Pink Hair

Lots of people have it in for Poulter – if only he'd put as much effort into his game as he does into his clothes, yadda yadda. Me? I like him. He wears his collared shirt and tailored trousers as rudely as possible. Like a schoolboy, he has an air of rebellion without breaking a letter of the rules - practically daring the teachers to tell him off. Hootie is famously rumoured to have done just that, of course, with a warning not to dye his hair for his Masters appearance in 2004. The result was that Hootie looked blustering and impotent and not unlike Basil Fawlty. Its not a big leap to see the similarity between Hootie and the oldies who reminisce about how back in their day there was respect and you could leave your front door unlocked.

Every generation thinks the next one is up to no good, and there's always some mythical golden age when golf was played by gentlemen, and gentlemen didn't go round dyeing their hair or wearing jeans. I don't think the world of golf needs to be turned upside down (put those pitchforks down) but a dash of modern thinking can be no bad thing, surely?

Anyway, the reason for this unseasonal mention of Ian Poulter is that, in a mini-tribute to him, I have dyed my hair pink and purple. I'll report back on whether the Lady Captain has anything to say about it.

(Photo from ericskiff on Flickr, and no that is not me. It's pink but it's not that pink)

A golf course is like porridge

His Lordship has just come back from a weekend in the arms of the big old dames of Scotland, St Andrews, Carnoustie, Kingsbarns. My souvenir was a tin of tees and a pitchmark repair tool – the tin that you get free when you play St Andrews. Lucky me.

Anyway, he and his buddies couldn't agree on which was their favourite course. St Andrews Old Course is The Old Course, and he had goosebumps teeing off on the 17th. But between Carnoustie and Kingsbarns, there was some debate. Carnoustie was really hard - either “a beast” or “the big guy”. According to one point of view, it was a real test of golfing ability. From another point of view, it was almost unfair, since it wouldn't allow you to score well, even if you were hitting good shots. Depending on which side you take, then, Kingsbarns was fair, since it punished you for a bad shot but rewarded good golf, or alternatively it was just not as testing.

On my less-celebrated home course, the same debate continues endlessly in a smaller way, at the moment partly inspired by the state of the rough. There are some who think the rough is too thick and it's too easy to lose your ball. Others (including myself) are of the view that you should really be hitting the ball into the rough (although we all do) and that the whole point of the rough is to be trouble.

One lady I know is considering changing golf clubs, and she told me about one of the clubs she is thinking about. The course is lovely, she says. The rough isn't too thick, there aren't any water hazards... a bit like Goldilocks' porridge, it's just right. On the other hand, one of the other ladies I play with came to our club because her old course wasn't hard enough. It wasn't very long, there were no water hazards...

So the moral of the story is that there's no perfect temperature for porridge. Actually I think there is such a thing as a fair test, although exactly what that is I'm not sure. Not too hot, not too cold... you know. I should take up writing for American sitcoms I'm so good at moralising at the end.

(Totally cute cat photo from Scott MacLeod Liddle on Flickr)

Whether to seek fame (and spend a fortune) or to search for hidden treasure

I went away for a golf weekend with some friends a little while ago, and the negotiations about where we would play weren't as easy as you might think, as we all think about courses in different ways. What kind of course should it be? How do you know if it's going to be any good? They were keen on somewhere well-known, preferably Championship. While I wasn't too fussed about the green fees the big names demand, I didn't mind and so went with the flow.

We settled on a course which was PGA championship approved, and it was a good course, with plenty of water and some difficult decisions, and very well maintained. On the second day, though, we played that club's other course, the non-PGA championship, poor sibling course, and lord, but wasn't that one better? It used the landscape beautifully. There were some great views and vistas, and it felt like the course was really a natural part of the countryside in which it was built, instead of carved out of it as so many courses are. Some very memorable holes, each hole with its own character, and tricky enough to make you think hard before reaching for your club. Poor sibling? More like Cinderella! Without the airs and pomposity of the 'big' course, it was lovely.

The reason we were there was for the big-name big-brother, which wasn't shabby by any means. But the one I really enjoyed and really remember is the hidden treasure further up the hill.

Photo from Bern@t on Flickr

78 yards to the pin

So last weekend, in celebration of the US Open (see previous post) I went to Urban Golf in Soho and played Torrey Pines with some friends. I could blame my below-par performance on the cocktails, or on the unaccustomed clubs, or on the lighting in the booth - or on whatever you like. The upshot is that I played appallingly.

