As usual on the eve of a WHV event, the donk was up late, this time updating his new DonkaMetrics for career stats. Still, I didn’t have to get up till half six, which is an hour after a certain Mrs Brown posted a comment on the new stats. Ron’s Mrs had been using his laptop for Facebook again, but he was still online at half five in the morning – he was obviously pumped for one of the majors missing from his collection.

Also as usual on presidents day, the members arrived in dribs and drabs, looking bleary eyed, and looking for their coffee and bacon butty. Rob is looking thinner and thinner.

There were some strange rules in place for the singles, due to having 13 men in the afternoon, 4 of whom were needed at onions wedding in the evening, but the usual draw and pairings were made. It sounded like the other teams enjoyed the kind of tight fights I was used to in previous events, but Noz and I had drawn the unstoppable force of Adam and Ron. Giving a scratch golfer a stroke a hole is tough, and he was genuinely annoyed when we halved the second – he wanted to record a 10&8 victory. He holed his pitch from the middle of the first fairway and then proceeded to take the short, but on the fairway drives from mr Hogarth, blasting in long irons and rescues to match or better the best efforts on our side. Ron has a new toy, not for him the iPhone app that has done nothing but distract Bruce for two events now. No, Ron needs to “paint his target” with his laser rangefinder so he knows where to drop his 3 iron. And indeed he did, all morning. Noz and I only screwed up on the tenth, three putting when they were bunkered. On the 15th, we played a perfect hole, not needing to hole out the gimme from the pitch. Ron missed their twenty footer, but ads tramlined it to halve the hole in gross birdie. We’d lost 6&4 by then, we also lost the front and back nines comprehensively without playing poor golf.

It was amusing to see Ron and Ads manage to drive their buggy into a gps protected area at lunchtime and get stranded. The starter also told us about the ongoing scourge of buggy theft and pranking they’re suffering, which is why some members had to walk the afternoon round. Pedro was oblivious to all this, as he appeared to spend the whole of the lunch break on the phone, and we dont think it was a work related call.

After our standard lunch, the afternoon matches eventually got underway as other groups were sent out ahead of us, much to the chagrin of the captain. 5 hours in the morning, 5 and a half in the afternoon. No comment from me as I quite like the course, but at my age and standard of fitness, you do get tired, even in a buggy, after 4 o’clock.

Playing with Rob and Bruce, we quickly collectively had too many blobs to think we were in with a sniff. I managed to put at least one ball in each water hazard on the first five holes. But then I retained the shark by hitting the pin at the fourth. Missed the birdie putt though. This was also just three holes after the Idiot placed a long odds wager with Betron on an ace.

We were close enough on some tees and holes to keep up with the groups behind and ahead of us, and turning with 15 suggested that Bruce was doing OK, as were Ron and Noz and Millers and Ads. Sat waiting in the buggy on the tenth (happily the skipper had told the club not to send off another three sets of duffers in front of us), Bruce and I discussed how the new handicapping system was helping us have competitive golf again. We also considered that, but for the old three stab and duffer chip, we were both there or thereabouts and with some decent course management and concentration we could do a Bacon and clean up.

For once, even though Rob convinced us to start gambling 50p each on holes and shots, I did my best to concentrate, and by the time we got to the top of the hill at the 16th we knew that at least five of us were in with a sniff. I parted my way in, 2 points a hole, perhaps a bit lucky to find my ball in the blinding sunshine down the 16th, but thought I’d crucially missed my par putt on the 18th. Or not, as racking up 19 points coming home saw me see off the Skipper on count back and take the spoils. I’d driven well all day, and actually dropped some putts in, and it felt good to win after trying to win.

So, in a quiet presentation ceremony of four sunburnt men all running a bit late for their evenings (millers in particular appeared to be headed for the worst doghouse in history), the Web Donk won his second major and took over the belt for 12 months. I also won the shark, Ron took 2nd and the Big Dog. The skippers team took the team event and £5 each.

