I've Been A Golfer For 45 Years. These Are The Funniest Things I've Witnessed On A Golf Course...

Having played the game for 45 years, I've seen fellow golfers make a mess of all sorts of situations – one good friend even managed to soil himself on the second hole of a 36-hole day.

A lot can go wrong – see these indisputable golfing truths – in the space of a golf swing and on many occasions it has. One thing I do pride myself in is playing most of my golf with characters who have it in them to produce something extraordinarily bad.

Up and down for a four

What makes this even more memorable is that it wasn’t me. There are few people on this planet who I can say, without any doubt, have a worse short game than me.

This person shall remain nameless (his names is James) and he is absolutely horrific around the greens. He used to be OK but, by the time that he’d returned from university at St Andrews and its tight links turf, he was a shambles of a chipper.

If I recognise anything in a fellow golfer it is the fear of chipping and the blind terror that a shot of 10-40 yards presents is never more evident than when James gets a wedge in his hands.

One time he arrived for a Sunday afternoon 18 and very boldly announced that he had got over his concerns due to a lesson of all lessons that imparted numerous short-game tips.

The first hole passed without incident after locating the green, at the next he chipped out (quite well) from behind a tree to leave a shortish pitch in. Eight years, and a lot of knifes and fats later, this was the moment he could begin to put this sorry chapter of his life to bed.

The first shot didn’t move the ball, nor any turf. There was a quick look around the rest of the four-ball to confirm what we had all just seen before, moments later, he laid a massive divot over his ball. The prospect in his head of making a gritty four had turned into the possibility that he might never make contact with the ball again. Needless to say the next screamed through the back of the green. Fifteen years later he still can’t chip.

The unpopular member

Growing up there is always one member who makes life for any junior golfer fairly miserable. My junior days were spent at Wimbledon Park, which was full of some of the greatest people I've ever met. It made for some of the funniest and most memorable of times and summers would fly by with laps of the place.

One member, though, was a miserable sod who took great pleasure in picking holes in the juniors’ dress code or behaviour or anything really.

He was a nice enough player, off 8, but he rated himself higher than that. This was the opening day of the Spring Meeting in 1987, which ran over the weekend and gave 16 players the chance to qualify for the scratch knockout. There was also a grand prize for the Spring-Autumn Meeting double so everyone took it far too seriously, evidenced by the course being full to brimming on the tournament eve as we all went in search of a golden swing nugget.

Our friend elected to take driver – an iron shoved right away from the car park was generally fine – in an attempt to get off to a quick start. The sight of his duck hook will never leave me as it careered straight into the first oak tree on the left before rebounding a yard out of bounds on the putting green. The next was equally as sweet, another screaming hook – these were the days of persimmon woods – which didn’t even need the help of the tree to see him reload.

When he did finally keep one in bounds one wag, giggling from the above balcony, wished him well for the weekend, which brought about a two-word reply. He had NRd by the 6th.

Chelsea, Chelsea

Around the same period, one beautiful summer's day, a junior mate turned up in a pair of shorts. Which was fine as the game had moved on enough to allow golfers to not wear trousers when the temperature was up in the 80s.

What wasn't acceptable, even given the supporting habits of half the golf club, was to wear a pair of Chelsea shorts. I'm pretty sure this was part of the Commodore-sponsored kit and, as such, the shorts were on the very brief side.

His choices were a) to not play b) buy a pair of tailored shorts (neither of which was going to happen).... or c) to wear his rain pants. Which he did to complete the most ridiculous look in the middle of July.

By the 4th he had resorted to walking in the shade and by the turn it resembled something out of a US Open at Baltusrol as he kept having to pad himself down with his towel.

By the 18th we tumbled into one another's arms, not because either of us had played well but that he had simply stayed alive.

Make some noise!

I think/hope/pray that only one other person witnessed this. This was early September 2006 at the K Club in Ireland. Other than a pair of Japanese journalists I was to be the last punter to play the Ryder Cup course before they shut things down for the big one against the Americans and needless to say I got far too carried away with myself despite playing on my own.

My misfortune didn’t involve any water or short-game wobbles but, more, my mind ran away with itself. In my head I would play the course (Tom Lehman’s side) by getting seven shots over the 18 holes.

Whichever way I dressed it up I was two down playing the 12th and needed something special. So the high of rolling in a 30-footer down the slope was fairly short-lived as I quickly made my way to the water’s edge and put my hand to my ear before, very out of character, began shrieking ‘come on!' while gesturing to thousands of imaginary and frenzied European fans.

The reality was that there was nobody else there save for a greenkeeper who was watching this all play out.

He didn’t utter a single word as I shambled my way to the 13th tee. I would go on to lose the match 2&1.

Anyone get a line on it?

I used to think that I could place all my short-game problems down to one shot – an air shot at the 11th in front of Wimbledon’s Centre Court – but, in truth, there were, and still are, all sorts of reasons. But one shot always stands out for its remarkable nature.

On a press trip to Tuscany I was greenside by the 3rd hole of somewhere stunning. It was the perfect morning for golf, set among the rolling hills with the dull thud of a hangover yet to make its excuses and leave.

Good players would have fancied chipping it in, average players would certainly fancy saving their par. It was sitting down in the Bermuda but there was nothing to suggest what might happen next.

In the blink of an eye and the flash of my lob wedge I made contact with the ball not once, not twice but three times with the third intervention somehow egg and spooning it over my head and into a bush.

My first treble-hit, never to be seen again and a loss of hole. What a place to break new ground and to sink even further into the chipping abyss.