Some writings of Joe Geddes
A Founding Member of the Whitby Marigold G.C.
The first golf game of a brand New Year,
Approached with shiver of anticipation, maybe even fear,
Shall this be the year I can establish my skill,
Have I engendered enough confidence, enough strength of will
Nervously I step on to the first tee,
Aware that it is really up to me,
Have I the required intestinal fortitude and resource,
For it is me against the clubs, the ball and the course.
I suppose that three against one is not too bad,
Especially when one considers all the practice I?ve had,
So here I go, one more attempt to see if I can succeed,
If I can put it all together I shall accomplish the deed.
Knee?s slightly flexed, weight balanced and proper,
The vee?s of my grip pointing right over my shoulder,
Left arm straight, standing up nice and tall,
Eyes fixed with determination on that silly wee ball.
A nice natural back swing, eyes still on the ball,
A full turn of the trunk then down the club starts to fall,
Perfect control of weight, turn, arm extension and follow through,
Only to miss the ball completely as I knew I would do.
Well, it seem this year shall just be like the last,
Starting off badly then its all downhill fast,
Out five times a week, still improvement is nil,
At this sado masochistic game it means I?ll never get my fill.
There?s nothing to it.
Swoosh !! a swing of perfection.
Everything smack on, no need for correction,
The club head whistling through at the right angle of speed,
Asking for a better swing would be unrealistic greed,
With action like this, opponents shall crumble and fall,
Now lets see if I can still do it , now I?ve teed up the ball.
Many happy hours I?ve spent at Sunnybrae,
Where members at being friendly, go out of their way,
The sights, and sounds, of a typical golfing scene,
A world wide phenomenon, which, with us , seems to have always been.
If a nuclear holocaust, were to happen right here,
Destroying everything golfers hold so dear,
The foliage stripped from the trees, leaving them barren and bare,
Everything in sight burned, and scorched, beyond repair.
Ball cleaners, flag poles, twisted beyond recognition,
The tee?s, fairways, and greens, in a horrible condition,
The clubhouse, a shell, of what it once had been,
All forms of life stilled, no movement to be seen.
If one came to visit, after radiation levels died down,
Stood in the middle of the fairway, and took a look around,
Wept, thinking of the way it was before,
He would be sure to be startled, by some Bugger shouting ?Fore?.
The Whitby Marigold G.C. AGM
A squawking, squabbling contentious group,
Common sense they would just never brook,
They imbibe in nonsensical rubbish as is their want,
Repetitive, consecutive, dialogue like some sacred cant.
What group could this be, can any guess their name,
The Whitby Marigold Golf Club at their Annual A.G.M.
Debating the issues, getting nowhere fast,
Each consecutive A.G.M. a noisy repetition of the last.
The dialogue not helped by the excessive consumption of alcohol,
As the meeting progresses, we get no sense at all,
Eventually they break up with no progress in sight,
Just as well, for on the morrow, they won?t remember last night.
All the proposals are rejected, all the new ideas snuffed out,
The Marigold boy?s know what the meeting games all about,
With nothing decided, they shall need another meeting next week,
A night of boozing with the boys is all they really need.
Hackney J.H.G (29th Nov 1988)
The Marigold Golf Club
As the Marigolds gather, at the first tea,
Each wondering what kind of golf day it will be,
For the majority of them, there is only a slim hope,
to play golf well is beyond most of their scope.
This writer, Joe Geddes, takes his turn at the tee,
Handsome, athletic, and bronzed is he,
A prize any woman in the world would be glad to take,
It?s a great pity, a golfer he shall never make,
Stu Orland is next, and takes a mighty swing,
Putting into it all the weight he can bring,
Driving the wee ball the proverbial mile,
two fairways over with perfect grace and style.
Davey Paton is small of stature but big in ambition,
His aim, to be the best golfer in all of creation,
Joining the Marigolds was a mistake right from the start,
When he sees our performance he is bound to lose heart.
Now see the ball fly straight up the fairway,
It?s just a pity it is going the wrong way,
For Harry Darling is now on the Tee,
and everyone knows how erratic Harry can be.
Dave Lee has a swing that?s very slow and easy,
When playing well, his manner is cheerfull and breezy,
His wee punts up the middle are most frustrating,
Monotonously straight and so very aggrevating.
Rick McNeill is so crazy he talks to the ball,
Tells the ball exactly where he expects it to fall,
Pity the ball when it doesn?t fly straight,
it gets a foul mouthed message of frustration and hate.
Next up is Frank McCormick , and looking rather grim,
He just can?t allow Joe Geddes score better than him,
If it begins to look like Joe will beat him to-day,
He will need an excuse to quit playing, and go away.