An unusually short break will see the WHVGS back together at Astbury Hall for the Captain’s Matchplay, which will be a stroke play event, just 2 short weeks after the Classic.

Oh, and now that Adam is definitely getting married, Bruce got engaged.

Not long till the priest.

After Mike’s spawny victory in the skins, he retired to the Vaults for a few jars. I returned to the bosom of my young family, anticipating an evening relaxing at home. However, Mrs Donk had bumped into Mrs Bacon in Touchwood earlier in the day and they’d determined that a visit to Bacon Towers was in order for the evening. Mike had just lost his dad and is very fond of playing with Little Donk, plus is such a useless bloke that his wife wanted me to take some “Before” shots of their house as they begin their Grand Designs remodel. Plus, like, we’re friends and stuff.

So, at around 7pm, we arrive at Bacon’s. Mrs Bacon tells me that Mike is at the boozer, but has said he’d be home soon for his dinner. We then descend into farce – with several calls to Mrs B from the boys at the vaults, being lead by Noz, in his cups. The Captain and Millers were also present. They demanded that I join them to toast Mike’s great victory at the skins. Now, I witnessed this greatness – his four skins (fnar) came from a peach of an iron shot in the driving rain that took him several attempts to get away as he gayed it up in the wind and rain. The next two skins were long drive ones – the first by about 4 feet from me and Milko, and the last was a shinned drive that he wouldn’t have noted without me pointing it out to him once we got to the green. Not the fabulous roll to home from the Presidents, just a bit lucky for once – good for him, but not really based on great golf! So I decided to spend time with the boy, the ladies and taking pictures of Mike’s house, as a favour, before it got dark.

Finally, Mike arrived home and presented me with two bits of paper, no doubt demanded from the barkeep by Little Prince Noz. Emboldened by beer, comfortable in familiar surroundings and egged on by his cronies. Noz failed to register that he was entering the 12th hour of his pregnant wife’s birthday away from her.  This was not a notified WHV Job, just an ad hoc beer or two.

I’ve just noticed that this note is signed by Noz, Cap’n and Mike! Also by Millers, Conceptman – who doesn’t know what he’s doing at the best of times.

Now when I then drove round to pick up the chinese, we popped into the vaults to find Noz, Millers and Pete sat there. Relatively merry, slightly abusive in their greeting for me, but when prompted, Noz responded that he was about to go get his own chinese for when his wife picked him up. Millers looked to becoming more and more aware that continuing to drink and not be at home with around 12 hours until he went on holiday was not the greatest idea, but it’s Millers. And Pete was, well, Pete. After the note, I expected to be hoisted by own petard, not the rather sheepish reception that actually occurred. Object lesson here in confronting ‘bullies’, and in locking this stuff away for next season when Noz will join me and Aust and the TD as new dads who find spending time with their kids more diverting than the Vaults – hopefully so for his daughter’s sake.

We’re out for dinner with the Spittles and Bacons tonight – posh Michelin star stuff in Edgbaston to commemorate my recent milestone birthday. I’m bound to get Noz-buse, again – witness the Jug weekend last year where I was accused of nursing a handicap on Friday by blobbing two holes on the toughest course we’ve ever played, only to see him do the same and much much worse on Sunday. I suspect he might have jumped the gun again, and pretty soon, I’ll be in a position to point out where he puts his family before a beer.

Will Noz ever stop calling people out for perceived slights? He’s not on the board any more, he’s not winning anything and pretty soon he’ll have to give the green jacket and the coveted OoM Three Wood to the next incumbent, he’ll join the rest of us ‘ordinary’ members of the WHV where there is no power or elevated status!

Editorial

From being a mutinous malcontent just 12 short months ago, where  he was on the verge of quitting, WHVGolf.com feels duty bound to report more evidence of his complete turnaround.

Now the most zealous promoter of the society, where his efforts and innovations are to be lauded, Ron is displaying worrying signs of megalomania – not enough for him to be part of the board, nor to be acknowledged as the best golfer, ever, to have graced the society, now he wants to WIN IT ALL.

