Mr. Punch's Golf Stories by J. A. Hammerton (best books to read txt) 📖

Is it good form to golf? That is a question I have been so repeatedly asked of late by correspondents that I can no longer postpone my answer. Now to begin with, I fear there is no doubt that golf is a little on the down grade—socially. Golf is no longer the monopoly of the best set, and I am told that artisans' clubs have actually been started in certain districts. The other day, as I was travelling in Lancashire, a man in the same compartment—with the most shockingly ill-cut trousers I ever saw—said to a friend, "I like 'Oylake, it's 'ealthy, and it's 'andy and within 'ail of 'ome." And it turned out that the chief attraction to him at Hoylake was the golf. Such an incident as this speaks volumes. But I always try to see both sides of every question, and there is unquestionably a great deal to be said in favour of golf. It was undoubtedly played by kings in the past, and at the present moment is patronised by grand dukes, dukes, peers and premiers.

[Pg 124]

But the real and abiding attraction of golf is that it mercifully gives more opportunities to the dressy man than any other pastime. Football and cricket reduce everyone to a dead level in dress, but in golf there is any amount of scope for individuality in costume. Take the case of colour alone. The other day at Finsbury Park station I met a friend on his way home from a day's golfing, and I noticed that he was sporting the colours of no fewer than five different clubs. On his cap was the badge of the Camberwell Crusaders; his tie proved his membership of the Bickley Authentics; his blazer was that of the Tulse Hill Nondescripts; his brass waistcoat buttons bore the monogram of the Gipsy Hill Zingari; the roll of his knickerbocker stockings was embroidered with the crest of the Kilburn Incogs. The effect of the whole was, if I may be allowed the word, spicy in the extreme. Of course it is not everyone who can carry off such a combination, or who can afford to belong to so many first-class clubs. But my friend is a very handsome man, and has a handicap of plus two at Tooting Bec.

[Pg 126]

The burning question which divides golfers into two hostile camps is the choice between knickerbockers and trousers. Personally I favour the latter, but it is only right to explain that ever since I was gaffed in the leg by my friend Viscount —— when out cub-sticking with the Cottesmore I have never donned knickers again. To a man with a really well-turned calf and neat ankles I should say, wear knickerbockers whenever you get a chance. The late Lord Septimus Boulger, who had very thick legs, and calves that seemed to begin just above the ankles, used to wear knickerbockers because he said it put his opponent off his play. If I may say so without offence, he was a real funny chap, though a careless dresser, and I am told that his father, old Lord Spalding, has never been the same man since his death.

Another advantage of knickerbockers is the scope they afford for the display of stylish stockings. A very good effect is produced by having a little red tuft, which should appear under [Pg 128] the roll which surmounts the calf. The roll itself, which should always have a smart pattern, is very useful in conveying the impression that the calf is more fully developed than it really is. I noticed the other day at Hanger Hill that Sir Arlington Ball was playing in a pair of very full knickers, almost of the Dutch cut, and that his stockings—of a plain brown colour—had no roll such as I have described. Then of course Sir Arlington has an exceptionally well-modelled calf, and when in addition a man has �30,000 a year he may be allowed a certain latitude in his dress and his conduct generally.

The question of footwear at golf is one of considerable difficulty, but there is a general feeling in favour of shoes. My friend the Tooting Bec plusser affects a very showy sort of shoe with a wide welt and a sort of fringe of narrow strips of porpoise hide, which fall over the instep in a miniature cataract. As regards the rival merits of india rubber studs on the soles and of nails, I compromise by a judicious mixture of [Pg 130] both. If a waistcoat be worn it should be of the brightest possible colour. I saw Lord Dunching the other day at Wimbledon Park in a charming waistcoat. The groundwork was a rich spinach green with discs of Pompeian red, and the buttons were of brass with his monogram in blue and white enamel in the centre. As it was a cold day he wore a mustard-coloured Harris tweed Norfolk jacket and a sealskin cap. Quite a large crowd followed him, and I heard afterwards that he had raised the record for the links to 193.

