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)

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)

Mobiles in the clubhouse

I played a cracking fourball betterball competition at the weekend which my opponent and her husband won by a country mile. Kudos to her two back-to-back birdies. 'Birdie' is a word with which I have a passing acquaintance: I've witnessed several.

Anyway, Birdie Girl is moving house and went to check out her new local golf course. Talk about stupid clubhouse rules, this club's stupid rules extended waaaaay beyond! A guy who answered his phone in the locker room was told to switch his phone off as they're not allowed. When the guy protested he was told in no uncertain terms to switch it off - or leave the club.

Oh puhleeeeese.

(Credit to Leo Reynolds for the photo)

Clubhouse Rules

There are some strange rules in some clubhouses. Some I can kind of understand. Some I really don't get at all. And some just make me cross.

No spikes. That makes sense. They'd make a mess and ruin the carpet, and no-one would like that.

No mobile phones. Hmm, not so sure about that one. I went to a club recently where they have that rule. Quite a snooty club, incidentally. I assume it's because they want to create an oasis of calm, a haven from the pressures of the outside world. Maybe. My club has no rules on this, and it's not a deafening cacophony of mobile ringtones and Dom Joly-esque bellowing. Let's face it, it is quite handy, being able to ring your hapless family member to come and pick you up because you decided to get stuck into the cider three hours ago and now the bar has run out so you want to go home. It's also quite handy being able to ring your golfing partner to ask why, when they tee'd off at 9.28 and the round was probably over by 2pm, they're still not back by 6pm and why are they slurring?

And another thing. Jackets and ties. What is that all about??? How is it that I can go to a £50-a-head restaurant in Mayfair in jeans, but I can't have some prawns marie-rose and chicken-in-sauce without dressing up like it's some kind of interview? Who goes anywhere in a jacket and tie, except work? Some people don't even go to work in a jacket and tie. You tell me how that's not pointless wankiness.

Golf clubs are good at pointless wankiness.

(Photo courtesy of by absoblogginlutely on Flickr)