The nice Mr Deakin of the BBC Blether Centre thinking Huttonian was in Norn Iron has sent us a warm day-a balmy 2c. Taking advantage of this unexpected munificence I risked some solitary golf at Duns. At least it was solitary until a fast moving couple materialised from nowhere behind me and then parted company as they conventionally went up the second as I went on the 11th. This seemed to perturb them for some reason as when we were about 200 yards apart on diverging courses they started shouting and gesticulating in my general direction. Perhaps they thought I was a stranger and had gone off in the wrong way or perhaps they were selling something-anyhow I really could not be bothered to walk back 200 yards and find out what they wanted. Anyhow I had a good round with the ball going much further than usual on the frozen fairways and was suitably mellow by the time I returned to my car. This was blocked by the trolley of a very large, very noisy Dinger who was recounting to an audience of his fellow players the guts of the golf instruction that he had received yesterday from a visiting professional. 'I have the secret. You just stand up straight and swing from your hips and Bingo you are up there with Tiger Woods' I am summarising several minutes of diatribe and demonstration in a very strident shout. ' A B here since God knows when, I played golf still wet from my mothers milk and now I have the secret. Stand up straight and swing from the hips' His companions eyes glazed, noses dripping were cowed into sullen silence.
Having with some difficulty reversed the car, almost over his trolley, as he reluctantly moved it, banging on the while, I reparked where I could see the first tee. The VND having practiced swinging his hips and ending up his practice swing in Position A admiring the vision of his ball hurtling dead straight 300 yards down the fairway whilst Mr Woods murmured admiringly beside him. He placed a pristine ball on his tee and with a massive swing of his hips and a swish of his wmd give it his all. I instinctively looked down the fairway. Nae need to bother. The VND was in Position A, poised, watchful as the press corps clicked away. But so was the ball, neither shaken nor stirred it crouched on its tee where it had been so lovingly placed. Some one giggled, another member of the foursome suppressed a snort and the VND pronounced : 'That bloody pro was
blankety blank useless . What a w*****r. And what a flipping ( obscenity rerouted) waste of flipping money'- No worse crime in the Borders than that.
They moved on eventually I noticed something on the tee box that looked familiar. It was one of my club head covers. I had not left it at home but dropped it on the first tee. So that was what the 200 yard range shouting was all about. Thankyou whoever you are-and I can give you one bit of golfing advice as a small recompense. Forget your flipping hips.
