BAD LANGUAGE
It has been brought to the notice of the General Committee that certain members of the club are using bad language on the golf course. This is both unnecessary and undesirable. Use of the F-word and the C-word is particularly abhorrent. In an effort to stamp this out once and for all, and with immediate effect, any member found to be using the F-word or the C-word, or indeed any other swear word, will be required to appear before the General Committee with a view to immediate expulsion from the club.
Mr Captain
The first two golfers to read the notice were Greg Coleman and Richard Irwin.
“Fuck me!” said Coleman.
“The cunt!” said Irwin.
Fortunately Mr Captain had not been in earshot when the aggrieved pair had uttered the newly-banned expletives. However he was well within earshot on the occasion that eighteen handicapper Bradley Tomkinson leapt in the air in delight and yelled, “A fucking birdie, it's a fucking birdie!” on chipping in from the edge of the second green. For this the unfortunate Tomkinson had been hauled before the committee and handed a final warning. Since then more than a dozen such final warnings had been issued. One poor golfer, already on a final warning, and who only erred the second time because he said 'Fuck!' when he dropped his sand wedge on the ingrowing toenail of his big toe, had been expelled.
Bad language on the golf course had plummeted. It still occurred, but those who used it now did so with discretion and not a little guile. For example when putting his name down for a club competition a golfer prone to using the odd swear word would ensure that he chose a starting time well away from that chosen by Mr Captain, thus giving himself the best possible chance of not being overheard if and when an errant swear word should accidentally pop out, which it is almost bound to, golf being golf.
After a final glance in the mirror Mr Captain breathed a contented sigh, pecked his wife on the cheek goodbye and left for the golf club to enjoy to the full his Captain’s Day.
8.30 a.m.
D Bagley (8)
G Chapman (9)
A Arbuthnott (11)
Shortly before 8.30 Mr Captain took up position beside the first tee. From there he would greet and see safely on their way each group of three golfers at the commencement of their round. Once the first threesome had reached the ninth green his intention was to operate between the first tee and the beer tent, still attending to his welcoming duties at the first tee whilst making time to enquire of each threesome what was their pleasure when they arrived at the beer tent after completing the ninth hole, and ensuring that their pleasure stopped at one drink.
The first threesome of the day, consisting of regular playing partners Des Bagley, Gerry Chapman and Andrew Arbuthnott, was now making its way leisurely to the first tee. All three golfers were looking forward to their round of golf, but especially so Arbuthnott, who felt in his water that this could well be the day he returned a winning card, and now said as much to the others.
“Your optimism knows no bounds, Andrew,” observed Bagley, on hearing Arbuthnott's hopeful prognostication.
“No I can really sense it, Baggers. It was there the moment I woke up this morning, a sort of gut feeling, and it's been there ever since.”
“Probably indigestion,” said Chapman. “I think I’ve got some Alka-Seltzer tablets in my bag if you’d like a couple.”
Arbuthnott shook his head. “Not indigestion Gerry. Just the deep conviction that I’m going to pull it off today.”
“Arby you haven’t won a competition in years, and even then it wasn’t one of any account, why should today be any different?” reasoned Chapman, forever the pragmatist.
“No I always play well on Captain's Day,” Arbuthnott insisted. “I was well in the running last year until I had that disaster at the sixteenth. The big occasion seems to bring out the best in me. And I'm really up for it this year; get the name of Andrew Arbuthnott up in gold at last.”
Arbuthnott wanted to see his name on one of the roll of honour boards displayed in the clubhouse in tribute to the winners of major competitions almost as much as Henry Fridlington wanted his Captain’s Day to be a huge success. His father had won the President’s Putter competition and his father before him had triumphed in the Anderson Bowl and Arbuthnott felt he was letting the family name down by not being the third generation of the Arbuthnott dynasty to be so honoured.