Today Joe Mallon is determined to get a hole in one,
We all reckon his chances are about a hundred to none,
His wife even gave him some money to buy all of us drinks,
Will any of us live long enough till a hole in one he sinks.
Frank Sherlock stands tall and looks very serious,
Like all Englishman he thinks he looks regal and imperious,
While golfing he is brought down to the level of us all,
Humbled by the antics of a stupid wee white ball.
Up now Mike Heaney, another who can hit it a mile,
He swings at the ball with great gusto and style,
Never been on his own fairway the whole of this year,
Its only on reaching the green does he suddenly appear.
Here comes Gord McKinley, short but steady,
With a laugh and a joke, he?s always ready,
On Sundays he?s adequate, the best you can say,
However in a tournament, just watch the wee bugger play.
When Bill Kerr is on his game, it?s easy to know,
He walks with confidence, is eager to be on the go,
If his game is off, his shoulder droop down,
He is the picture of dejection form his feet to his crown.
Stu McLean is this years President elect,
We all knew, the best man to select,
Laying all the problems on his broad capable shoulders,
Complain about everything, and watch his temper smoulder.
Rob McNeill would appear to be another McNeill to many,
No relation ship to Rick, few similarities if any,
We think he?s connected to some lumberjack brood,
For everytime we see him, he?s coming out of the wood.
Big Brian Aird, tall, handsome and neat,
At big drives he can be very hard to beat,
We only ever meet him on each tee and green,
he visits all the rest of the course in between.
From England are the brothers Pelham, Ernie and Barry,
At trading insults with the Scots they can thrust and parry,
When playing golf their just one of the boys,
A bunch of grown up men playing with their toys.
John McLuckie is seldom seen, always late,
Liable to turn up even on the wrong date,
So thin he?s often mistaken for the shaft of a club,
At our tournaments, guess who got tore into all of the grub.
Kenny Darlison has his own wee drum to beat,
As sleepy looking an individual as you are likely to meet,
When he takes a swing you had better beware,
He is liable to forget whether it?s a ball or a drum that?s there.
Although Gord Murphy is not really known for complaining,
On our resident moaner, Harry Darling, he is rapidly gainimg,
Gord?s complaints are interspersed with caustic wit,
In this bad tempered bunch, he?s a near perfect fit.
Reg Bradley is our token Eastern Islands member,
Each club should have one for a prejudice defender,
Everyone knows what islanders are supposed to be,
We found it unsettling to discover he was no different than we.
Playing golf with Hugh Lamont is really a treat,
His witty one liners are hard to beat,
Your laughter may do absolutely nothing for our game,
But after all, having a good time is the reason you came.
Chris Devine has one leg and also a prosthesis,
We wonder if it helps in the huge drives he releases,
If we thought so, we would quickly be the same,
Golf nuts would do anything in order to improve their game.
Next Stu Bennett tee?s up while still drunk and weaving,
He has a terrible headache and his stomach is heaving,
But he hits a ball, it flies straight and true,
Which is better than most of us sober can do.
Eric Aspinall, another Sassenach of note.
Since he is our treasurer nothing bad can be wrote,
He wields might power till the end of the year,
Then if he doesn?t behave, he can be turfed out on his ear.
Jack Blellock, what can we say about him,
A good sense of humour, but at golf he is grim,
He has lots of company in this club we run,
But for enjoyment and good company we?re number one.
Dan McNeill is the brother of Rick,
a more diverse pair you just could?nt pick,
Rick throws tantrums and clubs in his frustrations,
Dan just smiles at Rick?s antics on kind deprecation.
George McKay got his chance to join and gleefully took it,
George is one of these who are pally dukit,
When he swings at the ball, it?s hard to be knowing,
Whither the left handed bugger is coming or going.
Our new member is Ernie Apostologlou,
A real tongue teaser and a spelling challenge to,
Ernie is Greek but also a fanatic for the game,
His opponents are glad he doesn?t drive as long as his name.
Bob Burke was seen once, then never again,
We know he?ll be back, but nobody knows when,
He decided to take lessons to upgrade his game,
Probably the only one who is headed for fortune and fame.
You have now met the lot, a real bunch of rogues,
All kinds of languages, accents and brogues,
At golf, Nicklaus and company may have nothing to fear,
But do they have as much fun as us, they don?t even come near.
Hackney J.H.G. (12th July, 1988)
Meet the Sunday Golfer
In all of history, there can be none stranger,
The penchant for this pastime, the strangest, without danger,
Masochistic tendencies, coupled with a sadistic streak,
required to be able to face a golf game each week.
