The story of the 2020 Claret Jug has origins in a number of disconnected points in time.
At some point in the 1990’s a talented young man is distraught to discover that the cassette tape that he’d used to lay down what he thought was the ultimate riff was missing. He tried to trace his steps, and went through the possible places he might have lost it, but all he could find amongst the bins were long black hairs and traces of cannabis and pachouli lingering in the air.
According to the official account, an American troubador came up with a riff in a hotel room in Melbourne Australia whilst on tour in January 2002. He recorded the riff, now part of a longer song – a song without a chorus – at a studio in Hackney in London in April 2002. Coincidentally, this studio is very close to the residence of the talented young man who misplaced the tape that contained his own ultimate riff.
In 2008 a less young man makes a trip to the South West to try playing golf with some lads he’s been assured are ‘not total wankers’. Seems that they’d had a night on a job before the golf and one particularly indisciplined member had over indulged and was missing the golf as a result. The new member of the society thought that the polo shirt he’d paid £20 for was pretty poor quality – both the cotton and the embroidery, but he was happy to be able to play golf, even with some strangers. He played with a short, shakey smoking chap with a low penetrating ball flight, a complete weirdo who took forever to prepare to hit mediocre fades and a guy who was very chatty and welcoming. The new member recognised a proper golfer when he saw the wonderful ball striking and single figure handicap flight it produced, but the happy and funny guy could also be very very fussy about where you stood when he was lining up putts, or how quiet you were. Clearly he was a proper golfer. It was a bit of a mystery why he was called an Idiot.
In 2018, the wasted drunkard from Bath abandoned his working class roots and joined a dull but self regarding golf course in his new home town as a five day member. He may have only been approved for five day membership because most of the members wouldn’t have liked hearing his rough Sheldon tones on the course when they themselves played at the weekends.
In 2019, in sunny Portugal, the new member is now the stalwart Captain of this society and has suffered a terrible final round. He’d played phenomenal golf on the Thursday, when all that was at stake was cash, but his back was his achilles heel and four days of golf meant he was back to the crippling pain that had seen him limp round Royal North Devon in the final four watching History being made just three short years earlier. Turns out he was able to watch the complete weirdo totally choke his chance of winning the best event of the year from around 100 yards, giving the short shakey chap the chance to nip in and reclaim a title he’d won in the early mists of time. The Captain was astonished to see how well this wreck of a physical specimen managed to hold onto his putter to hole out for the win, he was shaking so badly. According to the history of the society, the victor in Portugal was member number 1, having organised the first ever event back in 2003.
The Captain returned home, and the following day he had to stand on the train all the way from Leamington Spa to London, and then round to Aldgate tube station on the Metropolitan line, where upon disembarking he tripped up the final step before the barrier and landed heavily amongst his fellow rush hour commuters. He’d managed to break his shoulder in such a way that he needed two operations and three specialists to get him fixed – they weren’t sure he’d ever regain full mobility, indeed as a result of his injury his right arm was capable of zero degrees of internal rotation. The shoulder specialists pulled a face when the Captain sought assurance that the injury wouldn’t affect his golf swing.
The Portuguese victor, one of the less communicative members of the society, had won the right to organise the society season closing golf trip for the next year. He did this with great aplomb, working through the President as his point of communications, and booking one of the world’s best courses with a luxury catering and accommodation package. The society cheat and miser provided his usual challenge in order to determine that the deal was indeed the best one possible, and wasn’t going to add any hidden extras for silly things like buggies or food or beer or golf. It seemed that only Ryanair were in the position to shaft the wallets of the 16 boys lined up to travel back to the Algarve.
At some point in the final months of 2019, in a laboratory (or a wet market) somewhere near Wuhan, someone fucked up. And, unbeknown to the members of the society, the 2020 Claret Jug was suddenly at risk.
In the first few months of 2020, right wing political leaders did a particularly poor job of recognising a global threat to health and their economies, but eventually had to follow the science and the approach of countries being lead by more moderate female politicians and enforce restrictions to contain the spread of a virulent menace.
In late March 2020, just before lockdown rules took hold in England, the drunken man attended a golf event he’d organised, despite displaying symptoms that were aligned with the problematic virus. By all accounts the course was nice, but the weather was cold and the drunken man was a damned fool.
In June 2020, the Captain sees his fifth spinal specialist, and the conclusion is that he will need ‘Tiger Woods Surgery’ to address his crippling and chronic backpain. He books his surgery for the week after the planned return to Portugal, and orders a boatload of high powered painkillers from a vendor on ebay. He also has a legitimate prescription for a high powered nerve pain suppressant, apparently taken recreationally by people who like to ‘Mong Out’ – the Captain decides to follow the instructions on the packet and not abuse this particular pharmaceutical.
