Didsbury Golf Club, sprawled across Manchester’s leafy suburbs, is the kind of course that lulls you into a false sense of security before reminding you why you’re not on the PGA Tour. At 6,296 yards with a par of 71, it’s a parkland gem that blends forgiving fairways with greens sneakier than a politician’s promise. Designed in 1891 and tweaked over the years, it’s got history, charm, and just enough trouble to make you regret that extra pint the night before. Toss in a clubhouse that’s more welcoming than your nan’s kitchen—complete with coffee and bacon rolls this time—and you’ve got the perfect stage for Alfie Noakes’ brand of golfing chaos.
The weather gods, clearly still groveling for last year’s pathetic drizzle-fest, gifted us a day of dazzling sunshine that made Cavendish look like a warm-up act. It was also Mr. Captain’s birthday, adding a layer of faux grandeur to the Presidents Trophy—because nothing screams “happy birthday” like a bunker tantrum or Al Corbishly rocking a visor so flashy it could guide ships to shore. Al strutted about all day like he’d just signed a sponsorship deal with Oakley, and we’d know because Joe kept checking he was wearing it… a fine pre-loaded and raring to go if it came off!
Meanwhile, Steve stormed out of the clubhouse like a man on a mission, ranting that someone switched the toilet light off mid-business. Forced to use his phone’s flashlight to navigate, he was less than amused—until someone pointed out the light switches off automatically when you stop moving. Cheers, Einstein, crisis averted. Dwelling on Steve, our trophy “custodian,” for a moment if i may, he outdid himself in spectacular fashion. Not only did he bring a busted, moth-eaten relic that looked like it belonged in a car boot sale, but it was also the completely wrong trophy. Bravo, Steve. You’re the gift that keeps on giving.
The day kicked off with a par-3, and all eyes were on Mike Oakes, our resident golfing martyr still nursing a dodgy ankle from the last event. Some members, bitter about missing prior twos pots, chucked in a cheeky £4 each, sensing a chance to cash in. Big mistake.
Mike, with the smugness of a man who’s already won at life, nailed his iron shot and sank a two on his very first putt. A quadruple rollover pot, bagged before most of us had finished our bacon rolls. The collective groan from the group could’ve rattled Old Trafford—though we did wave at him with an appropriate two-finger salute. For the rest of the round, we were begging—begging—for anyone to land another two, just to dim that insufferable smirk. Spoiler: no one did. Mike, you absolute bandit, enjoy your ill-gotten riches.
Out on the course, Ian Morris, our generous sponsor, was tearing around in a single-seater buggy so dinky it looked like he’d won it in a box of Weetabix. Every time he whizzed by, I half-expected to hear Mario Kart music and see him lob a red shell.
My group turned the 6th hole into a bunker party while chasing nearest-the-pin. Every one of us plugged straight into the sand, like we were auditioning for a remake of Lawrence of Arabia. Joe, in a moment of pure, unhinged optimism, grabbed his putter to escape. I had to look away. Did he get out? Of course not. Why would logic apply? Speaking of bunkers, Colin deserves a ribbing for his effort on one particular hole. Trapped in the sand, he thinned a 30-yard shot that rocketed across the green, only to clang off a tree on the other side. By some miracle (or witchcraft), the ball ricocheted 20 yards back to the center of the green, leaving him a putt for points. Joe dropped to his knees, I dropped my jaw and instinctively shouted words that’d make a docker blush, and Colin just stood there unashamedly like he’d scripted the whole thing.
Then there was the crow heist. I swear these birds are Scouse. One brazen thief dove into my trolley, nabbed my Werther’s Originals, and hopped off with them in its beak like it was auditioning for Peaky Blinders. I half-expected to find my trolley jacked up on bricks by the next tee. Cheeky sods.
Back at the clubhouse, Joe’s finesmastery was, as always, a masterclass in savagery. He dished out penalties with the glee of a traffic warden, as he roasted every duff shot, dodgy visor, and questionable life choice, leaving us in stitches. Al Corbishly topped the leaderboard with a cracking 40 points, proving that visor wasn’t just for show. Mike, not content with fleecing us in the twos pot, limped his way to runner-up with 39 points—because apparently his ankle only hurts when it’s convenient. Worth a mention that Pete Evens, back after a long break, nabbed third with a tidy 38 points. A steady game and some tidy chipping that had us all quietly jealous. Nearest-the-pin went unclaimed again, a common occurence it seems. Seriously, lads, it’s not quantum physics—just hit the bloody green.
The day was another Alfie Noakes banger, packed with belly laughs that made the shanks and three-putts fade faster than Steve’s trophy credibility. From Ian’s top-notch sponsorship to the Scouse crow heist, it was a day to treasure.
A grudging nod to Mike for somehow turning a par-3 into a bank heist—enjoy your rollover riches, you absolute bandit. We’re already buzzing for Alfs Challenge at New Mills, where more glorious chaos awaits. Coffee and Bacon roll again this time. Nom nom, indeed.