Mystery Columnist Article - Portarlington Golf Club

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DISCLAIMER: This is a pure work of fiction and is NOT based on anything bar my pre-golfing delusions...  Ye are all lovely, lovely men so ye are to be sure.

Although I have not been playing that long, I still find myself doubting my sanity regarding my fledgling passion for golf.

Today is one of those days.  The thing about golf is not only is it fiendishly difficult to play and firmly ensconced in some perfectly logic-free rules, it is also mystically bound in an archaic framework of courtesy.

I deal quite easily with the regulations regarding attire and have already perfected the art of swearing without uttering a sound.  But there are so many more and today I utterly believe these rules were put in place to protect the individual I’m on the Course with.  For if he were to inflict his sexist and masochistic behaviour upon me in the Real World, I feel that manslaughter would be deemed self-defence.  But good-oh Lady Golfer that I am I grin and bear mightily.

None of my usual light-hearted banter about making sand-angels in the bunkers after a successful shot out.  My little victory dance after a super-par was obviously considered a reason to reverse all this Suffragette nonsense and his condescension upon his one good shot of the day sat upon me like a smelly duvet.

Alas, I beat him on the score-card only and the worst was yet to come – I had to feign politeness for a further hour in the Clubhouse before I could escape.

I stomped up the steps to the Clubhouse Bar.  I had removed my hat, of course, but the large dark purple storm cloud upon my head threatened to darken the beautiful day for all.

The Barman Extraordinaire managed to read me like a book: “Ah Madam”, he began, “I trust that you desire a measure of your usual beverage…. or perhaps Madam would prefer the House measure – served in a bucket?”

A grin escaped me and I responded with: “The standard usual, please.
I had only a moment of comparative peace before my Penance arrived for his drink.

Benign now in defeat, he began dissecting the game stroke-by-stroke, subtly (to himself) twisting it all, so that by the end of the conversation I had won thanks to him.  He, The Mighty Gentleman, had gifted me, The Young Wan, a token victory to show that, despite it being a terrible and society-destroying initiative, he would support the Womens’ Movement.

His closing comment was the clincher.  With a nigh-suffocating aura of smugness he intoned with copious amounts of wisdom and gravitas “of course, there is always that one shot that will get you to come back next time.”

I held my glass of ice-cooled Powers up so it caught the light, savouring the beauty before savouring the taste.

“One shot, indeed.” I concurred.

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