The closest culprit could be the graphics of the simulator – not that they're bad, but they are at best a 2-dimensional representation of a course, where in real life you would use your prrimate monkey-senses and your homo sapiens intelligence to judge the distance to the pin with your eyes. Oh evolution - Darwin would be pleased. In the simulator on the other hand, you're dependent on interpreting the size of the pixel flag or the computer's instructions: 78 yards to the flag; 28 foot putt.

My problem is that I am terrible at interpreting the image on the screen, but even worse at understanding yardages. 23 yards? How far's that then? I really have no clue. My friends started off with helpful advice, like “about as far as that wall” but before long I was just guessing. Still, it was hilarious and I wasn't the only one struggling, so I'm not too worried about it.

This inability to grasp yards as a way of measuring distance is something of a handicap though. The other day I blasted the biggest drive of my life, but I can't tell anyone how far it was, unless they know the course I play. “You know the fairway on the 8th, where it narrows and there's the tree on the left? And you know how the fairway has a kind of shelf? So my ball was like about this far past the top of the hump!”

Honestly, it was a really good drive.

US Open results – Tiger's breathtaking win

Actually I didn't watch any of the US Open. One reason is that I don't have Sky. Another reason is that I don't really care that much about professional golf. In theory it's the same game as I play, and most club golfers I know seem to be glued to the Golf Channel, but sport on TV is just not that interesting. I'm as interested in golf's Majors as in the Grand Prix, the European Cup or Wimbledon, viz., not very. Having said that, the Ryder Cup, the Grand National and the World Cup are quite exciting, but neither would I arrange my weekends in order to view them.

Does that make me weird?

A well-turned ankle what what?

Given ten minutes to think about it I can draw an analogy between golf and pretty much anything. Tennis is an obvious one, especially with the Artois about to start, strawberries in the shops and the smell of Wimbledon in the air). Both sports, with their almost terminally elitist aspects, are based around facilites provided by private members clubs (or occasionally by generous local council provision). Both enjoy a strong sense of history and tradition, which they like to upkeep by enforcing old-fashioned dress requirements rooted in their perceived hey-day in the last century. In tennis, it's the whites (at Queens Club I see that non-white tracksuits are only allowed between October and April, so if it's an unseasonably cold morning in May you're stuffed). In golf it's collars and tailoring.

I went to a 1920s club night last night and while at the time I was too busy drinking cocktails from teacups and doing the Charleston to think about anything very clearly, in the clear hungover light of day I note that the glittering classes, as well as pursuing louche evenings of sartorial elegance also spent decadent days of leisure at tennis, golf and sunbathing. It was a time when sportswear meant tweed suits and flannel shirts for chaps, and gels in skirts allowing their well-turned ankles to be admired.

Some golfing members of my family have been known to turn up at society days in plus fours, tank top and cap et al, although as far as I'm aware, neither managed 18 holes as tweed is famously itchy, especialy in balmy weather. I've even played at an old but not at all exclusive Surrey course just off the A3, where several of the more senior gentlemen were out in plus fours and long socks with not a hint of irony. Personally I think I'll stick with my flapper dress and fingerwaved hair as my homage to the past, as I think those skirts would do my putting stroke no favours in a brisk breeze.

(Photo from striatic's Flickrstream)

Putting new wheels on the old bicycle doesn't make it a racer

My putting has always been the weakest part of my game. While my long game has come along nicely in the past few months, partly due to a club upgrade but mainly thanks to some long overdue lessons, and my chipping has generally been fairly reliable, putting is a let-down.

And if one more person says "drive for show, putt for dough!" I might possibly have to wrap a driver around their necks and shove a putter up their arses.

On the other hand, I also have to admit that I am starting to really feel the truth of that hackneyed old truism, and acknowledge that hitting a good fairway wood does not a good score make.

So it seems that I must at last take action if only to stop my playing partners rolling their eyes behind my head as I miss another 3-footer.

Of course, I'm always better constructing a strategy than executing one, so I've put a certain amount of thought into it and a lot less action.

1) Buy a book.
"Putting Out of Your Mind" by Big Bob Rotella duly purchased, is in a cupboard somewhere in the flat.

2) Read the book.
Yeah let's not get over-excited here. It's on the to-do list.

3) Buy a new putter.
This is the habitual go-to solution of some of the girls I play with. I'm not so much of a subscriber to the idea that new gear makes you a better golfer - proof of this fallacy being that my new putter has been in my bag for months with little perceptible improvement. However it can't be a bad investment considering my old one was part of of a starter set and had as much feel as a lead pipe.

