It was the 6th day of the 6th month in the 6th year of the new millennium, all the omens you needed to indicate how dire the standard of golf would be unless you were the son of Satan!
The day started with Kevin Playford arriving on horseback and firing his pistols in the air, this being the traditional entrance for all bandits. Mr Bucke was a last minute cancellation due to a mysterious back complaint that occurred whilst away with the “Flux Babes” at a motor show for the weekend. Word has it the injury was caused by bending down and peeking through too many keyholes! Dirty old bugger!
We all met up in the clubhouse to scoff some bacon sarnies and be introduced to our teammates. Moans, groans and the threat of cancelled agencies could be heard from the three victims who were in Carl’s group. They weren’t encouraged when they found out that Norris McQuirter, from the Guinness Book of Records, would be following Carl around the course with his calculator.
By 12 o’clock the teams had begun to tee off and the reassuring sound of ball on tree trunk could be heard reverberating around the course. There were divots flying through the air that could have re-turfed a small lawn and the language coming from Phil Harpham after his shots provoked two guests to ask me if he had touretts!
One by one the groups made their way around the course, Playford holding things up for a while after his horse had lost a shoe on the 4th fairway.
Refreshments were made available half way round courtesy of Helen and Heidi who looked like they were behind their very own W.I. stall serving cake and squash. All the talk at this point was about Heidi’s two greatest assets, which appear to be growing by the day, namely her personality and good heart. (Why were you thinking something else?!) The refreshment stop was a chance to check out some other teams’ scores so far, Paul Twite’s team had fewer points than Sunderland in December and Rob Balls had more points on his licence than his score card.
Eventually the carnage was over and everyone was back in the clubhouse (except Carl who was examining the medieval grave he had uncovered whilst taking one of his larger divots on the 10th!) exchanging tales of missed putts, wayward drives and the fact that Jason’s handicap is more to do with what’s in his boxers than his golf score.
On to the evening function and the awards presentation. The prize giving came and went, as I won “F.all!” for the 4th consecutive year I wasn’t taking a lot of notice of names but the guy who did the presentation was hilarious. There are some photo’s kicking about of the cheating bastards who left with all the glory and the trophies but in my opinion the less publicity they get the better.
At last it was over, empty wine bottles lay strewn around the restaurant like confetti at a wedding. It was time to go home, and as Kev Playford rode off into the sunset whistling the Mexican national anthem, it was unanimously decided that overall it had been a “Bloody good day!”