“99 will do” – a blog for golf widow(er)s

We have played 108 holes at the purgatorial Portmarnock golf links in the past three days. Apparently you are supposed to play 18 in 72 shots.  Clearly this is an Irish myth.

I have managed on one occasion to play 18 holes in 99 shots which makes me, by mine own estimation a golfing superstar.

The peculiarity of the golf course is its bunkers. Holes carved from the sandy terrain to great depths from which golf balls escape but rarely. I entered one such bunker yesterday and received a telephone call during my sojourn. I was not surprised to discover my 3G connection was via Perth Australia. These bunkers are deep.

They are also watertight.  Dubliners are suffering from a midweek deluge that had many of their number hammering at timbers constructing an Irish Ark. Some of the bunkers still resemble muddy jacuzzis.

The technique for escaping the clutches of these hell holes has emerged over the 108 holes. One has no choice but to slam ones club into the sodden earth that is all that is left of the bunker’s floor. Sufficient disturbance in the bunker’s crust will ensure that the ball is forced upwards along with the accumulated grunge of centuries. Once in every four of five occasions the ball will appear from the falling debris roughly approximate to the hole.

Portmarnock is undoubtedly a beautiful place, its hotel a haven of solicitous hospitality. Its golf-course a fiendish test of a man (and boy’s) spirit. It is thoroughly to be recommended to all who have loved ones addicted to the game of golf. It will cure them of that addiction and send them home to your arms, in which they may find solace.

Listen to the tale of a stalwart male
Who lost his well known Nanny
Donald was his name and golf was the game
That made him grey as his Granny

He practised much but his style was such
That his handicap stayed at thirty
All the words he used when the ball he bruised
Were nothing else than dirty.

In the locker room every night
He’d sing of his awful plight

Oh! The dirty little pill went rolling down the hill
And rolled right into a bunker
From there to the green I took thirteen
And there by gosh I sunk ‘er.

I get no fun in the air and sun
But down in the traps I labour
I sweat and weep where the sand is deep
Till I want to murder my neighbour.

(thwack!) Oh! Baby, look at that drive. Wheee!
Now whoa, whoa. Whoa you… (out of bounds)
Alright, caddy, give me another ball.

There was one great day that came his way
His score he was sure to diminish
Never had such form, then up came a storm
He was never able to finish

He had a slice that was far from nice
From him it never parted
Once a year that shot, believe it or not
Came right back where it started.

Do you wonder that he groans
And sighs and wails and moans.

Oh! The dirty little pill went rolling down the hill
And rolled right into the water
And the reason it would seem, I lifted my beam
When I know I shouldn’t oughter.

Then I hit a shot that I liked a lot
But it sailed right into the marshes
And I wished right then, like a lot of other men
That I had worn my galoshes.

Hey, Donald, how many shots did you take over in that rock pile?
Let me see, one two three, er six I believe
Oh! You dirty so-and-so. I counted twelve time I heard your club hit something
Well, er, the other six were echoes. (hee hee)

Now Donald the Dub joined the country club
And found a fellow duffer
Just as bad as he, so with shouts of glee
They started out to suffer.

They played nine holes, and the poor little moles
Were never scared so badly
For the divots flew, and the cuss words too
And the birds and the bees left gladly

As the end of the day drew nigh
Came a song that was sung with a sigh

Oh! The dirty little pill went rolling down the hill
And rolled right into the club house
When I got there with sand in my hair
They changed it’s name to the Dub house.

I’ve wrecked more ground than Columbus found
And the guy that I am after
Is the crazy scot who invented this plot,
That’s robbed all the world of laughter

Now Donald the Dub broke club after club
As he told the world goodbye
For he suffered every hour when his game went sour
Even as you and I.

About henry tapper

Founder of the Pension PlayPen,, partner of Stella, father of Olly . I am the Pension Plowman
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