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Published: August 6th 2009
Homeward Bound.
A wing and a prayer.I was excited, very excited. In fact the excitement that had steadily been increasing over the previous weeks had now got to the stage where I was fit to burst, not only because I was shortly going to see friends and family for the first time in over a year nor that I was about to spend a week of leisure in the golfing metropolis of southern Portugal but also for the fact that I was about to take a well earned break from the corporate world of eggs, fruit and veg and that I wasn't going to find myself sitting behind the wheel of a car on the 405 freeway for more than the next two weeks. Before the excitement could really be fully appreciated however I had just one more small hurdle to negotiate, that of the fifteen hour journey across the Atlantic Ocean.
Whenever you board an airliner irrespective of destination, type, length or purpose of flight it is inevitable that when following the Stewardesses directions to your seating position you will find yourself glancing up at the numbers above your head before silently scanning down the aisle
in what is usually an unsuccessful attempt to locate your seat and, more importantly, to identify the person you are going to be spending the next however many hours sat next to.
I'd applied all the logic of forethought when booking my ticket and reserved an aisle seat for the first leg of my journey home, the five hour US Airways flight from Los Angeles to Philadelphia allowing my arthritically riddled left leg to be stretched as and when necessary as well as ensuring that whoever was to be sat on my right hand side was of minimal concern. Despite this as I made my way down the aisle I still subconsciously found myself looking ahead for a clue as to who I'd be sitting, dining and inevitably chatting with for the next five hours and, with memories of the the obese halitosis ridden cricket fan and the ignorant French snob I was sandwiched between on the first leg of my world trip still fresh in my mind when I eventually got within close enough range to identify my neighbours it was all I could do to refrain from jumping up Bobby Charlton style, punching the air and shouting
Homeward Bound.
With mum, dad, Helen and Russ. "Yipppeee. Get in you beauty" at the the top of my voice. Sat in the window and centre seats next to mine were two of the prettiest English girls imaginable on their way home to Yorkshire from a two week American vacation.
Not only were Vicky and Emily a delight to the eye they were also lovely, down to earth northern lasses and the five hour flight and two hour stopover literally flew by. Unfortunately, our seats weren't together for the second, longer leg across the big pond but at the first sign that cabin crew were closing the doors I hurled myself headlong into the only spare seats on the plane ensuring not only that I had two seats to myself but also that I would be alone in the darkness that was soon to engulf the cabin, the perfect mask for the watering of eyes that would inevitably be brought on by the movie I'd already decided to watch, 'Marley and Me'.
I'd been told that the best selling tale about one man and his dog was a real tear jerker and being a canine lover was fully prepared but tears never got close to materialising
Homeward Bound.
Travelling companions. The lovely Emily and Vicki. due in the main to the uncontrollably disobedient nature off the mutt in question. I swear if that dog was mine he'd have been thrown in the back of the warden's van and knocking on the door of the waif's and stray's home long before he'd even had chance to progress from pissing on the the newspaper.
Having finally arrived at Manchester I said goodbye to the girls, was met by Jamie and forty minutes later was knocking on a familiar big green door decorated with a large 'Welcome Home' sash and a bundle of balloons. It was typical Margaret and lovely to be reunited with both her and my dad after such a prolonged period. Seeing absent friends and family was the main reason for my excitement which had nothing whatsoever to do with a return to Ellesmere Port and a stroll later that afternoon down to the local retail park to replace the suitcase that had emerged onto the carousel at Manchester Ringway resembling an abstract sculptors first attempt at recreating a squeezebox confirmed the suspicion that had been at the forefront of my thoughts ever since touchdown. That I'd made the right decision to leave fourteen
Homeward Bound.
Ma n Pa and the bigger green door. months earlier.
The two week trip as I was fully aware was going to be a whirlwind with hardly a second to sit down and relax, the old adage about people to see, places to go never having been more appropriate. A well attended Friday lunchtime carvery in my honour with former colleagues and a visit to the now unrecognisable offices where I spent twenty years of my working life followed by a watery night spent with close friends in my former home from home, The Sea Horse was just for starters and the following lunchtime I found myself heading back to the Horse ready to depart on the annual Golf Society Tour of Portugal.
Our destination was the ancient City of Lagos, a first for me and a much more preferable destination to that of my three previous golfing trips, the tacky 'Kiss Me Quick' Blackpoolness of Albuefeira. What I saw of Lagos itself throughout the next week was limited to say the least, restricted to the suburban hill walk into town, a myriad of narrow maze like stone paved streets and an area of water opposite the taxi rank which may or may not have been
Homeward Bound.
