Scotto cleaned out our shambolic garage last weekend and found my sister Sam’s old golf clubs amongst the Huntsmen spiders and cockroach poo.
This is the skip filled with the refuse extricated from said garage.
Coming across the clubs was quite serendipitous as Scotto was invited to play golf on Saturday morning (tomorrow) with Kyle’s husband, Troy; Greggles and a couple of other rowdy blokes.
Many years ago Scotto and I decided to try our hand at the old Scottish game and gave it up after a couple of months, upholding our fickle custom, such as it is.
Many years ago Scotto and I decided to try our hand at the old Scottish game and gave it up after a couple of months, upholding our fickle custom, such as it is.
We had forgotten to return the clubs we'd borrowed from Sam and here they were; finally unearthed after roughly seven years of dusty neglect in our garage (and numerous enquiries from Sam).
When we pulled up outside the golf club for our very first game we were, at the same time, appalled and highly entertained to see that the club had designated the disabled parking spots with outrageously politically-incorrect signage stating, “Reserved for Handicappers”.
When we pulled up outside the golf club for our very first game we were, at the same time, appalled and highly entertained to see that the club had designated the disabled parking spots with outrageously politically-incorrect signage stating, “Reserved for Handicappers”.
Neither of us were what you might describe as ‘golf professionals’ (most of my golfing knowledge emanated from the movie “Caddyshack”) and there was a considerable amount of hacked turf left in our wake as we finished each hole.
The first time we played, I bought a hot pink golf ball which was nicked by a magpie thirty seconds after I teed off. Several altercations with psychotic, dive-bombing Plovers occurred during our games and it caused me to wonder about the connection between our feathered friends and golf, and if that was the reason there are golf terms such as Birdie, Double-Eagle and Albatross.
From memory, Scotto is a bit of a ‘Happy Gilmore’ on the green and enthusiastic zeal outweighs his actual technique and precision. I think he may be a bit nervous about making a chump of himself in front of the boys.
I read somewhere that many years ago, Arnold Palmer’s wife was a guest on the Johnny Carson Show and when asked if she did anything special before a big match to bring her husband good luck, she replied that she kissed his balls. Apparently the audience went crazy… but she was mortified when she realised the double entendre.
So... what do you think? Should I kiss Scotto’s balls tonight for luck?