4) Customise.
While I'm at it, I've had the putter shortened to a length appropriate to my height. Apparently the vast majority of women use their putter straight out of the box, but since the average player is a man it's likely to be too long for a lot of women.

5) Put new wheels on the bike.
So I've got a new putting stance. This stance makes me look like an idiot. I really hate it. I also hate that it was taught to me by one of those randoms you sometimes come across who think their advice is a) welcome and b) correct, but it seems to work at the moment, encouraging my stroke along the line as well as a more shoulder-generated action instead of being all arms.

6) Go on the putting green.
Yeah whatever. I'd rather be in the clubhouse with my fried egg sandwich, besides which - how square!? As if.

Maybe if things get desperate. I had three 3-putts on the back nine yesterday which knocked me back from carding 36 points, so let's see if steps 1, 3, 4 and 5 work before we get over-excited and implement steps 2 and 6.

(Photo from TorontoStreet's Flickr stream)

Blind partners: a game of chance, not skill

This week's ladies day was the the first non-qualifier in ages, and we played blind partners for a bit of fun. Blind partners, in case you've never played it, is where you all keep your own cards, but have a partner drawn at random, and the total of both cards is your pair's score. As I say, it's "a bit of fun", but not too much. The ones who weren't playing well had the unpleasantness of thinking they were going to disappoint whoever their blind partner was, with the added suspense of not knowing whether it was going to be someone who had just played a blinder and deserved a prize.

Of course, really it didn't matter. The prize was peanuts, and it's a matter of chance anyway since you have no idea who you're going to get drawn with. But people do worry. It's bad enough playing badly, but it's worse if you've let someone down. Which is why I don't like a lot of team games - foursomes? Yuk.

What I like about golf is that you're not part of a team, and you don't need to beat anyone: you need to beat yourself. Handicapping is such a great system, isn't it? If I have 36 points and someone else has 39, I don't have to feel bad that they've beaten me, because they haven't. They've beaten their own handicap, and I can feel genuinely pleased for them that they have. At the same time it doesn't diminish how well I have played, so I can feel quite chuffed with myself too. Everybody wins.

Maybe I'm too much of a fluffy woo-woo but I don't want to beat anyone.

(Photo belongs to HelenaN on Flickr)

Making sure the wives are getting their husbands' dinners on the table

Some golf clubs seem to operate outside of the normal rules of time, space and humanity. I was reminded of this when my friends joined a club up north, one of those truly 19th century ones where you have to be nominated and seconded by members, you have to be interviewed, have to play a round with the Captain, and at the end of it only get membership if you aren't blackballed by someone who probably hasn't even met you.

These friends knew they wanted to play golf, and for some reason that remains mysterious to me decided they wanted to play there, and they didn't get blackballed. They seem happy enough, so all's well that ends well. Although technically they are members of different clubs, a mens and a ladies, that share the same course. I suppose they don't have mixed competitions. God forbid that the genders should play together!

Unfortunately, this also happened to another friend more local to me. She was a beginner, had swung a club at a driving range once or twice, and thought she might be interested in playing more regularly. She went to her nearest club, a short walk from her house. This particular Home Counties golf club would have required her to play a round with the club pro, have a handicap of less than 25, meet the Lady Captain, fill in an application form detailing her employment, job title and as good as her salary - as well as that of her partner - and for an initial investment of £stupid,000 (subject to being accepted) she could have been privileged to play with some of the snobbiest people in the land.

Unsurprisingly she decided that golf clearly wasn't the game for her and jacked it in, except for the odd trip to the range. Fortunately a pro there suggested another, friendlier, club and that's where I met her. She's been playing for a year, and I'm hoping to see her handicap down in the twenties this summer. I would love it, I would absolutely love it (to paraphrase Kevin Keegan) if she one day plays for us in the county league and thrashes that club to buggery.

This last story I think is apocryphal, but it's shockingly funny. I won't name the golf club in case it turns out to be true. The bad part is that it really could turn out to be true! Tell me you don't deep down partly believe it. This club, let's call it Victorian Old Bastards G.C., doesn't allow women to become members. (I know. Forget shocking, this is barely noteworthy, sadly). However, in a generous gesture the enlightened old gits allow the wives of members to be 'associate members', just like the Carlton Club. Rather sweetly, though, if the husband pops his clogs, the widow is sent their condolences and asked to leave.

Since just last month the Carlton Club at last granted full membership to women, let's hope that Victorian clubs up and down the country wake up and smell the 21st century.

(Images from Markus Merz and freeparking and Ron Layters on Flickr)