dunblane, well particularly Dunblane which seems drab despite it’s approximation to Stirling Castle and the whole Andy Murray thing. Couldn’t find a chippy there either, unforgiveable for any self respecting town. When we planned our relocation from the Midlands we’d targeted Dunblane  due to its accessibility but after a couple of visits thought better of it. 

Fife was more attractive, yes I’ll say that again, Fife was attractive, but purely for golfing purposes. Once I looked past the pull of St Andrews it dawned on me that Fife offered little else and the local schooling in Kircaldy didn’t fill us with enthusiasm. So we looked north to Auchenblae and a wee (I’m talking like a local already) bungalow which we just about manage to cram our five persons into. The village has a good primary school, a nearby secondary school and winter snowfall offers a high propensity to enforced work absence which is a tick in the box. Auchenblae has other attractions (so I’m told, I’ll get back to you when I discover them) but, critically, it isn’t Walsall and that in itself is good enough for us.

No golf this weekend. Couldn't play Saturday because I was in sole charge of our three kids, well they were in charge let's get it right, and the forecast for Sunday was heavy rain. Need to get a third card in soon to keep the momentum going, I'll see if I can persuade Keith out next weekend otherwise we have the horrific prospect of a card going in purely with my score on it and I don't think the noticeboard spreadsheet can accommodate three digit numbers.

How To Knife Pitches & Influence Scorecards

Welcome to this week’s tutorial, How To Knife Pitches & Influence Scorecards, in which I present a masterclass in short game ineptitude. By the end of this session you too can have playing partners laughing up their sleeves at your greenside shenanigans.

Preparation is key. Any duffer worth his salt must at least pretend to be half decent even if they wouldn’t recognise one end of the club from another. So 1) tuck your golf glove into your back pocket with the fingers dangling out like the pro’s do, 2) hitch your jersey’s sleeves halfway up your forearms and 3) get down on your haunches to study the contours between your ball and the pin (even though you’ll be taking the undulations out of play with a jet speed thinner).

Now to the shot itself.  Remember three key words; stance, tempo and contact.

Starting with stance. For maximum effect you must ensure the ball is played off your front foot. Any temptation to play it from the middle of your stance, or worse, from the back foot, brings into play the possibility of a conventional, lofted pitch resulting in an arced trajectory enabling the ball to drop like a stone near the flag. We can’t have that. Instead, play off the front foot ensuring the clubface is so far advanced in your swing’s follow through that you virtually miss the ball altogether.

Next we’ll look at tempo. It is absolutely imperative that your swing has all the composure of a cat on a hot tin roof being pursued by a bull mastiff. You must exhibit frayed nerves and a very obvious lack of confidence, as if this were the first golf shot of your entire life. Draw the club back in a deliberate fashion but begin a jerky downswing  before the backswing has had time to be completed. And here, critically, is the key. You must now accelerate the pace to turbo charge, frantically lurching at the ball as if it had just insulted your granny. As you approach the ball at breakneck speed, dip both knees nervously, wear an anguished facial expression and say your prayers.

Now we’ve reached the moment of truth, the connection, the final act in this helpless exercise in short game buffoonery. By now your hands, arms, torso and legs should be utterly out of synch with one another and past the point of no return, . Your hands will be behind the ball as you present the clubface at entirely the wrong angle, halfway up the spherical object before you. Your shoulders should be rising prematurely causing the club to rise six inches higher than it should and your sphincter  ought now to be twitching furiously. Lean all of your weight onto your right foot and instead of allowing the loft of the clubface to do the work, attempt a wristy flick, as if you’re going to slam dunk the ball parachute style from the heavens.

Your clubface should now be in perfect position not to meet the back of the golf ball where it junctions with the turf, but instead halfway or three quarters of the way up. This way you can be assured  of the classic knee height knifing , travelling like an exocet  across the green, sending your playing partners scurrying for cover. As you follow through, maintain the look of terror and prepare for a sharp pain in your right hand as you thin the ball to within an inch of it’s life. Look up following impact, forcing yourself to watch the full horror of your handiwork as the ball careers through the dance floor and skips into the scruff at the back of the green. Look to the skies, close your eyes and wish you were somewhere else in the world before trudging to the rear of the green to continue the torture. Standard practice is to now, somehow, nurdle the ball onto the putting surface, race your bogey putt past and end up with a triple.

Congratulations! You have perfected the kneecap knifer, the hand wringing thinner that means despite being greenside after two shots, you’ve walked off with a seven. Repeat this farrago several times in the round, march directly from the 18^th green to the changing room toilets, slam the trap door, sit on the throne and weep gently into the crook of your arm.

Next week – How To Shank Your Putts.

Gabby Agbonlahor

My golf might be stinking just now but it could be worse, I could be Gabby Agbonlahor playing up front for the Villa. He was abysmal in our latest surrender the other night and deservedly got the hook at half-time. Our manager must have picked up on Gary Neville's first half critique of our weeble shaped waster....

Round 2 - Oct 31st 2015

Nothing takes the wind out of an expectant golfer’s sails like a ‘Course Closed’ sign as he pulls into the car park. Heavy rainfall had waterlogged the course sufficiently for the greenkeeper to send the early starters packing and the place was deserted by 10am. Nonetheless, Keith and I shared a couple of frames of snooker in the clubhouse hoping that the course might be re-opened if we waited long enough. An hour later and our patience was rewarded. No further rain, course open, green grass replaced green baize (something of a blessing, I thought my golf was bad but hells bells I couldn’t pot a plant never mind a red).

