Could it be that the ability to play golf was something thatI had not retained from my former life? Perhaps the ‘riding the bike’ ruledidn’t apply to golf. Either that, or was I just a bit rusty? In fact, it wasneither, as I was about to discover.
I had a late tee time on the Sunday, 4pm, making me part ofthe last group to set out. There were over 32 teams taking part in fourballs,so it was clearly a major event.
The late tee time gave me plenty of time to clean the clubsup properly. I thought I might get peckish on the way round, so I made myself asandwich and put it in the bag along with a bottle of orange juice.
As I was putting them in, I remembered finding the mouldyremains twice already, and made a mental note to myself either to finish themor to throw them away this time.
The clubhouse was packed when I got there, but I managed tofight my way through to what looked like some sort of committee table wherethree men, all a similar age to me, were sitting.
The one on the right, a white-haired, rotund-looking bloke,spotted my approach and sarcastically remarked, “Hey, look who’s here! It’sRory Mcllroy!”
The man in the centre, slimmer, with glasses and a small,neatly trimmed beard, looked up, saw me and said, “Hey, Tom, glad you couldmake it. Don’t take any notice of Steve: he’s been taking the piss out ofeveryone.”
This was Nick. I had done my homework on social mediabeforehand to avoid any awkward cases of mistaken identity.
“Having said that,” continued Nick, “I thought it might besafest if I put you on with me and we went out last.” Steve chuckled at thiscomment and said, “Make sure you stand well behind him when he tees off.”
The schedule was running behind and it was nearly 5pm by thetime we got to tee off. I was playing with Nick and two younger guys in theirlate-twenties.
Thankfully the piss-taking Steve, to whom I had taken aninstant dislike, was not with us. Apparently he had already completed his roundand was now in charge of collecting the scores from the other groups as theycame in, freeing Nick up so could play his round.
The first hole was a 389 yard-long par 4. Nick teed offfirst and hit a lovely long drive dead centre of the fairway. It must have goneabout 200 yards.
The two younger guys, who were smartly dressed and oozingconfidence, hit similarly respectable shots. This didn’t help me very much. Ihad been hoping that at least one of them would have fucked up to take the heatoff me.
I stepped up to the tee, full of foreboding and lined up myshot. It was a disaster. The ball went off to the right at an angle of 45degrees, straight into a thicket of bushes lining the side of the firstfairway.
The two youngsters laughed. Nick was a little moresympathetic, commenting, “Not getting any better with age, then, Tom. Stillit’s the taking part that counts.”
So that was that, then. I was officially crap. I hadn’tforgotten how to swing a golf club. I had never been able to do it.
“You’d better take another tee shot,” said Nick. “Just incase you can’t find that one,” he added.
I managed a half-decent shot the second time, hitting it roughlyin the right direction, but it still came to rest in the rough on the edge ofthe fairway, somewhere short of where the others had hit theirs.
A fruitless root around in the bushes confirmed that myfirst ball was gone forever, and on we trudged, up the fairway.
At the end of the first hole, Nick had managed a par 4, theyoungsters had both done a bogey 5, and I recorded a 9. At least it hadn’t beendouble figures. Unfortunately, I managed that on the very next hole which was apar 5, clocking in a pretty desperate 12.
One of the reasons I had come along was that I wanted tofind out more about some other areas of my life, and I could tell from Nick’semail address that he worked for the same company that I had.
The two youngsters were clearly mates and more or less keptthemselves to themselves, giving me plenty of time to talk with Nick. I hadbecome quite adept by now at steering the conversation the way I wanted it togo without revealing the huge gaps in my knowledge.
“So, what’s happening at the old place these days?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s pretty much the same as ever,” replied Nick. “Salestargets, meetings, constant pressure. They’ve moved me over to dairy now tosort out the milk crisis.”
“What’s that all about, then?” I asked, hoping it wouldn’tappear too dumb a question.
“Well, I’m sure you remember the constant price wars we usedto have over milk. The chairman said that keeping the price of four pints below£1 was crucial to our long-term success. Well, we’re reaping what we’ve sown onthat front now.”
“How come?” I asked. I was actually feeling genuinelyinterested. The world of retail was a fairly closed book to me, but since itseemed my entire career had been spent within it, now was as good a time asever to start learning.
“Quite simply,” continued Nick, “so many dairy farmers havegone out of business that there’s no longer enough milk to feed the UKpopulation. Ironic isn’t it, that in this green and pleasant land, we now haveto import milk from Eastern Europe just to make sure the kids have gotsomething to put on their Coco Pops in the morning? You know, I think you didthe right thing getting out when you did. I wish I could join you, but sincethe divorce, I’ve had to start all over again, especially after that stockmarket debacle.”
I had no idea what he was referring to with either comment,and knowing nothing about the stock market, decided to ask him about hisdivorce.
By the time we had completed the front nine, I had a grandtotal of 70 on my card, compared to Nick’s 43. The golf may have been provingfruitless, but Nick had been an invaluable mine of information.
I found out
