Grumpy Oldie Man Matthew Norman
When he opened golf courses, he left me feeling distinctly under par
It is a pitiable sign of this writer’s shallowness and spite that almost nothing has enraged him lately like the lifting of the coronafatwa on golf.
In truth, that ‘almost’ covers a plethora of such exemptions as the Prime Minister’s bunking off Cobra meetings and shaking hands in infected hospitals. Furthermore, in its paltry defence, the reopening of England’s golf courses shone out as a beacon of clarity within Boris Johnson’s pea-souper of befuddlement.
Had he visited equal precision on this as on the vexed question of returning to work, the official advice would have been as follows. ‘You may play golf. You mustn’t play golf. I can’t be clearer about this. We strongly encourage you to play golf, which you absolutely mustn’t. If you do, as you certainly should, you must use a putter off the tee, and a shoulder-held, ground-to-air missile launcher on the greens. So do enjoy your golf. And remember that in no circumstances are you permitted to play golf.’
Yet about golf, if nothing else, the government has indeed been very clear. It may once again be played. Before we continue, it should be made no less very clear that there is zero discernible danger, COVID-WISE, in playing golf. It’s hard to imagine a less risky activity than one enjoyed in a huge expanse of the open air by people standing many metres apart. Synchronised paragliding might be one. Attending the annual convention of the Alan Sugar Fan Club (albeit one assumes that this event, traditionally held in a disused phone box, qualifies as a solo activity) could be another.
Still, given the regrettable lack of combat between its participants, golf is about as safe a pastime as there could be. So why did its return cause such a piercing stab of anger? It’s hardly as if I despise the game itself. Quite the reverse: on honeymoon in rural Massachusetts, I checked us out of a charming Shaker inn and into a motel room that boasted – along with a spectacularly stained duvet and the aroma of an abattoir – cable TV. During the electrifying climax to the 1991 Ryder Cup, I sent my bride across an eight-lane highway to fetch Big Macs and bourbon. Why she later left me I will never comprehend. But on that occasion, she returned in time to see Bernhard Langer miss that heart-stopping fivefooter that would have retained the trophy for Europe.
The paradox is that a love of professional golf goes hand in Lexusowner’s string-backed driving glove with the loathing of leisurely golf in England. Indeed, under my projected lifetime dictatorship, Edict No 4 (after 1: giving up Trident; 2: gifting the UN Security Council seat to India; and 3: shuttering the arms industry) will be the state reclamation of three-quarters of nonpublic English golf courses.
The amount of space they occupy – something over two per cent of Surrey and various other counties – is a scandal. Hundreds of thousands of houses framed by idyllic scenery will be built on that land. Under this neo-reformation, the remaining quarter will be subject to aggressive social engineering. Membership fees will be means tested, with those on benefits charged nothing, and those earning less than the national average subsidised by the more monied. Where waiting lists exist, applications by members of ethnic minorities and all women will be prioritised.
Golf in England will thus be democratised. It will be a game of and for the people, as it has always been in its birthplace across the border. Scotland will be exempted from these measures, by the way, with the exception of any clubs owned by Donald J Trump or his descendants. These will be transformed into holiday homes for the urban deprived.
Surviving English golf clubs, meanwhile, will have to adopt various rule changes. There isn’t the space today to outline them all, but this will give the flavour.
Any golfer who confuses diamondpatterned knitwear with socially acceptable clothing will receive a two-stroke penalty on each hole until the garment is discarded and incinerated in the nearest bunker. To this end, caddies will be mandated to remove the pitching wedge from the bag and replace it with a military-grade flame-thrower. Any club that flouts the new regulations to the slightest degree will thenceforth double up as an alligator farm.
Frankly, it is a long shot – longer, at least, than the duffers could manage with a Big Bertha off the tee – that these changes will be effected before the rest of the lockdown is lifted.
But, if by some miracle they were, I believe it would be a charming diversion for the single parent, trapped on the 19th floor of a high-rise with a livid toddler, to switch on the telly and find dear old Peter Alliss commenting on a veterans’ pro-celebrity golf tournament in which Nick Faldo and Joe Pasquale are being chased down the 15th fairway by a peckish reptile.