Each and every Sunday, they rise as day is dawning,
no matter the weather, or the conditions it is spawning,
Grabbing golf gear, growling goodbye to their spouse,
Of to the golf course, with all the enthusiasm they can arouse.
Snarling at the first tee, as tension increases,
getting steadily worse, as their game goes to pieces,
watching fellow competitors, to catch them cheating,
Getting deeper in the dumps, as the course gives them a beating.
In all kinds of weather, the result is the same,
They get home ragged, and beaten, from this cruel game,
Their friends are no better, bruised and battered too,
but next Sunday they will be on the first tee, the battle to renew.
Hackney J.H.G (18th May, 1988).
T?would make a Saint swear.
I taste the cruel bitter bile of shear frustration,
Forestalls any attempt at fun and relaxation,
The simplest of tasks, yet all come undone,
gone, good intentions for golfing fun,
A simple chip, three feet, not much more,
get it near to the pin, a guaranteed four,
A stub into the grass, up the ball flew,
only to be struck once more on the follow through.
Away it flies, away to the other side of the green,
The worst **!!?!!* shot I?ve ever fucking seen.
Feet, shoulder wide, and firmly planted,
knees, just slightly bent,
toes and body, at right angles,
to the prospective flight intent.
Head down, and held there firmly,
eyes affixed onto the ball,
gripping the club as instructed,
as a stance, I have it all.
Tis from this moment on,
The whole lot goes to fuck,
swinging and hitting so wildly,
where the ball goes, depends entirely on luck.
The Determined Hacker
Each little snigger, each little sneer,
each snide remark, meant for my ear,
strengthen my determination to prove them all wrong,
strengthen my resolve to change their song.
What does it matter, if I don?t conform,
what if I am different, not part of the norm,
so my stance is all twisted, ungainly to see,
shouldn?t cause them to refuse to play golf with me.
So my grip is wrong, my back is not straight,
My knees are too bent, my timing is late,
My head moves when I swing, my balance is off,
is that any reason for them to scoff.
I once got it all together ? even hit the ball,
Straight down the middle, I felt ten feet tall,
Smugly I challenged them to have something to say,
to my chagrin, I was facing the wrong way.
I won?t give up, I shall eventually belong,
Play par golf, be followed by an admiring throng,
I shall need to hurry, I am in my fifties now,
I have tried to play for twenty years, still don?t know how.
Hackney J.H.G (20th Sept, 1988)
His game is on, right at its peak,
He?d break one hundred for sure this week,
Pitching, putting, had never been so good,
Driving further than ever before with the wood,
Long irons accurate, a delight to see,
not only break one hundred, but by some degree.
Now, on the first tee, eager, ready to go,
Sliced right out of bounds, ?what do you know?.
I wander over billowing sand,
a journey neither sought nor planned,
Good intentions have gone agley,
Slicing as I did off the fairway.
What club to use to make it right,
a seven, hit with all my might,
or a wedge, played just to get out,
decisions, are what this games all about.
Stance taken, feet nestled in deep,
Seven it is, an appointment with the green to keep,
Careful not to touch the sand,
everything seems well in hand.
I swing with all my awesome might,
a blast of debris shields my sight,
the sand slowly settles down once more,
there lies the ball, inches further than it was before.
Lucky Dave Lee
Out of bed at six on a Sunday morning were we,
anxious to be heading for the golf course and the first tee.
The shared drive up, muted but usually cheerful,
but Harry?s there, and moans and complains, we get an earful.
We arrive at the course, some have already arrived,
white faced and shivering, looking like orphans severely deprived.
Into the club house for coffee and breakfast,
The early arrivals get some colour in their cheeks at long last.
By this time, were grown from a few to a crowd,
each and every one of us vociferously loud.
The discs are brought out to make the foursome selections,
some are happy with the result, some are showing dejection.
Just for the story, the foursome shall be,
Harry darling, Stu Bennett, Frank McCormick and Dave Lee,
and lets for fun follow this group around,
we will be silent spectators for this particular round.
Dave with the honours, sets his tee up quite high,
With his slow methodical swing, hits the ball into the sky.
It nestles in the fairway, one hundred yards out,
Dave shakes his head, disgusted with his puny clout.
The next one up is Harry, and he climbs on the tee,
He?s been playing very well recently we all agree,
He goes in to his stance, then swings with all he?s got,
the ball ends up a mile away in someone?s back lot.
Frank is up next and we all know he?s quite good,
He takes his now famous ?Big Bertha? driving wood,
With one might swing, he misses the ball completely,
while the wee white ball seems to smile at him sweetly.