Workmates after a hearty scran. Tel, Marko, Kate, Gra, Bryn, Willy, Billy and Lol. a harbour but it was quaint, picturesque and more than enough to warrant a return visit with hopefully more time to explore.
If you put twenty four men together in any environment other than a prison cell you're going to be guaranteed three things; laughs, drink and to a much lesser degree friction and this trip was to prove no exception. The laughs were non stop, in the large part due to the antics of the great G.R, The Welsh Wizard Graham 'Twizzer' Roberts, an in-bred product of the valleys of Flint who'd frequently hold court entertaining the rest of the group with a non stop tirade of acidic yet oft hilarious observations and who on evening number two, courtesy of a hasty whip around was behatted and taken for a stroll around the streets of the old town atop a magnificent white steed resembling a special needs patient on an institute day out. The beer consumption was almost as prolific as the laughs and the friction thankfully restricted to random tourette's like expressions of club hurling frustration, usually courtesy of Maurice or Gibbo and the occasional slightly heated discussion with regards to the rules of the game.
Homeward Bound.
Ex colleague Little John and Margy. Same hairdresser ? The Aparthotel Vilabranca, conveniently situated at comfortable walking distance from the action of downtown was perfect, our party housed in large two bedroomed apartments sensibly placed together in the same building block, each room housing four of us at a time, the management's philosophy with regards to twenty four males let off the leash being similar to that of a Fire Chief dealing with a runaway bush fire or a Prison Warden's thinking re segregation of his sex offending inmates; isolation.
Sharing my bedroom was big Steve Gore, a funny and loveable bear of a man who'd filled at less than a moment's notice a vacancy that had arisen just the night before departure and who I soon realised possessed the weirdest sense of 'chic' imaginable, his wardrobe resembling a hybrid of Tony Curtis's Danny Wilde character from 70's cult TV show 'The Persuaders' and Danny La Rue. Helping a friend decide what to wear for an evening out is one thing but keeping a straight face and holding back the laughter as he stands in his underpants proudly holding up white trousers, white shoes and a pink shirt with the question "what do you think of these?" is
Homeward Bound.
Blindfold darts. another thing altogether.
The other bedroom in the apartment was taken by my old friend Maurice whose infamous snoring emits a noise similar in both sound and volume to that of a supersonic jet engine and whose bed was regimentally made with military precision each morning ensuring that to enter his room was like walking onto a set of 'Tom Brown's Schooldays', PJ's neatly folded on the pillow and sheets turned back at the corner. It also proved handy to have a virtual insomniac as a room mate as on a couple of occasions I could hear him tidying up the apartment not long after I'd slipped into bed and can only assume that I'd thankfully just missed the trumpeter's reveille which had no doubt woken him. Completing the room quartet was his poor suffering brother Keegan who'd unjustly earned the unenvied privelege of sharing Mo's bedroom purely on account of being of the same parentage.
The remaining personalities on tour were as per norm a bric-a-brac collection of every extreme that makes these trips so amusing, the usual suspects plus a handful of tour debutants, Cockney Tony and Welsh Dave amongst them who one got the impression
Homeward Bound.
With big Richy P at The Pig by the end of the week didn't know what had hit them.
The agenda for the tour is always simple, five rounds of golf separated by a day of rest, yet thoroughly exhausting and one which, once the cases have been unpacked and the first night of going Bertie is out of the way goes something along the lines of;-
Get up,
Board coach,
Alight coach,
Play golf,
Take drinks,
Board coach,
Alight coach
Eat dinner taking more drinks along the way,
Take more drinks,
Have a couple of drink's for the road,
Board coach and repeat counting yourself lucky if you've managed more than four or five hours sleep in between. As per normal I rarely did.
Having missed last years tour due to my Stateside relocation I also resumed my role as 'official' Tour Bookie, a time consuming, stress inducing but ultimately on the majority of occasions financially rewarding role allowing me an understanding as to why the saying "You never see a poor bookie" was created.
Years of personal knowledge, the studying of carefully compiled statistical form dossiers and weeks of research aided by the latest information gathered from e mails despatched across
Homeward Bound.
Mr Gore. I woke to this smile every morning for a week. the Atlantic by my spy in the camp Mr Storton eventually transform into the players odds which are distributed on the flight indicating that the book is now officially open. Release of the odds always results in a volley of vitriol being directed in my general direction, "mingebag", "bandit" and "tightarse" being but three of the more printable accompanying words but the abuse is like water off a duck's back, the book is open, the punters are carrying a weeks worth of holiday spends and the bets inevitably flood in. It'll come as no surprise that the lower prices are given out to the lower handicappers as those are, in addition to being the better golfers also the ones more intent on playing well and hopefully winning which inevitably means earlier to bed and less imbibing of alcohol. The hackers, a group in which I unashamedly place myself share a tendency to forget about the golf from leaving the 18th green one day until stepping onto the first tee the next effectively ruling themselves out of a hunt for honours.
