Round 9 - Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Keith Douglas failing to reach the humps…again. Today saw a classic faux pas by the hapless Douglas, you just couldn’t make it up.

As I greeted him by the 1^st tee he introduced me to the solicitor representing him in his libel case against me. (For those of you not up to speed, Douglas is taking me to court for libelling him with ‘untruths’ regarding our winter league golfing partnership. The crux of his case appears to be that I exaggerate his ineptitude and fail to give him sufficient credit for our team scores every week, all of which is patent nonsense which I have little doubt the judge will laugh out of court).

Anyway, there he stands by the first tee, appraising his solicitor of latest developments, bleating about my latest report in which I again (correctly) call him out for being crap. He goes on to grumble about me claiming all the glory from our best rounds and blaming him for our bad ones, whining that he’s nowhere near the rotten player that I describe him to be.  Finally the moaning stops and he steps up to his opening tee shot and what does he do? He duffs it fifty yards! Not only does his ball fail to reach the humps, it fails to alight even halfway, the halfwit near on hit a fresh air shot. I looked over at his solicitor to find him scribbling a resignation letter having seen first hand that I’d been telling the truth all along. Lawyers want dead certs only and his client hadn’t a leg to stand on.

You’ve shot yourself in the foot there Douglas and no mistake, no brief will get you out of this one and just in case you’re tempted to deny your hopeless duff ever happened, you’ll notice that I took the trouble to photograph you playing your second shot (see attached). Let the record show that you are standing a million miles short of the humps, you useless oaf, as you attempt to make amends for the ludicrous grubber you topped off the first tee. You’re bang to rights son, in your face Douglas, in your face. And before you try to have this photo censored, remember there were half a dozen witnesses standing outside the clubhouse, laughing up their sleeves. If I were you I’d withdraw your threat of legal action before you make any more of a fool of yourself. No lawyer will take you seriously, save your money and buy some lessons instead chum.

Turning now to the rest of the round, we scored a gross 63 which was highly commendable given we were on winter greens and the cold was of Baltic proportions. Our playing partners, Colin Polson and Martin McCoy, notched a nett 59 and were excellent company, they’ll testify that I provided the lion’s share of our scores today with Keith playing no more than a supporting role until his par at the last. I shone through despite being hampered by two injuries; a poorly finger following a disagreement with an Irn Bru bottle’s screw top, and a bad back.

 I’d been to the physio again in the week, she’s been trying to ease my back pain for a while now but has succeeded only in humiliating me so far. Week one she had me shivering in my smalls, week two she pressed so hard on my back as I lay face down that my testicles got squashed beneath me and this week she was laughing at my arse.

“ Your bottom isn’t offering any support to your back when you go running” she said. “ You’ve got a jelly for a bottom, no muscle tone to your buttocks. They’re meant to act as shock absorbers for the base of your spine when you’re pounding the streets but with you having such a weak arse they do nothing” she finished. The cheek. Shivering moobs, pancaked bollocks and a fat arse. What next? A swollen helmet? Cracked ringpiece? I’ve a good mind to sack her off.

But back to the golf. Our 63 was the result of 15 pars and 3 birdies (10, 16, 17) with a number of clutch putts saving our bacon. I found myself having to shoulder the bulk of the burden, nervelessly sinking six footers on 2, 4, 7, 9 and 12. In addition I routinely parred the gully leaving Douglas questioning whether he’d even bother to play it in future. Quite right too, that’s six rounds straight that I’ve parred the gully now.

Despite our differences, we were able to share a light hearted moment on the 16^th fairway as we stood adjacent to the 4^th hole waiting to play our second shots. Three herberts on the 4^th tee peppered us with hooked drives, they had us hopping around like cats on a hot tin roof as we avoided their spherical missiles.

“ It’s a shame one of those didn’t knock your fu*#ing teeth out Russon” said Keith.

I laughed, turning to him to share the joke, but he wasn’t laughing. He was staring through me with deadpan eyes that could kill.  Anyone would think he’d actually meant it.

So that’s nine rounds played with one more to go. We’re due on stage at 10am next Saturday if any out of work lawyers want to come along and pitch for Douglas’s business. If you’re not sure what he looks like just wait until someone tops his drive off the first and fails to reach the humps, that’s your man.