Not content with holding the Red and the Dog (the sting of seeing the Hulk on Noz’s bag must be acute, especially as Bruce has now taken the Shark), Ron has put forward his own view of how the board should resolve my constitutional question about a tie for the yellow.

As Simon has pointed out both him and I are tied at the top of the OOM following the horn – there are no guidelines as to who should wear the yellow vest at the next event.

My suggestions would be:

• Vest to be worn by player recording the most stableforth points
• If the above is tied, Vest to be worn by Player with most wins

(Both happen to be Ron by coincidence, but I think the above makes sense)

Captain, over to you..

Isn’t that convenient? Ron, despite complaining that the yellow he wore at the Brissle was tattered and too small, still cannot face not being THE MAN at the Presidents! My own suggestion would have been for both of us to wear yellow…that’s friendly enough. I’d rather not wear the colour that Noz wore last year, I played with him and although he racked up over 40 points, it might have been more without all of the marsh flies buzzing round him. Or we could look at some kind of countback, like we do with everything else.

But no, Ron is mad with power and wants it all – I’m surprised we’ve not seen him in a hybrid Red/Yellow variant polo shirt, crafted at massive expense by immigrant workers, just to remind everyone of his glories.

I have faith in the board…at the moment – he might sweeten the deal again with a ‘board only’ round at his home course again…

Ron feel free to comment, I pride myself on operating a transparent and equitable website!

Update

The Captain weighed in with a clear constitutional summary of the position…

Countback – Simon is in Yellow, Aust is in Orange, Noz has the hulk, the Captain’s team will win the President’s, Pedro Power will not have to pay out 125 nicker & all’s well in the WHVGS world.

This is the Beacon Inn.

This is a pub somewhere in England. It received a visit from a member of the WHV board on Saturday evening. He came in with two empty Stella glasses, and left with two full pints of Fosters, and an empty bladder.

It is at the end of this country lane, a couple of miles off the M5 Northbound.

This is Haresfield. Approximately Two Stellas distant from the Stockwood Vale GC.

Due to paranoia from Rob, we all arrived early for a fictitious tee-off time, so accodingly, we finished a little late. Now, the WD had forewarned fellow travellers that he was getting straight off afterwards as he was likely to be in the Doghouse with the mother of his infant child for just ‘gadding about doing whatever he wants’. Before the round, the TD had asked the WD if it was going to be possible for him to join him in an early trip home as he too was in the Doghouse with the mother of his infant child, this time for doubling up on curry house visits the night before (or something, it has to do with a mixed grill ordered but not consumed and more libations with WHV members whilst guests were at the house).

At the point of departure, the TD popped into the clubhouse to pick up the token for the barrier and came back with a couple of pints. He seemed to be in  relatively good spirits, insisting on playing his Longpigs CD whilst we drove round the Bristol ring road on a Saturday evening with him showing off to parallel cars at roundabouts. “Boy” and “Helluva Boy” (with hand gesture) were seen a couple of times. Apparently Ron had banned the TD’s tunes from his motor on the way down, and they all had a lot of fun playing a game with Ron’s ipod until Bacon ruined it by going for Johnny Cash or something. Anyway, 4 songs (all of them ‘brilliant’) into the CD and the TD was bored and demanded that the WD hook up his ipod so that the TD could compose a DJ set on the fly.

We were now on the M5 and making reasonably good time – should have had him back in Knowle for quarter to nine, not too bad. He was disappointed that I did not have all of the Sis and Roses tunes for him to accurately replay his ‘set’ from Spike’s wedding (thank Christ), but he did then proceed to flick through the thousands of songs on my ipod muttering “I can’t believe you don’t have [rubbish song, mostly by Oasis], you’re killing me here kid”, or “this is the best song they ever did!” – quite forcefully.

He doesn’t like the fact that the ipod automatically plays the next song once the one he’s selected has finished, it annoys him, he’s much happier picking one at a time, apparently. Come on Apple, pull your finger out – portable music should be just like when you lined up a load of 7″ singles on your mum’s music centre. Apparently, his own ‘Best of the Roses’ CD annoys him for chopping Resurrection short – ruining one of the top five tracks ‘EVER’ – luckily I did have the full version and I got 6 or 7 minutes of dancing rather than singing.

