Winter League rd 7 (mind funk)

According to common maxim, 95% of a golfer’s fortunes depends upon that which is occurring between his or her ears during a round of golf. Provided a player possesses the basic fundamentals of a golf swing, the scorecard will, in large part, reflect the mindset deployed whilst that individual was on the course . This week’s winter league round 7 proved a perfect example of that axiom.

My doubles partner, Keith Douglas (the goon with the beard in this photo), is a good golfer. There I said it. He plays off a handicap of 3 and demonstrates an unruffled approach to golf which rarely finds him flirting with danger. He goes about his business diligently, with the minimum of fuss, collecting pars with gay abandon and only the occasional blemish sullies his card. However, and this is where the head funk reference comes in, put him on the 14th tee at Stonehaven Golf Club and the game’s a bogey, he turns into a quivering wreck. It’s bizarre. This otherwise highly competent, unflappable golfer who consistently breaks 70 at Stoney, becomes a hacker of the highest order for one hole only. I’ve seen him slice the ball onto Skatie Shore, sky it out of bounds, dump it into gorse and pull it into no man’s land. His tee shots off the 14th are as grotesque a sight as anything you’d see a beginner inflict upon your peepers and it happened yet again this week, his tee shot threatening the life of dog walkers on the beach below. It can only be attributable to a paralysis of analysis between the ears, that golfing mind funk which afflicts us all at one time or another.

Unfortunately, my occasional stinking thinking rears it’s ugly head also, and I chose the very same hole as Keith to demonstrate my brain fade, although gratifyingly with less disastrous results. It’s a team game, the best score on each hole counting towards the team scorecard, so when Douglas fluffed his lines with a monstrous hoik out of bounds, I needed to step up. The first part of the operation I negotiated with aplomb, a splendid tee shot coming to rest a mere fifteen feet from the hole. But, fatally, between tee and green, as I strode the short fairway in pensive and negative thought, I talked myself into a three putt. As soon as I stood on the green I couldn’t wait to get off it and instead of striking a confident, gutsy birdie attempt, I dollied a pitiful lag two feet short then proceeded to muff the tap-in, horseshoeing the damned thing around the hole and leaving it above ground. I thought I was going to vomit. Unforgivable golf, and all because my muscles had listened to what my weak mind had instructed them to do. Pathetic,lily livered, lamentable timidity. Stomping to the next tee, steam coming from my ears, I looked up for a word of consolation from my doubles partner, but there was none, just a dismissive shake of the head and a volley of abuse (from the man, I remind you, who didn’t even complete the hole given his abject fear of it).

Anyhow, despite our mutual farrago on fourteen, we managed to record a creditable 64 from eighteen holes of golf, representing our best effort yet in seven attempts. We’re a long way behind the front runners but it’s not over till its over and hope springs eternal etc, etc. Hold on, who am I trying to kid? We’re also rans this year and no mistake.

The company was good, Brian Hardstaff proving an even bigger wind up merchant than our good selves, ably matched in this regard by our other playing partner, Willie Donald. The cheek kept coming, as did the biting cold with the four of us manfully completing the round despite Baltic conditions, a light frost accompanying us throughout as we battled the elements beneath four layers of clothing. One of the benefits of winter league golf is playing with folk you might never ordinarily play with. It’s a joy chewing the fat with fellow members as you share three hours of golf in the prettiest of settings. That said, quite what people make of the Douglas/Russon combo is anyone’s guess. We’re not everyone’s cup of tea since we don’t take the game terribly seriously, so it’s rare for people to put their names alongside ours twice. We’re running out of people to mark our card. It’s a relief that new covid related club rules allow us to mark our own or we wouldn’t be completing this season’s winter league at all.

Winter League Rd 6 (a grown man cries)

There’s something rather discomforting about watching a grown man cry, it’s akin to witnessing the scolding of a child, you don’t quite know where to direct your eyes. The  modern era accepts the need for men to let their emotions show, and that’s a good thing, but nevertheless, it can be perplexing when you see a bloke ‘blarting’ (Birmingham word). 

