My assault on this year’s scratch championship isn't getting off to a great start.
I’ve got the talent, no question, and the mental fortitude to deal with high
pressure situations, it’s just my health. I hobbled off Royal Aberdeen after 14
holes recently and finished my round at Forfar crawling on my hands and knees,
I’ve not played since. It’s my back. I had an MRI scan and get the results in a
week, that’s if the radiographer hasn’t
reported me for exposure. It wasn’t my fault the gown fell open to reveal my
furniture, she didn’t tell me I could leave my Y-fronts on.
Meantime, I’m continuing a rehabilitation process recommended
by my physio, she wangled me a free four week membership at the Nuffield, a
posh gym in town. I’m not exercising to lose three stone and clinch a modelling
contract, I’m there to keep my back supple and create a sense of overall mental
wellbeing ahead of the championship, nevertheless, it’s chastening to enter a changing room littered with
firm muscles and tanned skin when you’ve got a physique like Christopher
Biggins. I carry fifteen stones of blubber, a wobbly blancmange of midriff beneath
an unsightly moob mountain, I couldn't get my gear on quick enough in the changing rooms for fear of anyone seeing me naked, I then took the lift up to the gymnasium, after I’d evacuated my bowels.
I spent a half hour on the cross trainer before visiting the
stretching area to do ‘the plank’, a static stretch in the press up position
aimed at strengthening the base of your spine. Trouble is my back is so weak that I was shuddering like a sh#tting puppy so I had to pack that stretch in sharpish,
I went back on the cardio for a few more minutes then called this first session quits. Returning to the changing rooms, l caught
a glimpse of my naked self in the mirror. My word am I out of shape, a grotesque
wobble fest of palid lard, a sobering sight indeed . I wrapped a towel around
my girth to conceal my glory but did it too tightly, my moobs now even more
prominent, hanging forlornly above the towel band. I know I’m not built like a brick outhouse or
likely to be nominated as the next Bond, but the rolls of flab crowning my
hips and puffy man breasts covering my ribs were a horrific sight indeed.
So it’s now dawned on me that a diet of pies, chips and
puddings will not benefit my bid to win the championship. Strapping myself in
every teatime for mammoth belch inducing, bowel busting festivals of food will no
longer do. This visit to the gym has fortified my resolve to get in
shape, a sensible diet alongside a ten week fitness regime will have me turning
up on the first tee for the championship looking like a Greek God. Lack of
practice isn’t an issue, class is permanent and I’ll turn on the birdies like a
tap, I just need to ensure my fitness is such that I can complete the 72 holes.
I start tomorrow (after I’ve watched the football and polished off tonight’s takeaway leftovers).
Look out Stoney, there’s a new sheriff coming to town.
