Foglottyn

The cloud was tucked around Pontlottyn like a duck-down pillow. The two valleys were filled to the brim with fog and we arrived for the 8 a.m. tee time having had to walk from Tigers Chippy, as the rock strewn cart track to the clubhouse couldn’t be seen from the car.Yellow lights glimmered inside the Dickensian pro-shop and Ruth Lescow, the pro, was stamping and swearing in the doorway, her fingerless mittens rubbed together in glee upon seeing us.

“S’it OK to play Ruth” Al asked“Only if you pays yer ten quid green fee.” She replied“What about the fog?” I asked“We give you a whistle” she said “I got a couple of dozen from the Pontlottyn Ladies Rugby Club referees locker” She then explained how one blast on the whistle meant – I’m going to play a shot, two blasts meant – OK all clear and three short, three long, followed by three short meant - get an ambulance, man down.

So Al and I walked to the first tee, running our hands along the OOB fence until we found the tee markers. Luckily the tee markers are garden gnomes at Pontlottyn, so fairly easy to establish which direction the first fairway was, by looking to see which way they are facing.I placed the ball on a tee and stood up to line up my driver“Al?” I asked“What?” he replied.“Do me a favour and bend down to see if my driver head is behind my ball please – I’ll do the same for you”“Ok, then shall I blow the whistle?” he asked

The whistle was blown and as I got to the top of my backswing, all of a sudden there was a long piercing single blast returning from no more than about 100 yards away.The whistle shriek stopped abruptly, about a second or so after I had completed my follow through. There was silence for a while – and then – very hauntingly from the thick white soup ahead came –

… three short - - - three long … three short.

Eventually, through the gloom, who should we see returning to the tee but the slowest three ball on the planet. Renowned for their ability to go three holes down after two, all had been given nicknames by the rest of the club. John “Rigormortis” Jeffries, so named because he takes an eternity of stillness between addressing the ball and taking his shot, Dai “Tick Tock” Davies, who has to count down from three to hit the ball, making little forward presses on each - three, two, one - hit.

Last but not least was Dr Evan “Archimedes” Lewis who plots his way round, using every point of reference and a little notebook before selecting a club, utilises a three point plumb bobbing technique on the green but still plays off 28. He was draped over a Powercaddy, unconscious but still breathing. Apparently, the fog had confused him so much, that he had played three shots in a complete circle, coming back almost to the first tee.

So, we accepted their apologies for slow play and played through.

Seve at Ponty

Seve decided that, in the twilight of his golfing career and with nothing to lose, he would take on the one remaining challenge, yes guys, he wrote to ask me if he could play in the Pontlottyn Masters.

Apparently he had heard that Mr Woods had failed dismally to even make the cut last year (’cos he was crap). Tiger had also been complaining about Pontlottyn’s course condition, Welsh weather, his caddy and the quality of Welsh beer. (This caused us some consternation at the club as we feel that Brains' ‘Skull Attack’ is the best beer in the world.)

Anyway Seve is a wizard at handling difficult conditions and felt that the ‘crazy golf’ set up of Pontlottyn may suit his style. It is certainly not a course for target golf and manufacturing shots is essential, so despite his current lack of form we decided to invite him. The day finally arrived, Seve turned up the night before with his permanent tan and checked in to the Cwmgyfaffoch Hotel. I went to meet him, to have a chat about the coming competition. We ordered two pints of Brains' SA and stood at the bar. Ruth Lescow, captain of the ladies rugby team was serving and when she saw Seve her eyes started fluttering. “Hiya, you’re famous aren’t you love, I’d know that face anywhere. You’re the bloke from Corrie that owns the corner shop, Dev isn’t it?"
“No, hi am Severiano Ballesteros, famous Espanish golfer, hi ave come to play Pontlottyn Masters tournament” replied Seve.
“You don’t want to do that love, not in those clothes,” said Ruth, “have you seen where they play? It nearly killed poor Eldrick last year. I was up all night rubbing Vick on the poor lad”.
“No problemo Ruth, hi will hab another wonerful beer plees” grinned Seve. “Han you can rub the Vick on mees also”
“You’re enjoying this boyo, aren’t you?” I said to him.
“S’nice” he replied “Hi like peoples that don’t like pompous Hinglish peoples, hi like Walesish peoples, they’re so lie back”

The Competition
Since the last Pontlottyn Masters, the garden gnome tee markers have had a bit of a paint job, the two on the first have very little remaining of their little hats and look distinctly pug like, with flat noses. This is testimony to the fact that a misplaced drive on the first is usually followed by a lash out at the gnomes with the comment “What are you smirking at you English ba**ard?”
Perhaps repainting them white was not the best idea.

It was pouring with rain. Seve, wearing a sou’wester and Marigold gloves, took a look at the par 4 dogleg right, grinned, faced sideways on the tee toward the woods and blasted a seven iron over them into the heart of the green. He then proceeded to bounce shots off playgrounds, use the skips at the back of greens to stop his ball, skim shots off the ponds, hook a drive perfectly round the gas works and even stop a ball dead in the beer garden of the Cwmgyfaffoch Hotel, where Ruth was waiting with a pint of S.A.

