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.