In the summer of 2020 it becomes increasingly clear that the plan for a return to Portugal was not going to happen, so the members begin contingency planning. The weird deviant member arranges a trip to some nice Welsh courses, and everyone is disappointed but can take solace that the golf trip would still happen.
Throughout September, a clueless older man in Cardiff makes a series of inevitable decisions to lock individual Welsh towns and regions down, and the contingency plan for the end of season event needed a contingency.
Enter the Captain, fresh from learning that he would need to find himself a new source of gainful employment, and with plenty of free time on his hands. He arranges a last minute trip to Cornwall, taking in a venerable links, a parkland resort and a classic championship challenge. The extant rules controlling society would mean that the traditional evening events the members enjoyed on tour – power drinking, pool, indian cuisine – would need to be modified. Fortunately, the tee times would allow for a proper session on the Saturday afternoon before the national curfew of 10pm.
And so, in October 2020, the society gathered in Newquay, not Portugal, to contest the Claret Jug.
Saturday’s round was at a course attached to a hotel near Bodmin. It was remarkable for being unremarkable – the weather was cool and wet. The drunken fool, having spent most of the last two years expanding his obsessive compulsive disorder from the cleanliness of his golf equipment to his actual game, was the form player. He’d swept most of the tournaments on tour, even with his handicap coming down. But this is the Claret Jug, where he always prioritised the job over the gofe – having had several incidences of catastrophic inebriation over the years. At the same time, the beer bravado had been dialled down – the drunkard was driving, he had a sensible new life companion, and was loving being better at golf. He would be the man to beat.
The Captain had a nice quiet round with the reigning champion – they shared a buggy, which helped reduce the tension in the Captain’s back. The third member of the group was the stealthy man, who carried a hint of violence and sexual passion. The stealthy man was usually in the company of the cheating miser, and was happy to be playing with the pair in the buggy.
After 5 holes, the Captain was leading narrowly. Then a younger man, of Irish descent, took the lead for a few holes, but by the 10th hole the drunken savant had taken the lead. He held this lead through to the end of the day. The Captain held on to finish in second, with the Irishman and his young friend close behind. The minor prizes at Bowood Park were a little confused, with the hole for longest drive moving due to the suitability of the hole originally selected. In a move that went against traditional society bickering rules, it was agreed that both holes would count and that the society’s biggest club thrower and the society’s longest thrower could both win the Dog. The Irishman took the shark, and the angry club throwing man denied the Convict to have the honour of wearing a t-shirt out on Saturday night for hitting another long drive.
(I have a note here saying that we annoyed some of the locals at Bowood, but I don’t really remember why – I think we got shouted at for either hitting over them or delaying them, but they were clearly a right set of twats). Saturday was notable for the absence of our most enigmatic member, the Hairy one – who was being ultra cautious about his own health and elected to sit out the day. Other notes I have found refer to the President turning up with freshly baked guns, and the throwing man looking emaciated. I must also note that the absence of the talented young man, and his matchplay simulator, was remarked upon by a number of boys, as was the thieving approach of the American troubador. The absence of other members was notably less marked by the society.
The curfew in Newquay was 10pm, and there were rules in place limiting tables to 6 people and stays in hostelries to 2 hours. At this point, the Tolerant man – the travelling life companion of the drunkard – stepped in. He proved to be a wizard at organising venues that navigated 16 men across the town to a curry house. Duly, the members gathered for beers from 4pm. The Captain and the Irishman and his young friend, who would all be chasing the title from their privileged position in the final four were all on the strong continental lager. The drunkard was noticeable by his absence, especially as he was always the loudest promotor of being on a job and imbibing lager after lager. After more than an hour, the society was getting concerned that this was becoming a clear example of shaping by the drunkard. He eventually strolled into the pub with some cover story about a petrol station and an important email linked to his job creating protection rackets for desperate small towns. He was forced to see off a number of shots in short order to ‘catch up’
The society moved on to another venue, where the staff were very diligent in enforcing the rule of six. So much so that we were all asked to leave because the weird deviant couldn’t contain his excitement at being away with other men and simply had to wander about like a perverted spastic. And so we ended up being reasonably early at Indian Dream, who split the remaining members onto two tables. The final four were seated together – it was clear that the drunkard and the young man were feeling the effects of the evenings events. But still the draft Lal Toofan lager was flowing and the banter was good.