I’d cried, openly, only twice in my life until this weekend. First, when attending the birth of my daughter Emily, and second, when watching Villa beat Tranmere in the 1994 cup semi-final, a victory which signalled my maiden trip to Wembley. Given the fourteen year gap since my last public sobbing, I thought I might get through the remainder of life without another, however this Sunday my golfing ‘performance’ provided grounds for an unwelcome hat trick.

More of that later, but first let me summarise the top scores from this week’s winter league gross doubles competition, a tournament which myself and Keith Douglas so far find ourselves stinking out to high heaven.

Murdoch/Taylor 65

McGillivray/Dempster 65

Roulston/Irvine 66

Messrs McGillivary and Dempster had the unwelcome distraction of playing this week’s round alongside myself, and myself alone, given my partner Keith Douglas’s latest reprehensible absence. Once again he found other fish to fry rather than participate in our doubles tournament (the clue’s in the title Douglas, get with the programme). 

Barry McGillivary and Stuart Dempster are good golfers, they strike the ball crisply, pitch it confidently and putt it soundly. The game can be pretty simple when you do as they do, it was drama free golf from beginning to end. Not for them Hamlet cigar moments in bunkers, monstrously wayward drives landing upon adjacent fairways, or a processions of golf balls disappearing over cliff edges, they played with the minimum of fuss, positioning their drives up the middle, clipping their irons onto greens and holing out within two putts. I, on the other hand, played like I’d swilled ten pints in the Market Bar prior to teeing up and demonstrated a level of golfing incompetence not seen since my grandmother attempted pitch and putt for the first time while on holiday in Ilfracombe, 1983. 

Army golf they call it (left, right, left, right), when there’s simply no telling what is going to happen next, and I completed as hapless a round of golf as I’ve ever had the misfortune to produce. I could scarcely get off the tee but the most outrageous shenanigans were reserved for the green side where a plethora of duffed chips and fearful knifings had me performing an X-rated horror show which found my playing partners visibly shaken. I wasn’t so much playing golf as making a public spectacle of myself. It was abominable.

Eventually, after thirteen holes of lamentable golf, my resolve weakened and I cracked. I’d pushed my tee shot wide right, again, almost out of bounds this time, and had a twenty yard pitch to the green. Now, any half competent golfer would consider this type of shot elementary, rather like a tennis player playing a routine half volley from the baseline, it was a bread and butter kind of shot. But when your confidence is shot to pieces, and you’re approaching each chip as if it were a hand grenade about to go off, you have little chance of executing it satisfactorily, and sure enough, I duffed yet another. Not even the luxury of a preferred lie, permissible in the winter, (whereby a player can spot the ball up like a cherry on a cake) could encourage me to produce an acceptable golf shot, and for the umpteenth time I chunked the ball six feet in front of me and grimaced as if experiencing a bout of trapped wind. This farrago was occurring around every green and by now I was reduced to a gibbering wreck, my bottom lip quivering and upper body convulsing. I wanted my mummy or a straight jacket, I wasn’t fussy which. One last try I thought, you can do this, so I stepped forward sheepishly...only to rocket yet another ankle height exocet twenty paces beyond the green. It was the last straw, I broke down and sobbed.

Barry was the first to console me, putting his arm around my shoulder and offering gentle words of comfort. Stuart took the pitching wedge from my hand, before I saw fit to damage myself with it, and gingerly escorted me away from the scene of the crime, kindly producing a handkerchief with which I could wipe away my tears. The two of them completed the hole, their comfortable par three doing nothing to improve my mood, and then returned to care for a patient who was now lying on the next tee, in the foetal position. This was golf at its cruellest, a sport reducing a grown man to ribbons. Oh how I hated this game.

After a few more words of consolation from my playing partners, I put my shoulders back to complete the final few holes, smiling through the tears and endeavouring not to feel patronised when being congratulated for the most average of shots. I’m sure their hearts were in the right place when they accompanied my lame hundred yard thinners with a deep throated ‘good shot!’ but in truth I wanted to volley them squarely in the cobblers. My golf didn’t improve and I shuffled forward like a moody teenager, hands deep in pockets, kicking every loose piece of turf I came by. There was room for one last farce around the 16th green when I bladed one that threatened to snap Stuart in two, so I picked up and skulked off to the next tee.