It was truly magical stuff and he would have won easily, however, John Paramor, who was tournament referee, disqualified him for playing a shot from out of bounds.
Seve had refused to replay the shot from the garden of the Hotel as he had seen the locals playing from there. However, ‘getting the drinks in’ is a local rule, for local people, and not applicable in professional competition. The owner of Tiger’s Chinese Takeaway (a distant relative of Mr Woods) reported him, and Paramor watched the hotel’s security video footage of Seve supping and laughing with Ruth before playing his ball from the lawn.

Anyway Seve took it well ----------- well------------ apart from decapitating a garden gnome tee marker, with the comment “Hinglish bas**rd” as he left the course

The Pontlottyn Masters

Tiger Woods found out that a great, great grandfather on his mothers side owned a Chinese restaurant in Kidwelly Street, Pontlottyn, known locally as 'The Tiger Bay Takeaway' or 'Tigers' for short. It is from here that his nickname originated, having been passed down for three generations. All previous 'Tigers' had been club champions of Pontlottyn Municipal, so secretly he played here to uphold the family name. As the current champion Lionel Irons, is me, the challenge was on.

As usual in Wales the weather was awful. The rain, a horizontal aerosol, soaked through Gore-Tex and wellingtons. Even my sou'wester couldn't keep me dry. Tiger remarked that his gloves were already soaked through, I offered him my spare pair of pink Marigolds but he declined. "He'll learn," I thought.

Hole One - Wee Ping Willow
Tiger had not played the course before, so that immediately put me at an advantage. Willow trees wafted their dreadlocks on the right side of the tee. An old dustbin full of beer cans and broken shafts was to the left. The tee markers, amusingly, were small garden gnomes, one minus his little hat, the other with a rather flat face. The Welsh are temperamental, see. "355 yard par four, Tigs" I said "dogleg right"Tiger faded a three iron perfectly round the bend, leaving little more than a sand iron to the green."Excellent shot buddy," I said trying to make him feel at home.I took my seven iron out of my bag and turned to face the willows on the right, I walloped it straight up and over the trees."That won't be far from the flag" I gloated "It's only 150 yards if you ignore the dogleg"

Tiger birdied the first, of course. A beautiful sand iron played beyond the flag, the ball stopped to find reverse and then accelerated backwards, nearly garaging itself in the hole.He picked up the six-inch gimmee.I applauded quietly, patting my gloved hand gently with the putter head. Without removing the glove I then rapped my four-foot putt in for an eagle."My honour" I smiled and strode off towards the second.

Hole 2 - Rusty Bell
The main hazard on this 145-yard par three is the pond immediately in front of the green. Dropping a shot because of the swirling wind is one thing, having to play the next from the entry point by the side of water that even frogs won't spawn in, is another.Tiger's baseball cap was beginning to droop at the front and had lost its duckbill curvature. Droplets off rain hung from his earlobes and nose, as he wrung out his glove for the third time.My Sou'wester with its broad brim was keeping my face pretty dry. The Marigold gloves not only assure me of a good grip but also come into their own on this hole, if I have to retrieve my ball from the pond.I took my stance with a six iron, not prepared to take the risk of being short. I meant to play it smoothly but instead 'took a peep' and thinned it. If it hadn't been for the old car tyre protruding from the surface like the back of a seal I would not have made the green but as luck would have it ----- yes, four feet from the pin."Local knowledge" I winked at Tiger.

145 yards and he took a pitching wedge - I couldn't believe it - the guy is awesome.The Nike ball soared skywards through the grey overblanket that hung heavy and creased above us. It seemed to stay up there for minutes and then plummeted hawk-like towards the flag. Even from the tee we could hear the fizz as the ball clawed its way out of the pitch mark and shot backwards.It was so nearly a perfect shot but showing off with a wedge, as he had done on previous occasions, when he should have played a flatter shot in with a longer iron, cost him dear. The pond claimed his Nike and it rested in the green stagnancy about one foot from the bank."Can I borrow that spare set of Marigold's now, please Lion" begged Tiger.

Crow barred..

Black crow, dead again,
Staked out on a pole
Upside crucified, yet again
Alongside the eleventh hole

Eyes closed, dead again
Blood drips blackly from an eye
Feathers flutter, wet again
Shot and punished for its crime

Black bird, dead again
Tied unsightly and obscene
Other crows, to scare again
And keep them from the green

Wings crossed, dead again
Swinging on its stake
High strung, cruel again
One crow does not a vandal make

Wind blown, dead again
I’m angered by the deed
A lone crow, killed again
While pecking for its feed

A poor creature, dead again
For digging up the moss
Beautiful black bird, DEAD AGAIN
For golf - we tolerate its loss.