The main reason for the stress is obviously the chance of suffering heavy financial loss, a possibility on each
Homeward Bound.
Tom Brown's Schooldays. Mo's pristine bedroom. and every day, but a likelihood which increases each evening again as a result of the demon drink. A few of the brighter sparks would regularily ambush me in the early hours of the morning as the frivolities reached a peak and request a price for the likelihood of the most bizarre outcomes imaginable which would more often than not, in a show of reckless bravado see me offering prices that would live to be regretted the following morning. Having recorded my lifetime lowest Stableford score of 16 points on the Tuesday, a result which I still maintain was as a direct result of the 'Curse of the Harbridge', a blight which over the last five tours has seen me shoot my lowest score of the week when partnering the eldest of the three brothers I foolishly offered 5 to 1 against me scoring 27 points the next time out. Needless to say the word spread like wild fire and there were more than a few takers.
Consequently, when after hole 12 on my next outing I had scored just fifteen points my arse was beginning to twitch 'ten bob threepenny bit'. Playing like someone who'd never held a
Homeward Bound.
Zorro eat your heart out. The Welsh Wizard takes to the saddle. golf club in their life and with both strength and sweat sapping out of me I needed to almost double my score in half the holes to avoid the bailiff's kicking down the hotel room door upon my return. The mountain was getting bigger with every shot but miraculously due to some divine inspiration, some wholly unexpected encouragement from my buggy partner, Trevor, who when things aren't going well for any opponent is usually a purveyor of the most mercilessly cutting wit and off putting chuckle/uncontrollable laughter and some of the most consistent golf I've ever played under pressure I carded five pars in the final six holes, something never managed before or since enabling me to stride up the 18th as though collecting the claret jug was imminent knowing I, and my money was safe. One of the smarter more persistent punters however, Big Brian Watson needless to say correctly adjudged it a fluke, placed the exact same bet the following day and duly won his money back plus more than a little interest.
By the final day of the trip despite having inhaled my last cigarette thirteen months earlier I found myself moving around under a constant
Homeward Bound.
Steve 'Danny La Rue' Gore tries a few new dance steps. cloud of Lambert and Butler smoke. Pressure of keeping the book and avoiding the much unwanted 'Hacker Trophy' allied to the incessant alcohol intake and influence of many of my companions had seen me request and smoke a solitary cigarette on evening number three and by the end of the trip the habit had escalated to the point that you'd have been excused for thinking my buggy had irrepairable engine problems, a plume of white smoke trailing in its wake like a japanese kamikaze on it's beeline to earth. To be honest, despite not having even thought of a cigarette for so long I'd half expected it would happen that way but I wasn't going to let it ruin my holiday by bathing in a sea of self disappointment.
The very outcome that had helped create the urge to poison myself with carbon monoxide, ensuring I was not boarding the flight back to England with 'The Jim Hacker Trophy' snuggled neatly amongst my smalls , had lingered on the edge of my conscience throughout the trip until the morning of the final day when I found myself just a handful of points and one or two places above bottom
Homeward Bound.
Michelle and Barney. place. The 'Jim Hacker' is a curse bestowed upon the lowest placed competitor at the end of the week playing off a handicap of less than twenty eight and '
Winning' the most despised trophy in golf now appeared a distinct possibility.
My buggy partner for the second day running and close rival in my bid to avoid the dreaded 'Hacker' mantle was tour organiser Mr Storton and as the others practised putting and prepared to tee off on the final morning we did something unprecedented for both of us on previous tours, selected a club each from our bags and went to the practice ground. Starting with a little friendly competition of chipping to a target ten feet or so away we were doing fine until, like the true hacker he is Trevor caught one with approximately ninety six per cent more force than was required to propel it to it's intended nearby target.
His ball took off like a laser bullet towards the fencing separating the practice ground from the adjacent roadway, incredibly squeezed itself between the vertical bars, took one bounce on the tarmac and then flashed across the windscreen of a passing car missing by
Homeward Bound.
Ma n Pa on the stairs of Liverpool Town Hall. just four or five inches. The driver, not knowing what had just flashed before his eyes in a delayed reaction slammed on his breaks no doubt causing severe whiplash and seatbelt burns on his shoulder and looked all around open mouthed in an attempt to identify what 'out of body' experience it was he'd just witnessed. He eventually shook his head and gingerly moved on non the wiser although I'm sure the sight of two orange shirted middle aged Tango men bent double in howls of hilarity had presented him with an almighty clue.
