Towards the Light!

Hi – my need to batter the little white ball has been re-awakened by youngest son, so decided to have a one-blog-break from my wanderings in Africa and take you along to my modest golf club for a short, but hopefully, humorous insight. Anyhow, having dusted off my clubs and harvested a dozen balls from around our garden, with spring in the air and jaunty bounce to my step, yours truly set off with Tiger-like intent for 18, unsuspecting fairways...

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The Over the Hill Gang:

... Four minutes late for tee-off time. Having parked my van, changed my shoes, lashed together trolley and bag, I merge with six other grumpy golfers. Now there are seven, ‘Victor Meldrew’ look-alikes huddled around the first tee.

‘You’re late again.’

I give Geoff my best ‘so-what’ look and manage to mouth obscenities at him without the others cottoning on.

‘A quid on the game?’

Everyone nods. Geoff looks surprised, even though it’s been ‘a quid’ as far back as anyone of us can remember.

Les has got his blue, thermal vest on; the sleeves are sticking out from those on his shirt. When he laughs his eyes water and his top teeth drop; tough old sod but he’s eighty one for chrissakes! Pipes and tubes, tablets, teeth and sprays, I can’t wait to get that old – so much fun to look forward to. I pinch my nostrils closed and mimic Peter Allis:

‘On the first tee from...’ wherever – doesn’t really matter and I get another dirty look from Geoff, I guess his waiting for whichever god he believes in is driving him nuts.

So this is it. The moment we have all dreaded and dreamed of since last Wednesday. Trolleys of varying colours, makes and price tags are parked and preened like Mayfair Rollers. Batteries are coupled, engines revved and wheels checked for fear of flying off halfway down the Glorious Fourth.

‘Show us the way, Tiger!’ I grin at Geoff and egg him onto the first tee.

He glowers at me for talking and with a driver modelled on Picard’s Starship Enterprise lurches at a little ball no bigger than a pullet’s egg. 

‘Great shot!’ I lie and get muttered at when Geoff’s ball makes a spiteful swerve for squirrel country. Now he’s sucking his teeth and glaring. Him the Great White, me the unfortunate seal; I can see by the look in his eyes that I’m to blame for his crappy shot and he would, if he could, devour me.

‘Do you ever stop talking?’ he asks me. My reply of ‘only-when-having-an-orgasm’ has obviously offended him because his grip on the driver is really tight now.

Eventually, we’re off. Most are in the trees but there’s a lone ball on the fairway. Ian, being dragged at break-neck speed by his runaway electric trolley is first to reach it. He checks the logo and dribbles venom.

’It’s yours.’

‘Titleist 3?’

‘Yes,’ he growls and the urge to stamp on my ball turns his ears red. 

‘Behind that tree,’ I point to his ball, ‘I think that’s yours.’ It is and another gargantuan slash with the Callaway equivalent of a Scottish broadsword squirts his ball towards the pond, skips it three times on the water and sticks it in the bank. I daren’t repeat what Ian said for fear of being locked up. However, an hour and three quarters later with spikes off, hands round balls in pockets we all traipse into the golf club dining room.

Les orders for all of us; always the same – soup, roll and a cup of tea. Seven mushroom soups – seven ageing men on the verge of a feeding frenzy. Roger flashes a smile at the waitress; not impressed by his Brad Pitt, plastic look-alikes she twirls her pencil and stares through him.

‘Whadjawant?’ She’s texting while she speaks. Clever girl – multitasker. Miniature, chromed dumbbells through her lips and both earlobes.

‘Some extra rolls would be nice?’

‘Gedjasum in a minute,’ she replies and carries on texting.

The soup arrives; hot enough to melt down Chevy engine blocks. John burns his mouth and shouts out something that rhymes with duck. The waitress laughs, Geoff threatens to eat her liver and drops his spoon in his soup. Ian and Owen spring to life, wipe their chins and both shout, ‘Drink!’ to what they think is the waitress.

‘That’s the Captain’s portrait,’ I tell them. Both go back to their soup. Drinks forgotten; hands shaking in unison they stipple the table cloth with mushroom soup.

Les smiles and nods his head. Soup finished and rolls dismembered he talks to his invisible friend at the doorway.

‘Time for another nine, then?’ 

Outside, the sun’s come out through a hole in the clouds, startlingly bright just above the tenth green; maybe God’s sent someone down for us. There’s no one else on the course; ‘millionaire golf’ everyone points out – same as they pointed out last week. However, it matters not, the air is fresh, the colours stunning. I shrug off the inevitability of me reaching my own, life’s ‘final hole’ and with the rest of the over-the-hill-gang trundling along behind, walk as a grumpy old git of a golfer down towards the light...

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