“The only way you're ever going to get your name up in gold Arby is if you buy a shop and get a sign writer to write it over the top,” said Chapman, with an air of cruel certainty that now caused doubt to enter Arbuthnott's mind for the first time that day.
“You'll see, Gerry, you’ll see,” said Arbuthnott, turning away and cutting short the conversation lest Chapman should say anything else that might sow a seed of doubt in his mind.
Although Mr Captain was undoubtedly the most unpopular captain there had ever been in the history of Sunnymere Golf Club the entire membership of the club treated him with due deference. The only person who had not shown the captain this respect, a member not only new to the club but also new to the game of golf, and who obviously wasn't aware of golf club protocol, had very quickly been informed that it is the position of Mr Captain that commands the respect of the membership and not the person holding that position. From then on he had treated Mr Captain with the same respect accorded him by all the other members. Thus it was that on arriving at the first tee Arbuthnott, Chapman and Bagley all greeted the captain with a dutiful chorus of “Good morning, Mr Captain.” Arbuthnott felt so chipper about his chances that he followed up the salutation with a pleasantry he wouldn’t normally have wasted on the present Mr Captain. “Nice day for it.”
“Isn't it just,” beamed Mr Captain, then, with no little pride, disclosed the secret he had been keeping on the back burner up until now. “Incidentally, I'm having the day filmed, so be sure to keep a sharp lookout for the cameras.”
Arbuthnott was impressed. “Filmed?”
“It is a proud day in my life, Andrew. A very proud day. To be Mr Captain on Captain's Day is something that only happens to a man maybe once in his lifetime, consequently I decided to have the occasion recorded on video for posterity. “
“What an excellent idea.”
“I thought so,” said Mr Captain, and went on, “Now be sure not to forget the Nearest the Pin competition on the thirteenth. Three of the ladies have kindly agreed to do the measuring this year.”
Bagley expressed surprise on hearing this. Traditionally boys from the junior section had always been entrusted with this task on Captain’s Day. “The ladies, Mr Captain?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, nice to get the ladies involved, isn't it.”
“I mean the juniors usually do it.”
“I decided to ring the changes; and it is my wish that the ladies do the honours this time round.”
“Wonderful,” said Chapman.
“Isn't it,” said Mr Captain, fully aware that Chapman was being facetious but not caring a fig about it. If bigots like Gerry Chapman didn't like it then it was just too bad. He checked his watch. “Eight thirty precisely gentlemen, best be getting your round underway, you don't want to be holding up the rest of the field.”
Bagley tipped his cap politely and the three golfers stepped onto the first tee.
The first at Sunnymere, as is the case with the opening holes on many golf courses, is a relatively easy par four. The reason for most opening holes being fairly straightforward is that there is less chance of the golfer, not yet fully into the swing of things, making a pig’s ear of the job and ruining his round before he has hardly begun it, which in all probability is what might very well happen if the opening hole presented any sort of challenge. Quite simply an easy opening hole gives the golfer the opportunity to ‘play himself in’, and although most golfers, having played themselves in on the first hole, somehow contrive to play themselves out and ruin their card on the second hole, or one of the subsequent holes, an easy openin
g hole is still regarded as a good thing.
“Your honour I believe, Baggers,” said Arbuthnott, in recognition of the fact that Bagley had the lowest handicap of the three and was thus entitled to tee off first.
Bagley strode confidently onto the tee and drove off, hitting his usual high fade of two hundred and twenty yards or so.
“Shot,” said Mr Captain generously.
“I ought to be,” said Bagley, forlornly. “Twenty years I've been playing this game and I still can't hit the ball much over two hundred yards.”
“You've always had an excellent short game though, Des,” said Arbuthnott, offering encouragement to his playing partner whilst at the same time taking out a little insurance against Bagley moaning all the time if things weren’t quite going his way, as he was wont to do, and possibly spoiling his own chances by putting him off his game.
