On being crap at golf
My name is S. Duck and I am a golf addict. It has been two days since I last went to the driving range.
Mark's rather good blog has reminded me that I haven't bored you all to death with news of my excellent golfing prowess of months.
I am an excellent golfer, as you all know, having hardly killed anybody at all on the course. I have not, however, quite reached the level of Golf Bore where you cannot drive past a course without saying the words "Oooh, Golf!", slowing down to about 15mph while you pass criticism some random bloke's swing.
I have never done this. Ever.
OK. I'll confess. I'm actually shit at golf. Really, awfully, badly shit. Even Scaryduck Junior pwn3d me at golf recently, on his first ever round. It wasn't even beginner's luck. I thrashed around like some horribly thrashy thing while the Boy laughed at me. The shame.
Worst of all is that I know I am shit. I know this because proper golf grown-ups told me so.
There I was, bumbling about in the traditional style, knocking all the balls I had stolen from the driving range down rabbit holes and into passing water features, when this bloke clad in a sensible wind-cheater and sharply-creased plaid trousers jumped out on us at the fifth tee. It was the club pro.
"I've been watching youse," he said in a manner that suggested he was quite happy to take our green fees, but less than happy with what we were actually doing to his greens. "Stop being so shit."
"Right. Right you are. What do you suggest?"
This was the wrong question.
"Just... stop it."
God, I love playing golf.