Trevor's misjudgement and lack of touch helped ease my frayed nerves and I bizarrely found myself totally confident in my ability to avoid the Hacker, after all at only four points ahead of me he was a target that I had eighteen holes and four and a half hours to grind down and rein in. Throughout the day rumours and lies snaked around the course as to the progress of our main rivals ensuring as we approached the final green we were totally non plussed as to our position but with Trevor still one point ahead of me I knew I had to somehow score
Homeward Bound.
1st night revellry. one more than him to tie and ensure safety.
After four shots any chances of catching him seemed non existent. I was firmly embedded in the green front bunker, my by now smiling and totally relaxed rival neatly placed on the green having played a shot less but it was at this precise moment that a minor miracle began to unfold. Having managed to just about claw myself out of the clutches of the sand trap and onto the rough grass surrounding the green with my fifth shot I had to hole my next to score a solitary point. Nigh on impossible.
Chipping in from off the green, even in professional circles is something that happens rarely, so rarely that without even lining up the shot and barely settling into a stance I half heartedly hit the ball and then watched with increasing interest as it followed a gently sweeping, perfectly paced arc across the green before disappearing out of sight and into the hole. I raised my club Sevvy style as though I'd just chipped in to win the Ryder Cup and looked across at a surprised Mr Storton with a beaming face that said "Over to
Homeward Bound.
1st night revellry. you".
Despite an outward expression of appearing encouraged I still held very little hope, my rival seemingly unimpressed by my moment of one in a million brilliance still had three putts from twenty feet to score a point and ensure I finished behind him. The first, plagued by a fear of over hitting and rolling down the hill that lurked menacingly beyond the target was six feet short and the second having just caught the crest of the slope rolled on stopping four feet past. My interest grew and remembering etiquette and the fact that ungentlemanly behaviour is not tolerated on a golf course (not from me anyway) I remained silent with the exception of uttering to no one in particular at precisely the volume that ensured Trevor was just within earshot "Oooh, I've seen these missed".
The viewing gallery had no idea of the significance of what was happening. Trevor hitched his shorts and settled into his ungainly hunched putting stance, a stance that always reminds me of of the wicked witch from Snow White as she's about to hand over the rosy red apple and watched aghast as his tentatively stabbed putt rolled agonisingly half an
inch wide of the mark. A miracle had transpired in front of my eyes and how I rejoiced, even moreso as we left the green and were informed the news that Mr Biggs and Mr Cawless, despite the lies had actually finished several points behind us both. My joy was short lived however when our scores were returned and the roar from a number of overjoyed punters hungrily swigging Magner's on the terrace indicated that the days heavily backed favourite, Ian Rimmer had been victorious on the day and the week leaving me to pay out close to a couple of hundred Euro's.
Despite the obvious comedown brought about by the end of a great vacation there was no time for feeling deflated. The diary for the remaining four days of my trip was filled almost to capacity. A Sunday carvery with various family members including dear Aunt Jean, nieces Erin and Faye, sadly soon to depart for a new life in Ireland and big brother Jon, a Sunday afternoon visit from sis Helen and hubby Russ followed by an evening of drinks with friends at the Sea Horse, a Monday day out to Chester with mum and dad
Homeward Bound.
Keegan The Hacker. I managed to avoid the dreaded shirt, worn each day by the previous days loser. meeting niece Alex at the train station and a much anticipated but ultimately disappointing soccer night, disappointing due to the lack of personnel turn out, most of the missing faces more than likely hooked up to home made drips detoxifying themselves from the perils of Portugal.
Tuesday's page was, until rising from my pit effectively blank until mother came up with the bright suggestion of a day out in Liverpool. I say bright because Liverpool, 2008's European City of Culture is a City I have always loved and I was interested to see the changes that would no doubt have imposed themselves on it's skyline since my last visit which at the time made it appear like a lonely hearts club for tower cranes. Liverpool One for example, a state of the art shopping and liesure area had sprouted since my last visit and I was interested to see it. The appeal of the suggestion took a nosedive moments later when I entered the kitchen and Marg got busy relaying the bus timetables. Bus !!! BUS ???
Liverpool is approximately 20 miles away from Ellesmere Port and serviced by the superbly efficient and minimal fuss Wirral Line rail
Homeward Bound.
