"Have you ever danced with a golf club in the pale sunshine?"

Members of my family have an unhealthy obsession chasing little white balls around. Yes, golf*. So today, somewhat reluctantly my mother and I joined Dad for a "friendly" game of pitch 'n putt at Narrabundah. Part of the Christmas spirit I guess.

My history with golf goes back some time. My Aunt was convinced that I, or one of my siblings would be the next Tiger Woods. Myriad lessons ensued, followed by some golfing holidays. It was fun, but my interests and passions lay elsewhere. Even from a networking perspective, golf must have limited appeal. Accordingly, my limited golf skills have remained dormant.

Imagine my horror when one weekend visiting the parentals, Dad casually mentions I will be joining him for competition golf on Sunday. Competition golf (gulp). Sunday. 6:15 am (gulp). RMC (gulp). Well we practiced on the Saturday afternoon, with clubs that were foreign to me. I sucked, badly. Fittingly, that level of apprehension stayed with me until and during the game. The result was the second most embarrassing golf moment of my life.

What's that Skip? The first? Well it even started out like a train wreck waiting to happen. While I guess it was a Friday, we were all equally hung over each day every week. It was one of those years. Anyhow, after having skipped lectures on pesky electrons, snorks gestated the brilliant idea of golf, with Slic and Gilly. Let me paint a short foreground.

Slic had already managed a life time ban at 3 golf courses to date, he can be a little rough sometimes. Gilly, on the other hand, may be one of the most naturally intelligent people I've ever met. The fact that his appearance and mannerisms are quintessential Western Sydney rev-head bogan tends to throw alot of people. Their loss.

So we arrive at the local public course with great views of the Illawarra coastline. It had been some time since I'd last played and I was missing the usual collection of paraphernalia I'd take. You know, tees, glove, balls, clubs. All minor items surely. We hire the essential items for the Pro' and head to the first tee. The only one with any experience, I go through the basics; club selection, stance, grip, swing. With the hangover, I'm sure I neglected some details, but the retention rate of Slic and Gilly would have been similarly low.

So after the lengthy pre-amble, I address the ball. Keep your head down, maintain a firm, yet loose grip, transfer your weight. "Chink", the ball sails down the fairway. Noice. But wait, something's not right. I followed through, kept my head down. Ahh, oh for a golf glove. The golf club dances through the air in the pale sunshine. 30 metres, 45 degrees, directly into the clubhouse "WHACK". Furiously the Pro' emerges screaming about us improving our aim. At the conclusion of which we all fall in convulsions, speechless, breathless. Imagine if he had known it was his club, rather than the ball.

I guess that's why they call it a clubhouse.

* Most boring TV viewing ever.