Frank?s so upset he decides there and then to quit,
goes to his car in a temper and fit,
throws his clubs in the trunk, rams his car into gear,
races out of the car park, probably won?t be seen again this year.
Now it?s Stu?s turn, he?s our clubs golfing ace,
bends to place his tee, falls flat on his face.
Saturday night he played in a curling bonspiel,
We carry the bugger off, for his intoxication is for real.
This leaves in the foursome, only Harry and Dave,
then Harry approaches Dave, his face is very grave.
His elbow and his knee is giving him a lot of pain,
He has decided to go home, and make a doctors appointment again.
I will have to check up, but I?m really quite sure,
that the Marigold?s have a record here simple and pure.
I?ve studied all the records, never seen one like this one at all,
Dave won the game by default after hitting one ball.
That?s not all of it, for the story is absolutely true,
How I ask you, would I lie to you.
The above was the final of a competition we had to force Dave to join,
and worst of all, he won the previous round, by only tossing a coin.
J.H.G (7th April, 1987)
The Weekend Golfer
Each Sunday morn I stand on the first tee,
wondering if this is the day it will be,
the day that I play with consummate skill,
subdue all their criticism, their laughter forever.
I tee up the ball, with infinite care,
painfully aware of them all standing there,
take my own sweet time to establish my stance,
pay particular attention to my grip, so my skills I?ll enhance.
Bend the knees slightly, as it states in the book,
hold my steady, as at the ball I look.
Take the club straight back, in a slow methodical swing,
then down to the ball, the club head bring.
I swing at the ball with all my might,
then agonizingly watch, as the ball flies a mile to the right.
Suppressed mirth from the spectators, is heard coming my way,
as I woefully accept , today is not to be the day.
Hackney J.H.G (9th May, 1988)
Trials and Tribulations of a Duffer
The time has come, I must face some facts,
of my recent participation in some desperate acts.
In order to cure my poor ailing golf game,
I have participated in almost anything you could name.
First it was acupuncture needles in my ears,
causing gales of laughter from my golfing peers,
then it was the wearing of a radio headset,
hoping through music, a better swing I would get.
I tried changing my grip, altering my stance,
all this torture so my game I could enhance.
But all I tried was of no avail,
each attempt at par I would dismally fail.
Hope is not over, I have just read the Golf Digest.
There are plenty of suggestions for me to test.
There are tips of all kinds, from every kind of expert.
telling how to stand, and what muscles to exert.
In no time at all, at golfing I will be great,
I am glad I read the Digest before it was too late.
Hold it !!, millions of others have read the Digest as well,
If they all get great too --, then what the bloody hell ?
My Sunnybrae Golf Game
Hole number 1. Par 4, 273 yards
A stiff swing, a poor drive but straight,
a long iron my subsequent fate,
a lucky bounce through the trap,
a nice wee pitch to a putt that is but a tap.
Score: par 4
Hole number 2. Par 4, 420 yards
Teeing off with the honor,
a tremendous hit, but the ball?s a goner.
Result ------ hitting three off the tee.
Two pars in a row were not for me.
Score: triple bogey 7
Hole number 3. Par 4, 260 yards
An errant drive skips over the pond,
up the bank to the fairway beyond,
leaving a three iron to the green,
and the bonniest putt you have ever seen.
Score: birdie 3
Hole number 4. Par 4, 363 yards
Straight down a wide fairway,
the best drive yet today,
a tricky pitch, I?m out of luck,
behind a tree I end up stuck.
Score: bogey 5
Hole number 5. Par 5, 500 yards.
My longest drive is now needed,
But by strong winds the ball is impeded.
Getting to the green today in three,
proves to be an imposibilitee.
Score: bogey 6
Hole number 6. Par 3, 138 yards.
This par three is my weekly nemesis,
hither the ball or the green I am sure to miss,
today proves to be no exception,
into the pond goes my par intention.
Score: triple bogey 6
Hole number 7. Par 4, 289 yards.
Ower the pond, well past the tree,
further than I ?ve been ever known to be,
a short pitch landing in the back bunker,
a magic sand wedge and a deadly putter.
Score: par 4
Hole number 8. Par 4, 385 yards.
Another great drive, now I?m laughing.
It?s amazing how much confidence it does bring,
a four iron up very close to the pot,
an easy putt, my game is hot.
Score: par 4.
Hole number 9. Par 4, 230 yards.
The adrenalin is pumping trying for the green in one,
I feel my best game has just begun.
The ball goes like a bullet, out of bounds into some rough,
Ach, fuck this stupid game, I ?ve had enough.
Score: X X Exit.