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The
Take of the Linksman ‘McOsler’, The Prince and the Pauper
(unofficial Hoorah business Friday 16th September 2005)
If history is written by the Victor then let it be
said I am unqualified to record this (unofficial) footnote to the minutes of
the Last Hooray Golf Society. However,
the tale has to be told for the benefit of the ‘missing member’, Monsieur
Valise, of how a khazi Kaiser sharpened up his linksplay, of how a solicitor
found his calling amongst the dunes and how a doctor paraded his buffoonery.
The day began with a portentous ceremony whereby the
writer handed to le Rocher the buffoon’s putter in recognition of past
indiscretions. He was to hold this
putter for less than two hours. The
maharaja (aka lucky) was late presumably waylaid by his hand maidens but a
start was made on our trip which took an age made more unbearable by a number
of ill chosen jokes by the writer whose punch lines were met only by the sound
of tumbleweed. Two hours later saw
Sandwich hove into view. As we passed
the tollhouse onto the estate our pulses quickened with anticipation as we
looked out over the hallowed links –
windswept, wild and wonderful.
Time was of the essence as the journey had taken so
long so we bounced at full tilt over potholes and rutted tracks to the club
house. I thought it odd that such a
prestigious club such as Prince’s should be known by another name but then
Saint Andrew’s is actually the ‘Royal and Ancient’ and Muirfield is known as
the ‘Honorable Company of Edinburgh golfers’.
Not giving it a second thought we strode past the sign outside the club
house and entered the Royal Cinque Port’s Club to find ourselves in the ‘club
that time had forgot’. The dust of at
least a century settled on oak panels and display cases containing some of the
largest, oldest, and meanest looking golf clubs known to man. The secretary wearing military tie and a
supercilious grin showed us in. Our
bacon and egg sandwiches arrived with the secretary declaring that they had no
record off our booking at the Royal Cinque Ports club and that maybe we should
try the adjoining club Prince’s. ‘BUFFOON!’
rang the cry that shook a hundred years of dust from the sleepy
club. In the car park of the Royal
Cinque Ports club the ‘Barnes’ Club’ was hastily handed back to le Docteur
without further ado.
As we sped back along the now familiar country lanes we
snatched tantalizing glimpses of Royal Saint Georges with its distinctive flags
now being bent double by the force of the wind. The steep undulating landscape beautiful but forbidding as if the
dunes had tried to form themselves into the size and shape of huge waves from
some monstrous storm it had seen out in the bay. The wind was now blowing 5 – 6 on the Beaufort scale. So large was the swell that the Maharajah
seeing the waves for the first time let out a startled cry of ‘Tsunami!’ As we
bowled along the coastal road we past a thirties club house boarded up -
presumably the venue of the 1932 open championship - and made for its modern
replacement being a cross between the dullest of travel lodges and the most
non-descript of motorway service stations.
Inside, blown up sepia pictures of the founding fathers in plus fours
only gave the place the air of some characterless visitors centre.
As we strode to the first on the Shore the rain began
to spit into our faces. The most
sensitive of among us found the rain stinging his tawny cheeks whilst others
grimaced manfully. This was links at
its bracing best. Modesty forbids me
recording which one of our number hit three wood and seven iron to the green
and sank a 25 foot birdie putt looked on by Le Rocher who stood in attendance
raising a quizzical eyebrow. But that
was it for the good doctor who topped his next shot put off by the un-nerving
yet or inspiring ‘white tee’ position 50 yards from the shingle beach where
huge waves pounded the shore. It then
became a two horse race as the Maharajah and Le Rocher traded blade for
blade. For one who confessed that he
had never played links golf, Le Rocher played as if he had been born to it. Genealogical research will no doubt unearth
that the boy Osler was washed upon the shores of East Scotland close to Saint
Andrews in a coracle with nothing but a rusty niblick and a note from his
parents reading ‘Let the laddie play the Links’. From that day hence Le Rocher transmuted into The Linksman,
Harvey McOsler.
The Maharajah was on form knowing that this would be
his last chance to practice links golf before his Hibernian trip. Portrush called and Lucky answered. He smote many a pure low drive under the
wind and chased and harried his ball skimming over the dunes to the greenside
to be met there by the Linksman McOsler with his deft short game, Hunched over
his wedge looking like a 50’s throwback (Ken Nagle or Gene Sarazen?). Somewhere in the background a forlorn figure
knee deep in wind-swept, thick links grass, the doctor ploughed a lonely
furrow.
Let the record show that honours were shared between
the Prince and the Linksman. Afterwards
in the ‘University Refectory’ that passed for the dining room at Princes, the
game’s post mortem took place over a couple of bottles of quaffable red and
some indifferent pasties. A far cry
from the Last Hoorahs spiritual home at Le Chanel, Dieppe.
The journey home lasted but a blink of an eye long
enough for the doctor to bag a few survey quotes on the phone which should just
about salve his conscience and pay for the days excesses.
Le Docteur