One thing is certain—and that is we cannot all be first-class players. Personally, owing to the accident I have already referred to, I hardly ever play at all, but I always make it a point, if I am going on a visit to any place in the country where I know there are no golf links, to take a few niblicks with me. A bag for clubs only costs a few shillings, and it looks well amongst your other paraphernalia on a journey. In engaging a valet again, always remember to ascertain whether he knows the rules of the "royal and ancient game." [Pg 132] I shall never forget my humiliation when down at Lord Springvale's. As I was taking part in a foursome with the Hon. Agrippa Bramble, Lady Horace Hilton, and the second Mrs. Bunkeray, I got stuck in a furze-bush and my man handed me a putter. I could have cried with vexation.

Cavendish, Chatsworth.—As to the treatment of divots, different methods are recommended by different authorities. My plan, and I am not aware of a better, is to put them in my pocket when the caddie is not looking. When thoroughly dried they form an excellent peat for burning, or can be used for bedding out rhododendrons.

"Nil Desperandum," Beckenham.—The best stimulant during match play is a beaten-up egg in a claret glass of sloe gin. The eggs are best carried in the pocket of your club-bag.

A. Flubb, Woking.—No, it is not good form to pay your caddie in stamps.

Alcibiades, Wembley Park.—If you must play golf on Sunday, I call it nothing short of hypocritical to go down to the links in a tall hat.

[Pg 123]

Between Friends.—Mr. Spooner, Q.C. (a Neophyte). "This is my ball, I think?"

Colonel Bunting (an adept). "By Jove, that's a jolly good 'lie'!"

Mr. Spooner. "Really, Bunting, we're very old friends, of course. But I do think you might find a pleasanter way of pointing out a perfectly unintentional mistake!"

[Pg 125]

A Hero "Fin de Si�cle."—Podgers (of Sandboys Golf Club). "My dear Miss Robinson, golf's the only game nowadays for the men. Lawn-tennis is all very well for you girls, you know."

[Pg 127]

If you should find a stray bull in possession of the links, and who is fascinated by your little red landmarks, don't try and persuade poor Mr. Littleman to drive him away. He is very plucky—but it isn't golf.

[Pg 129]

His First Round.—Caddie (pointing to direction flag). "You'd better play right on the flag, sir."

Curate. "Thank you very much. But I have very grave doubts as to my ability to hit such a very small mark at this distance!"

[Pg 131]

Ear Blinkers.—A suggestion for caddies of tender age in attendance on hot-tempered Anglo-Indian military gentlemen learning golf.

[Pg 133]

Every Man to his Trade.—Exasperated Amateur (to fore-caddie, who will NOT go on ahead). "Go along, man. Do get on towards the next green."

Caddie. "Beg parding, Capting. You won't never get him to go no more than twenty yards ahead. 'E's been used to carrying a flag in front of a steam-roller."

[Pg 134]

LAYS FROM THE LINKS I.—The History of a Match.

Let A be the Links where I went down to stay,
And B the man whom I challenged to play:—

C was the Caddie no golfer's without,
D was the Driver I used going "out":
E was the Extra loud "Fore!" we both holloa-ed,
F was the Foozle which commonly followed:
G was the Green which I longed to approach,
H was the Hazard which upset the coach:
I was B's Iron-shot (he's good for a younker),
J was his Joy when I pitched in the bunker.
K was the Kodak, that mischief-contriver,
L was B's Likeness—on smashing his driver:
M was the Moment he found out 'twas taken.
N was his Niblick around my head shaken:
O was the Oil poured on waters so stormy,
P was the Putt which, next hole, made me dormy.
Q was the Quality—crowds came to look on:
R the Result they were making their book on:
S was the Stymie I managed to lay,
T was Two more, which it forced him to play;
U was the Usual bad work he let fly,
V was the Vengeance he took in the bye.

W the Whisky that night: I must own
X was its quantity—wholly unknown;
Y were

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Go to page: 12345678910