Anyway, halfway up the M5 he started gesturing towards exits. Conscious of our Doghouse status and the need to get home ASAP, I ignored this for the Gloucester junction – “you’re killing me here kid, just 5 minutes to a boozer, I need more beer”. So I acquiesced and that’s how we ended up at the Beacon Inn in Haresfield. Looked quite nice. Expensive houses. 10 minutes whilst the slowest service in the world poured him more refreshment and we were heading back to the motorway.

Several rounds of Mondays, Smiths and Supergrass tunes later, and with a full volume rendition of ‘Lucky Man’ by the Verve being bellowed out I was being directed off the M42 into Knowle. The WD has never been to the TD’s house, so my only option was to follow directions, which took me to a car park in the centre of the town – at 9 o’clock, just a single hour later than he’d promised – to deposit the young man, and his clubs, trousers, empties and Longpig CD to whatever laid ahead of him.

I do not know what happened next, but I do know that my ‘Tales of Greggers’ certainly got me right out of trouble when I got home.

At least he kept his clothes on for the whole of the journey.

The Venue

Truly a magnificent resort, almost perfect for the WHV season closer. Everyone commended the President for his choice of St Mellion. Only a few niggles were raised – that the final round of the WHV open would be played on some temporary greens, that the tee boxes were generally rubbish and that there was nowhere at all within walking distance where you could buy a box of fags.

The Nicklaus track couldn’t be faulted, everyone admitted that some of the tee shots were simply stunning, and that they’d give their right arms to own one of the cornish stone houses overlooking the course. Many thought it to be the best course they’d played, even if it was “b@stard hard”.

The Golf

The challenge of the course was going to favour discipline, straight hitting, conservative shot selection and steady putting. Or at least someone who could deliver at least one of those for at least 8 or 9 holes. Discussions turned to the fact that a big championship resort course might favour someone like the Web Donkey, who plays a lot of ‘Business Development’ golf round the Arden course at the Forest of Arden, and so would be acclimatised to a tough track.

News reached the leading group on the back nine that the Captain was playing a blinder and thought he was in with a sniff of winning the event. This was intriguing to hear, as the Web Donkey had just had a run of 7 or 8 consecutive holes with birdie putts – playing par golf on a championship course, and was a good 10 points ahead of the Captain – a bluff was attempted to see if we could attempt to convince the Prof that he was on for his first victory since the tour went professional. I don’t think it held, and in any case, he was far more focused on a spread bet against Ron, as usual.

Meanwhile, Noz was regretting his decision to carry, and walk the course – at one point he was begging Ads to carry his bag for him and even went so far as to start putting his clubs in other people’s bags.

Noz had also noticed that the run of pars was putting the Web Donkey, his chief challenger for the Order of Merit, in serious danger of facing a points cut alongside the victory cut. Hence, from around the 14th hole, everything that was less than perfect was treated with a volley of abuse of cheating, even a lipped out birdie putt on stroke index one, from off the green no less. Similarly, the decision to drill a 2 iron down the middle of the following par 5 was seen as protecting his handicap, even though it resulted in another 3 point par, was viewed by the Players Rep as tantamount to stealing the Order of Merit.

Compounding the crime, when the wheels came off on 17 and 18 and the winner blobbed both holes by playing some adventurous golf to shut Noz up – keeping his score at a safe 35 points saw Noz off and running to all and sundry about how I’d been cheating. We now know that he’d been told not to bother coming home if he didn’t end up winning the tour title by Mrs Noz, so maybe it would be viewed as acceptable to single out and abuse his No. 1 challenger. However, the blob blob finish by a winner facing a handicap cut would not be the last of the weekend…it will be interesting to see how Noz reports his own miraculous failure to card a point once he thought his title was safe.