Next to tee off was Chapman, who hit a poor shot off the toe of his driver. He followed the flight of the ball as it bounced once on the fairway before scuttling into the right-hand rough, then said, in honest judgement of his lamentable attempt at a drive, “Crap. Absolute crap.”
There had been a long and intense debate in General Committee as to whether the word ‘crap’ was or was not a swear word. Mr Captain had maintained that it was. However the majority of the committee had argued otherwise. In the end there had been a trade-off, Mr Captain allowing 'crap' on the understanding that 'twat' was added to the list of swear words. (It had been proposed that twat be an allowed word, several members of the committee claiming it meant the same as 'twit'. Mr Captain argued differently. His Shorter Oxford had confirmed to him that a twit was someone who was a fool whereas a twat was someone who is considered to be worthless, unpleasant and despicable, and, having recently been called a twat by the window cleaner, who he had refused to pay because he hadn’t got right into the corners of one of the bedroom windows with his wash leather, was well aware that the reason he had been called a twat was not because he had behaved like a twit.)
Last to drive was Arbuthnott, who hit an absolute boomer, all of two hundred and forty yards, straight down the middle. Mr Captain clapped his hands together in applause. “Oh good shot, Andrew. Excellent drive.”
“Thank you Mr Captain,” smiled Arbuthnott, then with his smile now taking on the hint of a smirk he turned to Chapman and said, “I told you it was going to be my day, didn't I.”
*
Club professional Dave Tobin had just sold the latest fad in drivers to the first customer who had entered his shop that morning. That the new club would be of no use whatsoever to its proud new owner and that he would have been far better off dispensing altogether with the services of a driver and using a three iron to drive with, Tobin did not enlighten him. Nor would he ever. The professional had always held the opinion that the customer, whilst not necessarily always being right, was always one hundred per cent right when they were intent on buying the very latest in golf equipment. Tobin was also very well aware that even if he had tried to talk the customer out of the new driver it would have been a waste of breath, so why bother? Apart from that he wasn't in the golf pro business for the good of his health, if people wanted to waste their money on over-priced golf equipment who was he to argue? The latest transaction hadn't even required any special sales skills, a commodity of which Tobin had in abundance, but had been no less satisfying for all that.
Now his second customer of the day walked into the shop. Tobin greeted him in his trained obsequious manner. “Good morning Mr Irwin, lovely morning.”
“Morning Dave. Box of balls, please,” replied Irwin pleasantly.
“Maxfli, isn't it,” said Tobin, reaching for a box of Dunlop Maxfli from the shelf behind him. He placed the box on the counter. “Looking forward to your round today are you, Mr Irwin?”
“Is the Pope a Catholic?” said Irwin, picking up the golf balls. “Put it on my account, would you.”
“Of course, Mr Irwin. Much obliged to you. All right for tee pegs are you? I've a new type fresh in. A revolutionary new plastic developed by the NASA space programme I believe. Claimed to put ten yards on your drive, only twenty five pee.”
Irwin was sold immediately. “You can’t get done for twenty five pee, can you.”
“Twenty do you?” suggested Tobin, intent on extracting a fiver from Irwin.
“Fine.”
“Twenty it is then.”
Tobin handed over the space rocket-charged tee pegs, reflected once again that there was one born every minute, watched his satisfied customer leave the shop, then turned to his new assistant Darren Lancashire, a tall, gangly seventeen-year-old with, Tobin had observed, reassuringly big feet. However the jury was still out regarding how he stacked up on the brains front.
“You will have noticed I knew which brand of golf balls Mr Irwin plays,” Tobin said to his assistant. “Know your customers, Darren. Give them good service and you'll make far more money out of them than what you will ever do giving them golf lessons. Gripping their cheque, Darren, not checking their grip, that's the name of the game, that’s what being a club professional is all about.”
“I hear you Dave,” said Darren, nodding eagerly, anxious to learn.
“I know what brand of golf ball every member of this golf club plays,” Tobin went on. “Every member. Gentlemen and ladies. Give me the name of a member.”