Having negotiated the 17th without further humiliation, I didn’t play the last hole, preferring to get the coffees in rather than subject those in the clubhouse to a festive pantomime show. I nestled into my chair and looked on as Barry and Stuart skilfully completed another solid par to card a fine eighteen hole total of 65. (For the record, I’d no returned as early as the 2nd hole when racking up a preposterous eight, topping my tee shot out of bounds before chunking two chips and three putting).

Hopefully Douglas is on form next Sunday otherwise we face the humiliation of finishing tenth in this winter league. Bad enough in itself, worse still when you consider there are only nine entrants. Meantime, let me wish McGillivary and Dempster the best of luck as they compete in forthcoming weeks for a place on finals day,  an occasion you can be rest assured I’ll be attending in a spectating capacity only.

Winter League floodage

Poor weather put paid to any notion of golf at Stonehaven Golf Club this weekend, the course closed due to flooding. Hardy members play in most conditions but the closure was unavoidable, enjoyable golf not being conducive to teeing off ankle deep in water or attempting to putt through veritable ponds. It’s a shame, I’d practiced all week for competition day and was set to reduce the course to ribbons. It’ll just have to wait till next Sunday instead. 

I adore Stonehaven Golf Club, so to be denied my weekly fix was a wounder indeed. I’m not the greatest player in the world, my expectations aren’t always high in terms of performance, but what I can always depend on are the surroundings, the views, the scenery and the welcome. Its a well kept course with an attractive clubhouse in a wonderful setting, heaven on earth to me that place. Some clubs are a little snooty, but not this one, everyone’s welcomed by friendly staff whether members or not. If you’re not golfing you can stop by for coffee or a spot of food, the restaurant’s excellent, with Ziggy’s varied menus and super service. (If this is coming across as an advertorial I apologise! I’m just proud of the place that’s all, and need to keep them sweet so they don’t remove my name from the junior championship winners board 😊. 1986 for the record). 

The course was closed then for the weekend, but not the clubhouse, so I sauntered up there for a Sunday afternoon stroll, nursing a coffee upon arrival while chewing the fat with Mr Innes. Given the time he spends up there it’s bewildering that he’s such a poor golfer but with the course unplayable, I was spared his inept golf and subjected to his chat instead. Having bored each other half to death, I then wondered down to the 2nd green to take the photograph you see here, and this reminded me of a peculiar episode which occurred back in the eighties. 

Walking to the 2nd green from the clubhouse, you cross the 18th fairway, a stretch of turf which, inexplicably, became the resting place for my 5-iron club head over three decades ago. Back then, I’d launched a tee shot from the 18th only for my club-head to come clean off upon impact, disappearing in the same direction as my golf ball. I found my ball but lost my club-head and, despite several searches, haven’t found it to this day. I’ve a hunch it isn’t there anymore, thirty five years later, maybe I need to get over it, but I’ve always wondered what happened. How can you lose half a golf club from a distance of thirty yards or so? Perhaps someone found it one day. Maybe a green keeper after it’d mangled his grass cutting machine, maybe another golfer who repaired it and uses it even now. Or the grasses might have overwhelmed it after it lay undiscovered for a few weeks, submerging it beneath the turf. Who knows, but I still bristle over losing that club, it was my favourite. We hang onto some things don’t we? I think I need to let it go. 

No winter league update for you then this week, but hopefully we’ll be blessed by better weather next weekend after which I can regale you with details of a new course record.

Winter League Rd 5 (Lucy Locket)

Back in the eighties, when I last played the game of golf with a degree of capability, I’d often be found out on the course with one of the two Douglas brothers; Jack or Keith. Sadly, I then discovered alcohol (unrelated incident) which I devoted myself to for the next two decades, a sorry tale which I’ll save for another day. An 8 handicapper at the age of 16, I then barely touched a golf club until my mid thirties and my early promise amounted to naught. By the grace of God, I’ve been sober for sixteen years now, but it’s fair to say my golf has suffered irretrievably and my current handicap of 14 is far from an unjust one. I’ve just never really got the mojo back and hack around the course in a damage limitation exercise these days.