We have found how to neuter the perennial challenge of Coops – never out of the top 2 since his return to the tour in 08 – let him drink the night before a round. Even when powered by a full pack of tabs and a large Cuban, it takes him at least 12 holes to sober up enough to direct that driver. This was evidenced by him collecting the longest drive prize on the 18th by launching a howitzer past the collected Big Dog’s of the GS, it also served notice to Ron that his beloved Hulk might be in jeopardy.

Oh, and WD won by an 8 shot margin even with a blob blob finish, Ron was 2nd on Countback and Bruce won the nearest the pin. I’m obliged by the constitution to provide money details: WD £15, Ron £10, Coops & Bonus £5 each. The sponsor has also provided a magnificent trophy, and will gladly tell all and sundry about the miracle of engraving machines.

Accepting the Magnificent Trophy

The Job

As required by local byelaws, as the winner of the Spittle Shield, Mr Hopkin was required to consume all alcoholic beverages out of the 1968 Munich Beer Stein.

Then Bacon managed to dump a whole pint of Guinness down Aust’s only pair of jeans, and as his only other option were some Hugo Boss drawstring lounge pyjamas, he was not best pleased.

There was much debate over chicken supreme and cornish cheese as to what the society should do with its’ evening in Cornwall. A number of members were fighting hard for a night out in the ‘Mouth – wanting to get on a proper job that concluded with Donnas and Doners, others were displaying tactical foresight and recommending an evening in the hotel to get properly prepared for the Jug (Aust being the cheerleader for this option, important to note). Eventually, after haranguing an adolescent waiter, we determined that Saltash was an acceptable compromise – out of the hotel, likely to serve cider, not going to be full of sailors looking to fight a bunch of accountants and analysts down from Solihull. All agreed that if Saltash was a little too provincial, it was going to be OK to push on into Plymouth.

Our plan was made after we’d booked the cabs, and the fat lad tag team taxis from Moustache Cabs weren’t happy in the change in plans, but this was quickly resolved by a recommendation to “hide” the cabs from the one man who’d not made it upstairs without hearing the call of his favourite place. “Where’s Noz?” was the call. “Having A Sh!t, of course”. The thought of a poor man being abandoned by his boys because he had to lay cable appealed mightily to our cabbie and we set off for Saltash in good spirits, after we waited for Noz to pinch off a quick one.

Society protocol dictates that the evening’s events will forever stay on tour (not that there was anything salacious to report), but here are some phrases to stimulate the memories of those who where there:

• “This place is rubbish, lets to to Plymouth” – repeat ad nauseum from Coops
• “They serve RATTTLER!” and then, several times “Ten Pints of Rattler Please” – the President enjoying himself
• “The game is 5 card no peek…..” – ruined in about 5 minutes by a fevered discussion between Noz and Ron about the legalities of a £1 raise on a 20p call
• “Come on mate, let us in, we’ve got money and will spend loads” – Ron to the Doorman/Proprieter of the WarmIce, late licensed bar in Saltash
• “This place is rubbish” – everyone after getting into said late bar
• “What do you mean you’re going to bed. Are you gay?!” – a resurgent and rampant Aust, who’d almost fallen asleep during the card game, upon returning to the hotel and proceeding to challenge for Last Man Standing rights
• “Why is it dark in here and why are my trousers round my ankles?” the Prof, upon waking up in a random cubicle in one of the many Gents bathrooms in the hotel (this might have been following the DPS, but still worthy of inclusion!)

There’s quite a bit of footage of the closing hole, so expect another post covering that shortly.

And so it came to pass that he faced his greatest challenge – Sunday morning of the Claret Jug, playing his nearest rivals, needing to concentrate on a course none of the players had ever seen, alleged to contain horrors such as temporary greens and many holes favouring the evil Troll Aust, who had cleverly managed to make sure he had one of his mighty sleeps the night before the special day.

But little Noz needn’t have worried, his golf remained solid – as he admitted to his playing partners, he now felt like a proper golfer. Whilst he missed the nostalgic days of getting 4 points for scoring par on a short hole, he was loving his Pro V1X’s and all the adulation from his peers.

