CityLife

The day I sent a two wood 200 yards

I SPENT the whole of last weekend watching the Open golf on television.

I don't know about you, but there is nothing more life affirming than watching middle class people get soaked while shouting in strange accents "get in the hole".

This is unique to golf I have been led to believe, and certain special interest films from the Low Countries.

Golf is a weird game. It's weird enough playing it. Even more bizarre is spending a whole weekend sat in your lounge watching it, that's nothing though compared to actually turning up in person to spectate.

I saw whole families cagouled up in Carnoustie, grins perma-fixated on their faces, no doubt enjoying Tiger's swing or Sergio's short game, or perhaps they just haven't seen enough middle aged men in slacks and decided to overdose for the four days.

Like Formula One, I can't believe golf can be enjoyed any better than watching it on television.

At least with Formula One, if you were there you'd have the smells and sounds of the track that you couldn't possibly replicate in your front room.

Golf, however, it's relatively simple, just open your window for the grass smell and if you are feeling particularly risqué, why not stick on some comfortable Farah trousers and polyester jumper - you're in your own house, no one need know.

Where do you stand at such an event? If you are at the tee, you can marvel as a man swings a stick really fast and then the ball disappears? Where did it go? Who knows? On the television it's only just visible for a few seconds thanks to some tricky camera work?

At least with the black clouds of doom hovering over Scotland this weekend it was possible to see the ball silhouetted against the nefarious horizon. If we hadn't actually got golf already, I doubt it would be invented. Would mankind in the modern era (or is it post-modern - I'm not really sure) really plan such an apparently mindless pursuit?

On the face of it, it seems to be rather a long winded way of getting some activity doesn't it.

Suburb

My impression of golf is that four slightly balding middle aged men turn up in company cars on the edge of a nice suburb.

They then engage in a little light hearted japing about the size of their respective wife's backsides before putting on dapper little shoes with spikes on.

Then it transpires they proceed to hit a tiny ball as hard as they can with a long stick a few hundred yards into the distance, they then spend about ten minutes looking for it in shrubbery before declaring it lost.

They then get another of these little balls, engage in some more joshing about their respective wife's lack of culinary skills and then whack said ball further on into the countryside, repeating previous actions until they get to the part called the green.

This is a little shaved oasis of countryside where they get different sticks and try to roll a little ball into a little hole.

There then is some chat about each others handicaps - an inability to spend time with their families perhaps?

This is then repeated another eighteen times.

Of course I'm being ridiculously unfair, these days golf is played by more than estate agents, retired colonels and Bruce Forsyth, in fact friends of mine play.

They've asked me to join them. I can't. I make all sorts of excuses, I'm busy, I'm tired, and I'd rather scratch my eyes out with steel wool.

What I haven't told them is that I've tried, and I'm rubbish. I went once to the driving range, how bad was I?

Well put it this way - I have sent a two wood 200 yards. Not bad, hey? Except it wasn't the ball that went two hundred yards, but the club itself.