Meantime, while I was drinking myself to the brink of oblivion for twenty years, the brothers Douglas, both of whom I played with this week, continued to play their golf without stinting. Such dedication has seen them achieve handicaps as low as 3, a feat of which they should be rightly proud. I don’t consider it unfair therefore, given his virtual scratch player status, to expect my winter league partner, Keith Douglas, to take the lead when contributing towards our team tally. Yet once again this week he was to be found wanting.

This accompanying photograph shows you how he arrived at the course on Sunday, his scorecard later suggesting that he’d left his leathers on for the entirety of the round. He shanked his approach shot at the first, topped his drives at the third and eleventh and hit fewer greens in regulation than Birmingham City have won league titles. We meekly hustled our way to a mediocre score of 67, my good self steering the ship to respectability, and now face the very real prospect of not qualifying for the finals. We need to step it up big style, or rather, Douglas does.

The round wasn’t without its comedy moments, aside from Keith’s shank at the first. (My uncle Eric Soutar, by the way, would walk straight off the course if he hit a socket, or ‘Lucy Lockett’ as he called it. Perhaps Douglas should have followed his lead). On the12th green the witless goon trod in a foot deep puddle and spent the remainder of the round with his right foot squelching with every step, however this wasn’t the only instance of misfortune. Earlier in the round, as we departed from the 7th tee, Jack had found himself spread eagled, face down in the mud having lost his footing, his trolley making haste towards the gorse bushes below. Stifled titters met his descent but we struggled to repress them when he rose to his feet looking for all the world like a scrum half who’d just spent eighty hard minutes on a sodden Murrayfield.

Our hapless fourball was completed by Charlie Gordon, a left handed player who struck a deceptively long ball, albeit a luminous yellow one. His half swing back-lift didn’t threaten to shift the ball a significant number of yards towards the target but he boomed it a hefty distance nonetheless. Quite what he made of his three playing partners is anyone’s guess; Jack covered in mud, Keith’s beard touching the belt on his trousers and my good self talking in a language completely foreign to him (Brummy). Nevertheless, he manfully soldiered on and carded a very respectable score despite the distractions around him.

To say the Douglas/Russon partnership is behind the eight-ball is an understatement, we’re gonna need to defy the odds to qualify for the finals, but never say never. If I can get over my chipping yips and Douglas can return to somewhere near the form of a 3 handicapper we may have a chance. I’ll certainly play my part, I’ve booked out the practice area from noon till night for every day this week, but whether I can persuade my playing partner to get with the programme and take his golf rather more seriously is another question. It’s time to step up Douglas, or ship out.

Winter League Rd 4 (Star Trek)

Russon & Douglas’s spluttering start to the winter league doubles competition can be attributed to only one man, Keith Douglas, given he didn’t bother turning up for the first two rounds and was barely noticeable in round three. It was pleasing therefore to find him step up to the plate this week and deliver a performance of note, contributing strongly to our team score of 61. He was found wanting on several occasions but largely pulled through and we can only hope he continues this form through the month of December. First though he needs to repair his golf trolley. It’s all very well having the swankiest one in the district but if the handle snaps off the damned thing on the first tee it’s no use to man or beast. I keep telling him that proper golfers carry their bags, you should sling your weapons over your back not transport them around the gloaming upon a trolley that belongs to the Starship Enterprise.

The winter league is very popular at Stonehaven Golf Club and there are plenty of entrants. It isn’t for everybody however, chiefly because the very title puts the less hardy golfers off, suggesting golf in freezing conditions with icicles hanging from their nostrils. The truth though is we've enjoyed beautiful, benign conditions so far this season and it’s been a pleasure to stomp the green fairways of Stonehaven beneath largely cloudless blue skies. The air is fresh, the views beautiful and it can feel like the most tranquil place on earth. The only drawback, and it’s somewhat churlish to mention it, is that you play the last three holes directly into the glare of a low setting sun and for that reason I messed up the closing section of our round. It was time then for my low handicap partner, Keith Douglas, to stand strong for the team, but he fluffed his lines with an amateurish bogey on 17, chunking his chip and allowing it to roll apologetically back to his feet like a naughty dog, tail between its’ legs, being called back by its master. This embarrassing farrago rather took the gloss off an otherwise excellent team score.

