I was at a point in my life when I had no idea what the plot was, a brief short stumble, a sudden bout of uncertainty, it was the kind of void that I could have easily filled with drink, drugs, deviant activity , instead I found something that would provide a brief distraction from my impending midlife crisis.
It was a friend Willo that first mentioned the G word to me , I gave it some thought, well I needed something in my life so I foolishly opened my heart to Golf.
Willo was riding a mutilated Spear of Destiny themed Lamberetta scooter when I first met him, a tenant of Goff Roderick’s , he lived in Billy Road, a large town house home to Goff and his family of itinerant freaks.
I gave him a job selling merchandise for the band, a job he took quite seriously and from that point on he worked his way up the slippery slope, a dependable penny pinching git who ended up working with likeminded people, Bob Geldof and his rat bag band.
We drove out to a public golf course next to a horse racing track, no fancy club house or membership, this was a golf course for the underclass.
You get sort of exited about teeing off, I expected to smash the little white ball high into the sky and watch it drop yards away from the hole, instead I clipped the top of the ball and got a bouncing bomb, once the ball is off the tee it becomes even more harder to hit and after many more bouncing bomb shots I got to the green.
Putting is perhaps the easy part of the game but when your patience has been mostly consumed it also provides another whole heap of mind bending frustration, and that was the first fucking hole.
I admit it was fairly satisfying to compete the course, we moved on to bigger and better courses and my game went from bad to mediocre.
One problem was that Willo was a really good golf player despite having only one good eye, he was a natural ,I liked the fresh air, the exercise and the wildlife, the golf was just a chore.
In the end I couldn’t do it anymore, golf was a sport for, I dunno, I could reel off a string of stereotypes that fit the golfer type but it’s easier just to say cunts.
I remembered my father was a huge golf fan, one of the few memories I have of him is watching him practice his swing , that was enough for me to consign golf to the waste bin.
I began to regard golf as a complete waste of time, I imagined ripping around the course on a dirt bike, tearing the neatly manicured greens into pieces, golf courses looked ready made to be massacred by motorcycles, to be defiled by golf hating demons .
I now despise golf with the exception of crazy golf , I like crazy golf.