Aunt Bertha Answers Your Questions

We are proud to have the services of Bertha Brassie, a wee bundle of Caledonian energy and sense, at your disposal to answer any queries you may have regarding the game and her wealth of experience will bear full weight on your problems.

Here is the latest from her postbag.

Dear Bertha,

We are spoilt for golf here in Thailand. I try to explain to my friends what the game is really like back in the north of Britain but I fear they do not believe me. Can you help me find the words?

Yours sincerely,
Wistful

Dear Wistful,

Now you are asking me to be nostalgic, you clever little man! Next time you have this problem try using this scenario.

"From where I live on Soi Siam I want to look out my window and see a day so cold and lousy that there is absolutely no chance of anyone else being on Siam CC. Those are the days I play by myself because it reminds me of Scotland in the summer. There, we get nine months of absolutely ghastly weather and then winter sets in. We Scottish are known for our red hair and freckles. This has nothing to do with genetics. It's rust. But rain didn't keep people from playing golf. They played anyway, seemingly oblivious to the conditions. If the rain fell gently, it was called a "soft" day. If the wind blew, driving the rain into your face like ack-ack fire, it was a "hard" day. Simple really. If it didn't rain or blow it was called an "unusual day."

There is nothing to compare with a hard day at Carnoustie, the world's toughest golf course. Waves of 50 mph squalls would come in across the steel-gray North sea making "one-under" a hard-fought 89. Playing in these conditions was always exciting. My friends and I used to giggle gleefully in anticipation as the car was buffeted by huge gusts on the drive to the course. Hitting three woods and a wedge to the par-five 18th was a common occurrence and a horror story that could be embellished afterward. There was always some drunken, strawberry-nosed old fart lurking in his gardening clothing by the bar waiting to tell the bedraggled that it was only a "wee draft" compared to yesterday. It amazed me that he could wear a pair of DNA-encrusted cavalry twill trousers and an egg-stained club tie over a frayed plaid shirt, but I couldn't wear a pair of blue jeans. "We have to keep up appearances."

In the late 1940s, I was a fledgling caddy and I worked on the Scottish pro-am circuit, often in vile weather . The amateurs were die-hard golf idiots who dressed like the crew on a Norwegian prawn trawler. You know, oilskins and parkas. I once witnessed my golfer, in the days when penalty drops were taken over the shoulder, drop his ball into the hood of his anorak. It took him five minutes to find it. The rest of us couldn't resist the opportunity to help him look, all the time paralyzed with laughter.

I once caddied in a pro-am for a big man with a short swing who couldn't hit the ball more than about 120 yards. Later in the round, the sun came out and the temperature rose about 30 degrees. He took off his jacket and five sweaters and it turned out he was a wee man with a long swing who could hit it about 240!

Finally, for those of you who enjoy your shower after riding in a cart for five hours and perhaps have the occasional frozen Heineken afterward, consider this. Imagine how good it feels after a three-hour route march through a blizzard over mountainous sand dunes. (Yes, three hours! Golf is supposed to be exercise.) After an invigorating lukewarm shower in a freezing cold, spartan locker room (the shower feels roasting because your body temperature has fallen to 40 degrees, and you grumble about Century Choinburi!), there is no better feeling in the world than cozying up to the warmth and intoxicating scent of a peat fire, holding a hot Scoth whisky filled with brown sugar and cloves. You can gaze out the rain-lashed window at the windswept links that has just kicked your ass and succumb to the gradual warming as you brood your day, "Now that, my friend, was a real round of golf."

If the old fart at the bar tells you it was worse yesterday, you can engage in another time-honored tradition and tell him to "bugger off"!"

Hope this helps.

Love,

This website is inspired by, and for, all those duffers who love this noble game.
It is dedicated to the memory of a fine golfing friend, John Preddy.

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