Playing alongside a rag tag mob of colleagues and enemies, Noz remained suspiciously quiet. Where was the banter and persecution of his #1 rival, the poor Web Donkey? Where was the non-stop chatter with the ever-mercurial Tour Director? How could he not have Nozzed on for hours about the bizarro performance of the Cracker Fountain Kiss Machine Millers the previous night?

Little Noz didn’t do any of this, he let his golf speak for itself. Having witnessed a similar display of magical dreams coming true for the similarly obsessed President in the final group of the previous Jug, the WD knew his fate was not to win the title, and Noz didn’t begin to believe until, after 5 or 6 pars in a row, he watched his closest rival stuff one in the lake on the challenge that was the nearest the pin. At this point, his quiet dignity began to slip a little and the chirping that had threatened the bonhomie of the group after Noz won the coveted Hulk a few holes previously began in earnest. He had knocked one inside of poor bereft titleless, spot prizeless Bacon and was beginning to believe he would soon be crowned the King of WHV Land for the next year. No matter that the WD knocked his provisional to 2 feet, or that Millers pulled out 2 miraculous birdies on the way in, little Noz was going to win.

The quiet dignity slipped and the old Noz began to appear through the cracks. He was understandably excited, but surely this didn’t allow him to go tramping round the course bellowing at other groups whilst his goodly playing partners were in the address position?

Also, it wasn’t until he’d parred the 16th that we told him that every point he was scoring was cutting his playing handicap for the next year. Lo and behold, little Noz, going for the round of his life, came home 7 and 7, blob and blob. Normal golfers would accept this as a little suspicious, but they were tough holes, Noz had already won by 10 shots and surely the man who persecuted another player from the 12th hole of the Amy Austin under suspicion of nursing his score home 7 and 7 having recorded 35 points on the mighty Nicklaus track would never consider committing the same crime he accuses others of?

I will leave my readers to draw their own conclusions. Suffice to say, Little Noz rode home in his carriage that night to show his Queen that he had indeed won the lot and that the Wedding did not need to be called off. Plus he had an extra £105 in his pocket to go towards the grand ball he would be funding as King of WHV.

The End

PS – As I am shortly heading off to Barcelona for a metering conference, it will not be until Friday that I get much chance to post the cards from the weekend. I will make sure that I get my Amy Austin report out on time, and publish some summaries of the Jug Scores, but I want my WHV Open coverage to be exceptional, and I have some good photos and videos to share. I also hear that the masterclass is fantastic.

Kudos to the President for such a good weekend, well done to Noz for all his glorious winnings and for getting himself down from 26 to somewhere near 15 in a single season (I doubt it will stop him chirruping about other players having false handicaps, but hey, he’s never happy if everything is good and he’s not winning), and well done to Ron – his flurry of birdies may have resulted in a Runners Up spot in the Jug, but that also means he’ll be off +1 for the 2010 tour.

Banter prior to the day forewarned us of ‘Widney Manor Standards’ from the best golfer on tour, who was the only man present when Bacon and I arrived with all of 20 minutes to spare before the first tee off time. Meeting Ron and his shoes for the first time was an enlightening experience, but having played 18 with the man, I don’t think he restricts his flamboyant dress to the course and clubhouse. Happily I think we can all report that Ingon Manor is certainly not ‘Stratford’s Widney’ and is genuinely a nice, challenging course, and that a Round with Ron can occasionally help players like me remember how to concentrate and manage your way round the course to build a winning score.

Fortunately, the rest of the field arrived with all of 3 or 4 minutes to spare – plenty of time to sort out payment and the Prof’s book for the event. Apparently, even though it is just off one of the main roads into Stratford, and therefore less than 30 minutes from Solihull, at least 2 vehicles in the WHV caravan were being driven by men who have swapped their testicles for SatNav’s. Real men read maps, and don’t get sent on and off motorways at the whim of their TomTom’s. As would appear more customary at Sunday events (Friday nights don’t offer the same depth of opportunity for ‘mishaps’ as full day Saturday sessions), the initial debrief from several contestants was quite colourful.

