Old crocks

  I now play a lot of golf. In fact, over the last three years I calculate that I’ve played more golf than the first six decades of stomping around the goat tracks on the Cumberland Plain put together. But the abundance of time now allocated to chasing the pill through fairways, bunkers, the rough and fuckin’ crows’ nests has come at cost. Like most things, delusion has infected any type of reasonable self-analysis of my game. In the younger years, I figured that the main reason I played golf like an arsehole could simply be put down to the fact that I didn’t play enough rounds. Family, work and the alarm clock all conspired to thwart my attempts to have a fair crack at the title. My own diagnosis was that I possessed the skills and latent talent that would be immediately liberated once the time and motion creeps disappeared and the associated prognosis was one of realising golfing nirvana- along with the added bonus of a complimentary token to the afterlife. Win/Win!