BY
JIM BLACK
IT
was Christmas Day at the golf club, the coldest day of the year.
The
members’ hearts were full of joy, their bellies full of beer,
Then
up spake the most important member, face as bold as brass,
Cameras
away, phones off and don’t dare interrupt whilst I’m talking!
Who
exactly was this rather corpulent figure dressed from head to foot in flowing
red robes and a blonde beard?
It
couldn’t be, could it? No, surely not THE Colin Montgomerie!
Had
Big Col really morphed into Monty Clause come hot foot in his spikes from his
rich pile in the Perthshire hills to dispense much merriment?
Not
even yet another year without a major could dispel Big Col’s sense of festive
spirit and fun.
Soon,
after clearing his plate of the last morsel of a splendid turkey dinner washed
down by several cans of diet (?) Coke, it was time for Monty Clause to dispense
gifts to the little children – at least those he had not already trampled
underfoot in his rush to reach the jelly and ice cream first!
“And
what did Santa bring you for Christmas?” he enquired of one little chap who had
already soiled himself in terror-filled anticipation of meeting Monty Clause.
“Come on, speak up,” Monty Clause sighed as only he
can sigh while also screwing up his face and doing a passable impersonation of
a warthog licking p... of a nettle.
“What?”
he bellowed on learning that the unfortunate youngster had, in fact, received a
copy of “A History of the Majors.”
“I
suppose you think you’re being smart,” he growled in a menacing tone all too
familiar to the Scottish golf writers.
With
that the youngster took to his heels and was last seen heading into the nearby
hills.
Once
the remaining gifts had been dispensed – in matter of seconds, I might add – it
was time for Monty Clause to perform his party piece.
To
the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” it went something like this:
On
the first day of Christmas, my true love (self) gave to me a major in a pear
tree.
On
the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two more majors and
another in a pear tree.
On
the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three 59s, two more majors
and another in a pear tree.
On
the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four fawning scribes,
three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.
On
the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five senior majors, four
fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.
On
the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me six juicy burgers, five
senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in
a pear tree.
On
the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven large Kit Kats, six
juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more
majors and another in a pear tree.
On
the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eight cans of Coke, seven
large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes,
three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.
On
the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a nine order of merit
titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five
senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in
a pear tree.
On
the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ten lords a leaping to my
every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit
Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s,
two more majors and another in a pear tree.
On
the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eleven pipers playing
“Love, Love Me Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit
titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five
senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in
a pear tree.
On
the twelfth days of Christmas, my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming
up support for a fresh Ryder Cup campaign, eleven pipers playing “Love, Love Me
Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight
cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four
fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.
With
that Monty took his leave, brushing aside autograph hunters as he went and
trampling underfoot those few remaining children who had survived the jelly and
ice cream scramble.
But
there were those who swore they heard a lone voice drifting across the chill
evening air singing “For I’m a Jolly Good Fellow” before being accosted by the
smell of burning rubber as a top-of-the-range Lexus roared out of the car park.
Merry
Christmas, Monty.
And
to all of you, 24-handicappers, burgeoning amateur stars and seasoned pros
alike, festive good wishes.