Sunday night at The Horse; Dave, Jerry, Peter, Barney, Chelle and Jamie. system, no traffic lights or roundabouts, just a direct, cheap and speedy means of access to the City. The thought of spending over an hour on a bus stopping every two minutes when the option was a short drive to Hooton and a twenty minute train journey held not the slightest whiff of appeal. I attempted to put forward the case for the defence.
"Why get the bus when we can drive to Hooton and catch the train" ?
Father's instant reply of "Because we've both got bus passes" almost caught me off guard and made me realise I was outnumbered and going to face an uphill struggle. I didn't have a pass so what difference did it make I countered and fully expecting my response to see us choo chooing through the scenic unspoilt areas of The Wirral as opposed to the alternative stop/start route through the streets of Rock Ferry and downtown Birkenhead played my trump.
"Well I'll pay for your train then"..........
Perish the thought. The suggestion unsurprisingly fell upon deaf ears and so it passed that half an hour later having got over my brief infantile sulk I found myself boarding the
Homeward Bound.
Founders, Chesters No 1 Rock Night and no mention of DJ Piggy. Chester to Liverpool C1 occupied by my parents and a rabble of bus pass waving OAP's.
It was early afternoon when we did eventually arrive in the City and we had a wonderful time. Having dined on Tapas al fresco accompanied by two bottles of wine which rendered Marg, God love her, giggly and wobbly on her feet and such a liabilty when crossing the City Centre streets that I pondered how lucky I was to have not had to go through some of the more stressful traits of parenting we stopped off to view the regal interior of Liverpool Town Hall before strolling over to Albert Dock and the aforementioned Liverpool One. We eventually arrived home just before seven and my thoughts immediately turned to the evening. It was time to go Piggin'.
Metal Pig, Chester's No.1 rock night that I'd started six or seven years earlier was still going strong under the sole captaincy of my old partner Peter and no trip to the UK would have been complete without paying a visit. Nothing much had changed since my farewell visit other than the appearance of a roof top terrace which for some reason allied to
Homeward Bound.
Louise and some other piglets. the unaturally humid night air temperature gave the place the feel of a holiday venue. Same sounds, same faces, some who'd ventured out just to see old Piggy and a great night of rock'n'roll and meeting old friends.
My holiday was sadly by now almost over. Two weeks that had been looked forward to for an age had disappeared in a flash and a final evening with family ended in, for once, a relatively early night. The following morning having gouged myself on sausage butties, loaded the golf bag with Cheshire Cheese, Branston and Cumberland Sausage and bid adios to a thankfully only briefly tearful Margy I was deposited at Manchester Airport by pops bracing myself for the long slog home.
The journey back across the Atlantic could not even begin to equal that of the opposite direction especially when I boarded the plane and found my seat at the very rear of the aircraft, despite again having pre booked an aisle seat to be the centre of three. Okay, it was once again situated between two attractive solo travelling ladies but five minutes after sitting it became patently obvious that if the situation was to continue it
Homeward Bound.
Moose at The Pig. was going to be the most miserable eight hours of my life.
I pleaded with the steward to be moved on the grounds that this wasn't the seat I'd booked and that there'd been some kind of tragic mix up but was bluntly informed the flight was full, that occasionally the computer erred and that I'd have to put up and shut up and will remain eternally grateful to the girl from Frodsham sat next to me who upon seeing my obvious distress offered up her seat and spent the whole journey in the centre simply to allow my knee to breathe. When I finally alighted at LAX it was with a massive sigh of relief although half an hour later when all my fellow passengers had disappeared and I found myself stood alone as the empty baggage carousel continued whirl around I sensed all was not well.
When, the following evening I received notification my bags were about to be delivered I was half expecting them to be accompanied by a clutch of cuff carrying customs officials reading the riot act about the illegalities of importing meat products before carting me off for another night in the
clink. Thankfully it was just a solitary Mexican porter, neighbour Mark signed for receipt of the bags as I was out and although as expected the lock had been removed the sight of the cumberland sausages peering up from amongst the steel shafts when the zip was lowered was one that made the whole ordeal worthwhile.
And that was that. I was back in the US of A and had no time for jet lag. The date was July 2nd, just one day to prepare for the biggest party of the year. And I haven't smoked a cigarette since !
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Golfing Arch Nemisis
non-member comment
Mr Watson's demise
Matt, it is with great sorrow that I have to inform you of the very sad news of the Doctor's untimely death. Last weekend we had a golfing weekend at Portal golf club, myself,Ian Rimmer and our tim played a fourball with Brian, although not realised at the time it was the last time he was to hold a golf club, he went into work on Wednesday night and suffered a massive heart attack and could not be revived, a sad loss .Jon Harbridge