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