In The Land of The Golden Birdie the one eyed man is King.

19th of April and once more The Craigie-Clan are off on one of Mr. J. Thomas’s 2 day tours.

Mr. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah” Crummey is once more my chauffeur, and with Mr. J. Douglas and Mr. W. Morrison tucked up in the back of the Merc we’re off north to Carnoustie to join 4 more stalwarts and test this year’s Open venue.

Bacon rolls and coffee in the, eh, salubrious Golf Hotel and at 12.30 we’re out onto the links in bright and breezy conditions.

We’ve been asked to take our private bit of the course with us, in the shape of a 12 inch by 4 inch piece of plastic grass.

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What am I supposed to do with that?

The idea here is to protect the course for all the Sergios and Ernies.
“We dinnae want Tiger’s ba’ stuck in one o’ yer divotts, dae wi?”
you can imagine the Starter bleating.

I manage to lose mine about 3 times.

Anyway the big beast of a course takes its toll on a good few of us but at the end of the day globetrotter Mr. J. Douglas, he of ever present with a Blackberry fame, comes in with a fabulous 35 points.

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Scott makes a spectacle of himself.

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Jake goes in the water at the 9th.

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The magnificent 18th with the Zambezi river on the right.

Into the silver bird and off to posh Broughty Ferry. It’s where people go if they want to avoid Dondonians don’t you know. And they have lovely pehs.

The Fisherman’s Tavern is our hammock for the night. And very nice it is.

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I’m bunking with “the leader in the clubhouse” to see if any of his success rubs off on me.

After a few sharpeners in the low ceilinged bar we’re India bound to try out the recommended curry shop.

Splendid nosh enjoyed by all.

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Ben tries to extricate a loose piece of popadom from his nose.

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Back in the Fisherman’s it’s a few more swallies before bed beckons. Those are The Big Johns.

With no tips coming forward from Mr. Douglas I decided to try and keep him awake all night by using the snoring technique I’ve perfected.

You see, if I keep him awake he’ll be in no fit state to shoot a good score tomorrow and, maybe, just maybe I can make a late charge from the back. In your dreams Downie.

My plan fails but keeps Mr.C. and Mr. M. in the next room from getting off to sleep.

Next morning we’re on the road again, this time to Downfield. We try to lose Mr. Cluley but he does it unaided, eventually catching up with us after a bit of a detour.

Brrrrr. On the first tee at 9.30 it’s bitterly cold but things warm up once we get moving.

J, J, J & W complete their 2nd stapleford round and over lunch the winner transpires to be young Mr. W. Morrison, who has triumphed despite playing 2 rounds with one eye.

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The poor man was struck in his een with the corner of a storm lantern a few days ago and had to have drugs administered every 2 hours.

The crestfallen Mr. Douglas is beaten by just one point but has played magnificently.

Sobbing is heard from one corner of the room as Mr. R. Crummey, AKA Mr. J. Saville, realises he’s not made it 3 in a row. The kids back home will be devastated.

Back on the tee for an afternoon’s Texas Scramble which Team A win outstandingly with countless eagles (2 balls chipped in from some distance) and birdies, leaving my team trailing in their wake.

Consolation drinks all round before Mr. Crummey points the car south and over The Forth Road Bridge.

A big thanks must go to Mr. Thomas for organising another great outing.

PS. Next time Mr. Cluley, bring along some better jokes.

PPS: My photo of Willie and the cup didn’t come out for some reason so the portrait above is a bit of a mish-mash of Mr. C. And Mr. M.
Sorry guys.

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