Luke Norman, GM News Editor…
?Well, I started great and then? Oh change the record, please!?
Let me explain, above is my golf in a nutshell (not literally although perhaps if it was then my Shermans might not be quite so destructive?) ? anyway it?s a flipping jamboree of mediocrity. Everywhere I turn there?s a bogey waiting patiently for me like a loyal basset hound.
If I start par, par then double-bogey, bogey is coming fast, with a smile on its face and there?s nothing I can do to repel it. I?ve tried PMA and just got a bad case of PMT. I?ve racked the brains of instruction guru Neil Tappin, which produced a few strange and slightly worrying things but nothing to sort out my tragically inevitable melt-down. I?ve even taken on a regime of heading to bed with past copies of Gary LeBoff?s Mental Column under my arm ? which has, to be fair, helped calm down some of my wilder dreams ? but has done nothing to stop my decel, my girly fade and my three-putts.
Ok, take my last competitive round of golf, which was on Monday in fact (I love this job). I was teeing up in the Golf Club Secretaries Open Championship qualifier at Gog Magog ? a beautiful track in south Norfolk. It was a calm, warm, sunny day and the rough was down to very manageable levels and I had played the day before in a casual match with my Dad. In short everything was set for this man to break out from a season of under-performing and put down a marker to silence those b****** in the office.
Four holes in and level par ? I was already making the mental phone call informing my cruel colleagues that I had at last broken 70.
Middle of the fairway on the next, 120 yards to the green and suddenly it comes. The dark cloud moves in, finally locating its misbehaving target and gleefully imposes its twisted will. A decel duff into a bunker way left, three to get out and a blob. The driving goes, the crisp iron shots transform into gentle fats and even a rare birdie putt turns inevitably into another bogey.
Nine holes later and I surface for air. Final four holes? of course produce four pars and 31 stableford points is the result. ARGH.
I know, I just know (not in a teenage way either) that I am a justifiable eight yet my handicap is tearing up towards double digits quicker than Monty moves towards a leggy blonde holding a tray of pancakes.
I need help ? any suggestions please to firstname.lastname@example.org (unless you work in this office in which case keep it to yourself!)