At this point, the young man – who had scored the society’s only ace on a windy day in Staverton in 2019 – was earning his new nickname. He clearly enjoyed the condiments that accompanied the poppadoms, so much so that he simply sat and ate the chilli pickle with a spoon, from two big bowls of the stuff as he continued to chug his beers. The drunkard was turning from charming and engaging, his Mr Hyde was emerging and he was getting aggressive with his friends, the staff and strangers. Following a bit of ‘fun’ where he held a knife to the neck of the Stealthy Man, the group were outside. The Captain, the Pickle, the Irishman and – I think – the Cheat, were waiting for their taxi while the drunkard rolled in the gutter with his leftover chicken tikka. The drunkard determined to walk home by himself, which would have resulted in one of his colleagues having to escort him in a town where he didn’t have the first clue where he was, but all were saved from potential further adventures when the taxi turned up. Again, the drunkard was an engaging character initially, but by the end of the journey it was clear that Pete’s Taxi was pleased to see the back of him.
When the members gathered at the Sunday venue, they were pleased to see the sun shining on a magnificent links layout. This wasn’t going to be a round where blunt and brutal thump and dump golf was going to win the day, a gusty wind added to the true golfing challenge. The members had a variety of success driving from the elevated tee, over a public road into the teeth of the wind, until just the final four were left.The drunkard was feeling chipper – the 10pm curfew clearly helped his powers of recovery. The Captain was full of paracetamol, naproxen and pregabalin and felt like his back might not fail him as it had done so many times before. Between them, they’d attended well over 25 Claret Jugs – the Captain had come close but neither of them had ever won the most prestigious event on offer to society members.
The final round of the 2020 season proceeded scrappily – the drunkard had a two point overnight lead on the Captain, and five points over the Pickle, but by the third hole he was no longer in first place. The Irishman never found form to challenge and ended up sneaking fourth. Then the drunkard regained the lead, and held it from the 4th hole to the halfway house and beyond. He took the option of sinking a beer with his leftover chicken tikka and strangely fashioned sausage sandwich from the hotel breakfast.
And the die was cast.
The Pickle and the Captain shared the lead on the 12th, and continued to see off the Drunkard across the closing holes. There was some discussion as to why he needed to pursue his full putting routine, even when looking at distances of less than 18 inches. He claimed his autistic need for order and routine was part of why he was doing so much better as a golfer. And then he missed two putts from less than 2 feet on the 16th green.
As had become traditional, the most important drive of the year was scheduled for the 18th hole of the Claret Jug Sunday. The Captain had a three point lead over the Pickle and the Drunkard – who stood up and smacked a massive drive directly up the middle of the fairway. This secured him the bragging rights for the Hulk for the next 12 months. It isn’t immediately clear where Pickle hit his drive, but the Captain shinned his drive straight into the stream in front of the tee. He put his provisional in the fairway, a long way back, and suddenly that three point lead looked very slender.
The society was arranged on the banking around the 18th green to see the final four close out the golfing year. The President had put in a good effort, and the Boring Steady member had clearly nudged his way to a good links round as usual, but they weren’t in contention. The Captain hit a soaring rescue club to the back right of the green. Pickle followed him onto the putting surface, two shots better because of the Captain’s chonked first drive. The drunkard celebrated his muscular drive and overclubbed massively, sending a wedge out of bounds over the back of the green. There was quite a bit of dicking around looking for his ball and being told he was dead in the water before he went back and played into the green to walk off with a closing point and third place in the tournament. The Captain was very tired, especially of the antics of the drunkard – who was clearly the only person of any importance playing this round, so he decided to lag up to the hole. Having not made a long putt all day, he dropped a 30 foot curling putt right into the hole for a birdie with his provisional and banking two vital points. Pickle got his par, but it was too late.
At the 13th attempt, the Captain – with a dodgy shoulder and chronic backpain – had won the Claret Jug. Because of the drugs and physical constraints, he’d become what he feared most – a wiley golfer. He’d lost a lot of distance off the tee, but gave himself scoring chances and won by a couple of points even though there was one blob on Saturday and a couple on the Sunday. Unlike the drunkard, and himself to be honest, he scored on the greens – holing out to keep three putts of his card. He’d won his green jacket in the manner of the Boring Steady member, but no one would remember that – and he’d never forget holing that curling downhill putt to close out the event. The planned surgery would mean an enforced absence from golf, and some effort to learn to swing with 3 fused vertebrae, but he couldn’t have hoped for a better way to close this chapter of his golfing career.
As was usual, the Captain had to retire with a pint, his laptop and the cards to work out the final positions of the event and the tour. The shakey original member had won the shark with a phenomenal shot, and the President had won the dog with a monster drive. The drunkard won the Order of Merit and the Hulk to cap an excellent year for him, despite chocking his overnight lead.
In a strange twist of fate, the Captain had won the Jug he’d organised at the last minute, leaving him free of the obligation to book the following year because the dream of Monte Rei was back on. The 2020 Claret Jug faced challenges even before the pandemic, but the history books will simply show that S Harrison beat J Moreton and C Gregory for the title.
