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).