Our playing partners were Messrs Duncan & Wood who played adequately without setting the heather alight. If their golf were a Premiership football club it would be more Crystal Palace than Liverpool, grubbing along unspectacularly, accumulating points here and there but entertaining no one in the process. Had tickets been sold, the stadium would have been only half full at the interval with many more drifting home long before the final whistle. It was less champagne and more meat and potatoes golf. Step it up next time please gentlemen.

We’ll all be back for more punishment this weekend. The unofficial Mearns FM duo competing for the honour of Winter League Doubles Champions 2021. We’ve still to arrive at a team name, Mearns FM Marvels seems appropriate for 50% of our team, Mearns FM Muppets for the other 50% until he gets a handle for his supposedly all singing and dancing golf trolley. And buy yourself a razor Douglas, how am I meant to putt when your beard’s shadow falls all over my line?

Ernie’s Debut

38 years ago I pitched up at Stonehaven Golf Club for the very first time, an adolescent kid in burgundy stay press trousers, white socks and loafers (I know 🙄). My family had just moved up from Birmingham and my father reckoned golf was the way forward if I was to make new friends, and he was right. All these years later I still play with the same guys (despite a three decade interregnum when I returned south) and love the place as much as I ever did. Stonehaven Golf Club has been a spiritual home to me for the majority of my life, knocking even Villa Park off its perch, a remarkable feat for those who know me.

So for me to introduce my 7 year old son (Ernie) to the Stonehaven Golf Club experience was a heartwarming moment indeed, like teaching your lad how to ride a bike for the first time, or experience his first football match. He’s heard so much about the place from me, I’m always banging on about it’s views, my history there and the friendships it’s afforded me. In truth, 7 year olds aren’t impressed by misty eyed fathers gushing about yesteryear, I think the modern day response is ‘wot evs’ but, regardless, I was proud as punch to take him up there for a few holes for the very first time. 

The sky was cloudless and blue, the air fresh and the golf poor, but that didn’t matter. I showed him the gully for the first time (the distance of the carry a seemingly impossible feat to a boy so young), we observed the dramatic cliff faces from the vantage points at the 2nd, 6th and 14th, he was shown the old clubhouse ruin at the 7th tee and the incredible panoramic view from the 12th. Okay so he switched off halfway through and I was effectively talking to myself, but no matter, this was a rite of passage and I was determined to see it through. 

Years from now Ernie might, as I did, amble the fairways of SGC with his old man and develop lifelong friendships with folk who will share a love of the game of golf, and in particular the venue of Stonehaven Golf Club. It’s home to many, there’s no better place, and while wearing double denim might find him blackballed for a period, it’ll be worth every minute waiting to be restored into the fold once again.

Winter League Rd 3 (Michelin Man)

 

This weekend marked the third round of the Russon/Douglas assault on the Stonehaven Golf Club winter league doubles competition (quite a mouthful) and for the first time Douglas actually showed up. He needn’t have bothered mind you, his rustiness contributing towards an inglorious combined score of 70 which leaves us in ninth position, or in other words, last.

The portents weren’t good as Douglas arrived barely two minutes before the allotted start time, waddling down the pathway looking like the Michelin Man. Admittedly the weather was somewhat fresh and the temperature low, but Douglas wore enough layers to venture an ascent of Mount Everest. After a couple of holes he was radiating enough heat to power Spurryhillock Trading Estate, his playing partners having to stand twenty yards back for fear of scorching. 

Wearing ten layers of clothing is not conducive to quality golf and as a result Douglas toiled. Our playing partners (Duncan & Wood) dovetailed nicely however, taking it in turns to to contribute, while I was left to take almost full responsibility for our scorecard over the first nine holes. Douglas birdied the 5th, commonly considered the easiest hole on the golf  course, but offered little beyond this, while I birdied the course’s signature hole (7th) and littered our scorecard with solid pars. The back nine found me running out of steam a little and I handed the reigns over to Douglas but he failed to step up to the plate, his attire continuing to impede his golf, as did news via his iPhone of each goal Rangers scored against his beloved Aberdeen (final score 4-0).