Two other guys, Craig and Graham, made up the fourball. I assume Keith knew them since they kept calling him ‘Sheepo’, not something you’d ordinarily address a stranger as. (Mental note : ask Keith why the hell people nickname him Sheepo).

I had a quiet word with myself before play began. Keith, or should that be Sheepo, by his own admission, had been a reluctant winter league partner and the prospect of rising from his pit early on a Saturday morning hadn’t been appetising to him, but he’d kindly relented. I needed to devise a way of maintaining his enthusiasm, ensure his sustained interest, find a way to keep him in the habit of golfing on a Saturday throughout the cold winter months that were to come. So I hatched a plan.

In the first round I felt I’d been rather greedy with my share in our combined betterball score of 67. I’d notched three contributions out of the eighteen holes which while at first sight may appear paltry, was in fact a stellar performance given I was suffering with a blocked up nose . So I decided to step back a little this week, fall on my sword if you will, and allow Keith rather more prominence, a more significant slice of the pie. If his score was such that he could walk away feeling puffed up with his performance, proud and invigorated, it would encourage him to come back again next week rather than sink deeper under the covers to nurse the after effects of a Stoney bender.

I therefore proceeded to contribute precisely nothing to this week’s score, that’s right, I quite literally didn’t improve upon Keith’s tally on one single hole. Now some might suggest this to be overly generous of me, perhaps bordering on the insulting that I should be so overtly full of grace and goodwill. Let me say to such accusers that I understand your standpoint. Why would someone be so giving in nature as to afford his partner all of the credit when in truth the two of them were participating in a team game? My response to that assertion however is a simple one; what kind of world would this be if a little benevolence wasn’t evidenced every once in a while? Our planet is dominated by the selfish and the egotistical, celebrities are fawned over and notoriety appears to be the only objective of our youth today. It’s vital, I feel, that the brotherhood of man progresses from its single minded, self-centred selfishness and instead encourages the fellow man to share the limelight once in a while.  We must surely, in all humility, give a little. In my own small way therefore I feel I poured a little of the milk of human kindness upon Keith by allowing him to score a singlehanded 63 with no assistance whatsoever from myself towards our team score (also of course, 63). He made four birdies, thirteen pars and countless clutch putts, but I’d like to think he sat before an open fire on Saturday evening, resplendent in his smoking jacket, swirled a brandy around the rim of a crystal glass, and humbly raised a toast to his winter league golfing partner, the man who had the humility to step aside and allow him his moment in the sun. All I can say is that it was my pleasure Keith and I haven’t ruled out repeating it (week after week).

Round 1 - Oct 17th 2015

A dry, breezy morning and a hundred or so Stoney members strike their first winter blow in anger. Summer tees are formally rested and mats will be the launch pads for the next five months, the first one lying directly beneath the clubhouse, your backswing practically reaching the optics behind the bar. 

There's a hell of a stink in front of the clubhouse. The gents bogs are blocked and the build up of decaying male matter, the morning after a Friday night’s excess, gives off an odour that fair brings tears to the eyes. Brenda is informed of the lavatory malfunction and scrawls 'OUT OF ORDER' on a piece of A4 before asking Willie Donald to do something with it.

“ Fit d’ye want me to dee wi’ it like?" asks Willie.

“ Stick it on your forehead” I beam. Willie doesn’t smile, I leave the vicinity as tumbleweed sweeps in.

Upon arrival, Keith boldly predicts that he will birdie the first, a pleasing habit he often enjoys following a break from the game. And blow me if he doesn't go and do just that; a booming drive, a flick to five feet and a tram lined putt into the centre. He follows this with another three on the second and I'm thinking I've made the right choice of winter league partner. It takes me until the 7th to contribute anything to the scorecard during which time the temperature has lurched from cool to Baltic to warm. I start by wearing two layers, soon increase this to three before stripping down to shirt sleeves (and trousers) within an hour. Welcome back to golf in the north east of Scotland (I've been away since 1986).

A steady performance from Keith carries us to a creditable opening score of 67 with my involvement best described as fitful. Upon three holes only did my score usurp Keith's, a somewhat humbling experience but hey ho, nine more rounds to address such tardiness.

Other noteworthy occurrences ...

·         Taking a gulp, I ask the fourball in front to get a shift on since they’ve fallen two holes behind. A terse reply is chuntered but the desired effect is achieved. They're a little frosty in the clubhouse afterwards, miffed that a brand new member is telling them to sort themselves out.  How to make an impression eh?

·         My tee shot on the 18th screams towards oblivion until crashing off the cemetery wall and rebounding to six feet. I respectfully muff the birdie attempt.
·         Slide my hand into a rarely visited golf bag pocket in search of a pencil, only to discover a virtually liquidised mouldy apple estimated to have lain in said state for a minimum of twelve months.
·         The winter league scoring system is explained to me several times during the round and I remain non the wiser. Safe to say Keith will deal with the score recording and given it’s almost exclusively his numbers being recorded that’s fair enough. 

Text Kate afterwards saying I'm running late, she replies by telling me to buy nail varnish remover and oven chips on the way home. Mention this purely for it’s randomness.Next game will be in a fortnight. We can’t play next week because Keith’s in Germany visiting the Becks factory (no I’m not joking).