My previous Sunday event was the Brizzle, where the TD failed to make it to his hotel, never mind the event. At the PEA, Juice, we were reliably informed, had cried off with a broken nail, or some split ends or something that wouldn’t have stopped Brian Jacks winning at Superstars, but qualified as an athlete’s injury and prevented him from playing. It has been 3 and a half weeks since the PEA, so Pedro has probably done something more ridiculous than wrecking his hand whilst falling over in a footrace against a girl, that he lost, or sleeping on the drive of his mum’s house, so I won’t go into too much detail here to embarrass a 35 year old man who can’t win his own challenge to a girl, not actually get anywhere with that girl, and then end up sleeping in the garden.

The course was bathed in that peculiar late summer weather of bright sunshine, showers and drizzle for most of the round, a number of my group lost count of the number of times they were putting on and taking off hats, jumpers and waterproofs. I don’t think the weather could be blamed for an aggressive, across two-fairway moon by the Tour Director at the start of the back nine, however.

I believe there may be board investigations into a number of contentious issues following the PEA:

• quality and timeliness of handicap administration, my own handicap remains unclear and the result could yet be overturned
• clarity of the actual procedure to be undertaken in the case of a tie – the convoluted countback approaches attempted by the President to secure his own victory were verging on desparate, if the burgers hadn’t arrived, I’m sure he would have found a way to calculate the countback in his favour
• the longest drive competition was moved from the 7th to the 9th by the lead-off group with no prior notice to the rest of the field, many of whom may have used their ‘one good drive of the day’ on the wrong hole unwittingly. I doubt that shenanigans were behind this, as the winner and main challengers for the longest drive weren’t in the leading group (or likely to be), so perhaps this incident could be an object lesson in making sure at least one ‘grown-up’ is in the group that goes off first
• even on the ‘wrong’ hole there was trouble – with Ron booming off a monstrous exocet of a drive that finished a few inches behind the marker – showing Showelly as the man responsible for a great drive. This was not accepted as possible by Ron, a man of his stature cannot be beaten by one with the build of an adolescent hobbit. As I too lost out on the longest drive at the President’s by a couple of feet to Little Richard, I knew how difficult it can be to accept that sometimes David can beat Goliath. However, the TD was having none of this and is considering introducing random testing (of Showelly) to make sure he isn’t blood doping or something – a proposal not helped by the accused when he claimed his 290 yard drive was ‘all right, but I didn’t hit it that well’. I suspect this move would be supported by Ron, who is likely to ‘forget’ to bring the Hulk to any future WHV events.
• finally it may be time to retire the ‘Nearest the Pin’ competition to obsolescence, if the Prof can win it, is it really worth anything anymore. (I don’t know if he took 4 to get down from his winning tee shot…..which could mitigate the concerns) The lake in front of the green suggests a 7-iron stinger did not ‘run out lucky’, and he may actually have hit a proper golf shot.

Having said that, 4 scores over 30, particularly the 34 I witnessed Ron putting together, speaks to some good scoring, but not too good if the President scored 38 with a 10 on his card, and I scored 38 with a 9 on the same hole – but that would be the benefits of the Stapleforth format. Apparently I was also way too honest in applying R4, throwing my ball into thicker rough that any of my playing companions would choose. Fellow rookie Showelly is showing good form and should surely be short odds for the Jug after a couple of top four placings in a row.

Due to the rush to meet tee times, the Prof’s lesson on the correct use of the fish slice wasn’t delivered until after the event, the burgers and the end of the Liverpool-Villa game (could any match be a less boring prospect?) and the walk to the car park, and could therefore have been missed by a number of members – Mike Buttery and I were in the queue for the car park barrier. Hopefully these lessons will make their way online – newer members such as myself could be disadvantaged by not being in the same position in the ‘Prof’s Course on Better Golf for Hangovers and Duffers’ as the rest of the society, particularly with the Claret just around the corner.