Darren was apologetic. “I don't know any yet Dave. Well I've only just started haven’t I.”
“I'll pick one then. At random. Give me a letter.”
“Er…A.”
“Another.”
“B.”
“A B. Archie Baldwin. Titleist. Another. Arnold Bradshaw. Dunlop 65. Another. Alice Bates-Weatherly. Top Flight.”
“Awesome,” said Darren.
“Whichever member comes into this shop for golf balls, whoever they are, even if they’ve only just joined, I am ready for them. Customers like you to know their preferences Darren, it makes them feel special. And it keeps my till ringing. And it isn't just their preferences in golf balls I have on tap. Sweaters, trousers, shoes, I know their tastes in those too. And their size. Archie Baldwin again. Pringle sweaters, 40 chest. Daks trousers, 38 waist, 32 inside leg. Size 9 shoes, usually Dunlop but has twice opted for Reebok.”
“Awesome,” said Darren.
Not awesome perhaps, but it was certainly impressive that Tobin had been able to commit to memory the golfing equipment preferences of the five hundred and twenty strong club membership. But maybe not such a big deal so far as Tobin was concerned as he was one of those fortunate people blessed with a photographic memory. This was of no great advantage to him for most things as he hardly ever exposed himself to anything worth remembering, the pages of the Daily Sport offering little else but bums and tits, as did the output of the only TV channels he watched; but insofar as being an aid to remembering precisely which member preferred what in the way of golf equipment it was obviously a huge advantage. That many people who play golf, despite it being a sport which requires nothing in the way of special clothing save for spiked shoes and a waterproof suit, find it necessary to kit themselves out in outlandish and expensive finery, only made Tobin’s job even easier than it already was.
Now in his fifteenth year as a golf pro, the last four of them at Sunnymere, Tobin had left the amateur ranks of the game for the professional at the age of twenty. Like the majority of young men turning pro he had entertained high hopes of a career as a tournament professional, maybe even the European Tour if he worked hard enough at his game, but also like the majority he had eventually and almost inevitably fallen by the wayside. In Tobin’s considered opinion it was chiefly because of his brains and his feet.
Shortly after turning professional, and with time on his hands after missing yet another tournament cut, he had come across an ancient golf instruction manual whilst browsing in a second hand bookshop which a fellow professional had advised him was an excellent source of porn. The tips in the book were in th
e main similar to those given to budding golfers in most golf instruction books, ‘Keep your eye on the ball’, ‘Keep your head still’, ‘Take the club head back low and slow’ etc, along with a few tips Tobin had never come across before. Some of them seemed a bit dubious to say the least, especially the advice on the correct stance to take when attempting to hit a ball that has come to rest on top of a bunker, and which if followed, Tobin felt, could only result in the golfer not only missing the ball completely but quite possibly sustaining a rupture in the process. His perusal of the book was not entirely wasted however as he did unearth one fact that turned out to be a veritable gem of wisdom; that if you wanted to be a successful golfer it was advisable to have big feet and no brains.
Unfortunately for Tobin he had small feet and a few brains, and it was the few brains he had which soon made him realise that the big feet/no brains theory, the basis of which was the contention that big feet gave the golfer a sound platform for his swing, whilst having no brains meant that he couldn't think too much about it, was an entirely sound one. Indeed, when investigating the manual's claim by analysing the results of all the golf tournaments in which he had played that year thus far he found it to be remarkably true. The golfers at the top of the leader board at the conclusion of the tournament were invariably men who were generously endowed in the feet department whilst being singularly lacking in grey matter. He soon discovered that he could pick out from amongst the field which of the starters would be the front runners, almost always including the winner amongst his selections, simply by looking at their feet and engaging them in conversation for a few minutes. Putting this information to good use he had then proceeded to make quite a bit of money betting on the outcome of the tournaments in which he took part, certainly far more money than he ever made from playing in them.
Captain's Day Page 2
