Tucked away in the lush Cheshire countryside, Shrigley Hall Golf Club is a gem of a course that’s as picturesque as it is punishing – and it’s Mr. Captain’s absolute favorite, which explains why he was grinning like a kid in a sweet shop all day. With its rolling fairways, devilish bunkers, and an 18th hole that laughs in the face of your waterproofs, this course demands respect and rewards nerve. The clubhouse, perched like a smug overlord overlooking the final green, is the perfect spot for post-round jeering or drowning your sorrows. And let’s not forget the buggies – plenty of them, thank goodness, because we’d need every horsepower to survive this day. So, buckle up as the Alfie Noakes Golf Society tees off for the Ebenezer Cup, with more mishaps and mirth than a sitcom on steroids.
The weather gods were in fine form, blessing us with glorious sunshine that held off the heavens’ opening until we’d (mostly) finished our rounds. But the real drama kicked off with the buggies, which, unlike New Mills’ fiasco, were plentiful at Shrigley Hall. Ben, however, clearly needs L-plates for his. The man turned Ron’s toes into a speed bump, earning himself a fine and a few choice words from Ron, who was already struggling to navigate in those thigh-length compression socks that scream “fashion victim.” Honestly, it’s a miracle Ron could still limp to the first tee.
In a rare moment of competence, our Steve actually remembered the trophy – and, get this, it was the right one! The crowd went mild with shock. Meanwhile, I had the distinct privilege of sporting the society’s garishly colorful visor, awarded for my nearly-the-last-place finish at New Mills. I rocked it with such panache that Zoolander himself would’ve tipped his hat – or maybe stolen it for his next runway strut.
Then there was our legend Bert, who unveiled his latest golfing “invention” with the pride of a mad scientist. He’d sewn strips of terry toweling to the bottom of his trousers, declaring it the ultimate convenience for wiping his ball or club head on the go. Genius or absolute nutter? The jury’s still out, but watching him demo it had us howling. Someone get this man a patent – or a straightjacket!
With a sprawling car park lurking like a tempting target to the right, our members miraculously teed off without turning any windscreens into modern art this year. Even Colin, armed with his shiny new golf insurance (probably because his last shot took out a Fiat’s headlight), managed to smack one straight down the fairway – a feat so rare we’re checking for divine intervention!
Out on the course, New Alex was in high spirits early on, flapping about like a deranged hen on the fourth attempting a chicken dance and warbling a tone-def rendition of “The Birdie Song” for some reason. After a fair start Colin, on the other hand, was starting to have a day to forget. His game was so off that even his trolley staged a protest, making a break for freedom not once, but twice. We’re still debating whether it was trying to escape his swing or Alex’s bad BGT audition.
Mr. