The Royal and Ancient game of golf was once a most pleasurable and elite pursuit, enjoyed exclusively by gentlemen of breeding and refinement and good taste who had attained some standing within the community. It was the preserve of lords and lawyers, doctors and priests, and those of us who had inherited a unique and privileged position, and an understanding and appreciation of the finer things in life.
Sadly, this state of affairs is no more. The floodgates have opened and the masses have stormed the citadel and invaded the very sanctity of the clubhouse itself. They have trampled all over the greens and the fairways while raising acres of muddy divots with their oversized and overpriced golf clubs which are causing bloody mayhem in hands more used to wielding shovels and hurleys and pickaxes.
Time was, when one might enter a local hostelry and, in between quaffing the odd glass of Chablis and the occasional snifter of Cognac, could listen to the locals as they good-naturedly discoursed on the frivolous happenings of the day. The discussion often ranged from the price of hen eggs in Castle Island and the drawing out of turf in Lyrocrompane to the possibility of discovering a cure for Mastitis in cattle. Someone might ask as to the winner of the 3.15 from Fairyhouse while someone else would look for the race card from Tralee greyhound track. The pool table by the bay window always seemed to do a thriving business and the dartboard acted like a magnet drawing a lively and vociferous crowd within its immediate orbit.
In such a familiar and friendly atmosphere one might peruse the financial pages of The Times in leisurely fashion and with a certain air of unfeigned superiority, secure in the knowledge that one’s privacy would not be invaded, because these people understood their precise place in the grand order of things and could be counted upon not to disturb the status quo.
Nowadays, a chap barely has time to remove the olive from his medicinal Martini before some rustic with straw sticking out of his Wellington boots will sidle up and, without so much as the doffing of a cap or the tug of a forelock, will enquire; “Did Your Lordship not find the greens in Ballybunion a trifle slow today – and weren’t those pin placements on the back nine a pure hoor entirely?”
One such yokel even had occasion to pursue me in to the gents recently and, with indecent familiarity, proceeded to adjust my golf posture, which, he said, was too upright and too relaxed. This was dashed embarrassing as I was unbuttoned and attending to my person in front of a urinal at the time.. And to make matters worse, the Fixtures Secretary put his head in the door and, spying two club members in such close and intimate proximity in a public convenience, began to raise a somewhat quizzical eyebrow. He said nothing, of course, but the manner in which he said it, spoke volumes.
Etiquette on the golf course is now a thing of the past. These people think nothing of standing on one’s line, not to mention leaving the flag quite unattended and failing to repair pitch marks and rake bunkers.
I quite lately followed one such individual around the back nine and took copious notes as he littered the greens with cigarette stubs, empty beer cans, torn score cards and half eaten sandwiches. I finally collared him in the members’ dining room, as he was about to tuck in to a four-course meal.
“Now, see here, my good fellow.” I said, fixing him with my frostiest expression. “I am in charge of the greens, and ……”
“Ah, the very man!” he said, puffing expansively on an obscenely large cigar “I wish to complain about the greens, and the Brussels sprouts in particular. They are only half cooked – so they are.”
Yesterday, while about to drive off at the fourth, I was forced to pause at the top of my back swing as I discerned a figure moving nonchalantly towards me down the middle of the fairway. I watched in some disbelieve as the man drew closer and I noticed that he appeared to be nibbling from a portion of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper.
“Good day to Your Lordship.” He called out cheerfully as he drew abreast. “Would ‘ou ate a chip?”
Barely restraining myself from strangling the chap, or at the very least from letting fly with a pretty nifty verbal retort, I stood my ground.
“You’re standing wrong.” He said. “And you’re not holding the club tight enough. Here, hang on to these and give me that driver!”
So saying, he thrust the greasy newspaper towards me and spat on his hands before taking up my beloved Big Bertha in a grip of steel and, with barely a look down the fairway, he strode to the tee and unleashed an almighty and unorthodox swipe that exists in no golfing manual known to man, but that carried the ball three hundred odd yards straight down the middle of the fairway.
“It’s all in the arms and the wrists.” He explained “and comes from long years of practice piking hay and turf and slurry, and rising to the few spuds and the bit of cabbage abroad in the haggart with a spade of an evening .”
With that, he reunited me with my Big Bertha, retrieved his parcel of fish and chips and headed off towards The Cashen, leaving a bowed and broken man sobbing hysterically in his wake.