Our playing partners scored impressively apart from a grotesque 14th hole which saw Ian dump his tee shot into a gorse bush and Kenny fluff his lines from a bunker. Momentarily we’d brought them down to our level but they restored order with pars all the way in while we contrived to bogey 16 and 18, unforgivable golf which included a second shot from Douglas on 16 which almost departed the golf course down by the third green.

The highlight of the round was all four of us finding the dance floor on the 11th in two shots with the lowlight coming seconds later, after we’d completed our high fiving all the way up to the green, when not one of us managed to hole the putt. It’ll be different next week, I’m bringing my A game, so is Douglas, and provided he doesn’t dress like he’s tackling K2’s summit, we hope to post a sensible score at last.

Winter League Rd 2 (Alone Again)

 

In an unofficial capacity, myself and Keith Douglas are representing Mearns FM in this year’s winter league competition at Stonehaven Golf Club, the idea being we promote the good name of this beloved community radio station (of which I’m a presenter) while entertaining you with updates on our progress via this blog. So If you’re wondering why you’re looking at a photo of a golf bag with a Mearns FM sticker on it, now you know. Beautiful backdrop isn’t it? 18th green with the North Sea coast behind it, the ancient cemetery sandwiched between.

And it’s that cemetery where Douglas will find himself if he goes AWOL again, because that’s two weeks running he’s failed to turn up. His lack of commitment fair beggars belief, this being a doubles competition, the clue is in the title, but for a second time I had to shoulder the entire team effort singlehandedly. His excuse this week? A long weekend on the Isle of Lewis. Pathetic.

But on with the golf, and in a commendable effort to carry the burden alone, I mustered a creditable 74 in the company of Messrs Davie and Robertson in conditions better suited to Mark Spitz and Michael Phelps. It hosed down the whole way round and you had to feel sorry for the visitors playing behind us who clearly weren’t expecting rain and had dressed as if spending a Saturday night out on the pull. They manfully saw it through but departed the course looking like drowned rats and not having pulled anything except clubs from their bags.

My round opened with 7 straight pars but was knocked off course when feeling the pressure of the club captain’s presence. Kenny Duncan is a very affable chap and not prone, I believe, to bouts of anger, but when he politely called us through to hit our tee shots on the 7th and mine whistled past his nose, I did feel somewhat sheepish. Thereafter I felt obliged to reign my immense driving power in, feeling it’d be rude to send another tee shot in the vicinity of his person, and this stepping off of the gas contributed to a poorer next few holes which saw me collecting double bogeys like stamps. One of Kenny’s playing partners (I Wood) I believe had been watching my play and appeared intimidated by the quality of my golf, a cursory glance at his scoring later on verified this assumption. His surname may suggest golfing greatness, his scorecards do not.

I’ve now learned that it’s Rangers v Aberdeen on the telly this Sunday so the likelihood of my playing partner joining me for round 3 is remote. Once again it appears I’ll be carrying the team singlehandedly. That’s fine, I fully understand the importance of footballing rivalries and if Villa were playing Birmingham City I too would be absent. Thankfully that won’t be happening since the hapless Blues continue to hack around in the Championship while Villa are on the brink of topping the Premiership table this weekend with a win over Brighton, local derbies between us and them may never happen again unless we draw them in the cup.

Tight lines everybody, over and out from Mearns FM’s unofficial golfing duo. If you’re into your indie music and football chat, tune in on Mondays and Fridays 9-11pm 👍😎

Winter League Rd 1 (Douglas Disappoints)

This weekend marked the opening round of the Stonehaven Golf Club winter league competition, an annual event with battle joined for two trophies; singles and doubles.

For my part, I have the misfortune this season to be partnering Keith Douglas for the doubles, an individual who is to the concept of reliability what I am to the world of haute cuisine; absolutely useless. And to demonstrate his utter ineptitude at being a winter league partner, he started this year’s campaign by lying prostrate in his scratcher instead of alighting at the first tee, reprehensible behaviour but not unexpected from a goon I spent our last winter campaign carrying all around the golf course. 

But on to matters in hand. Without tying you up in knots regards the intricacies of the competition’s rulebook, the idea in essence is that both team members play each hole and the team score contribution is made by the player scoring lowest. For example, if I play the first hole and score a birdie 3 while Douglas hacks his way to a bogey 5, it is my exemplary birdie that counts towards the team total rather than his ugly bogey (and I use this as an example since it’s far from untypical). The competition is therefore made much harder if only one of the competing duo attends, nevertheless, I manfully carried the weight of the team entirely upon my own shoulders while he went AWOL. 

But further disappointment was to follow. After single handedly mastering Stonehaven GC with a near flawless 14 holes of golf, my playing partners for the day decided enough was enough and steadfastly refused to play the final four holes, preferring a quick exit from the late afternoon gloom rather than an extension to the golfing lesson which I was furnishing them with free gratis. As a result, my excellent performance was rendered futile, since I couldn’t complete the round, and my course record threatening total was instead converted to an apologetic NR (no return). 

It would be rude to name the two brothers who betrayed me in such a disgraceful manner so I’ll just provide their surname; Martin. On second thoughts, that might give their identities away, so instead I’ll give you their first names; Angus and Craig. It’s my hope that they’re able to sleep at night and that Santa wasn’t watching if they’re expecting him to slide down their respective chimneys this Christmas.

This coming weekend represents round 2 of the winter league and I can only hope that a) my partner has the common decency to at least turn up and b) our fourball affords us the courtesy of completing a full round of golf. Why do I have the feeling it’s going to be a long winter?

Commy Night Memories

 

The Commodore Hotel goes down in Stonehaven folklore as being the flagship hotel of the town for the three decades before the turn of the century. The hotel itself was of significant renown, but for locals, it was a place chiefly famous for the weekend discos, gigs and parties, so on September 25th our radio show was devoted to memories of those times (the ones we could refer to without contravening libel laws anyway).

Bongo was our star guest, a born and bred Stoney loon of half a century’s standing, and he guided us through memories of yesteryear’s Commy hijinks, aided by a healthy contribution from hundreds of folk on the Facebook page ‘Stonehaven When You Were A Kid’. Much ground was covered and many laughs shared as we reminisced in between a clutch of songs that reminded us of this glory days. Here’s a flavour from the music set list ...

She Sells Sanctuary (The Cult)

I Travel (Simple Minds)

In A Big Country (Big Country)

I Feel For You (Chaka Khan)

The Reflex (Duran Duran)

New Year’s Day (U2)

Party Fears Two (The Associates)

Move On Up (Curtis Mayfield)

As for the chat, it’d take too long to describe in full the antics recalled by Bongo and myself, so instead, here’s a summary - 

the scaffolding pole incident, the Booed Aff Steps, behind the drapes shenanigans, Greener the disco king, sticky carpets, bucking broncos, inflatable boxing rings, 10 at 10, bouncers, Hearts supporters bust up, hot dog stall, last dance tracks, the Commy conga, Flicks, and much, much more!

Do tune in for episode 2 on Friday Oct 30th 9-11pm, you’ll find us at www.mearnsfm.org.uk and we promise you fun and frolics!

The wanderers return...

After a substantial break from here, I thought it only fair to once again, appraise the world of the weekly shenanigans undertaken on our Mearns FM indie music radio show. Me and co-presenter Brian have been reunited, having been flooded out of the previous studio a month ago by tumultuous weather, and to mark our show’s rebirth I thought it’d be in order to reconvene this blog. The right hand panel gives you access to hundreds of previous posts if you want a flavour (mostly radio show and golf tomfoolery related) and I’ll endeavour to provide an update each week. I find it’s important to keep one’s public happy.

The new studio is on the third floor of a building in the centre of Stonehaven so there’s surely no chance of being flooded out of here? We found turds floating past our ankles at the last gaff after Stonehaven’s drainage system failed to cope with a massive downpour, hence the relocation, and we’re delighted with our new home.

New music, and old, every week, indie, alternative and a bit of ska, you’ll be made very welcome.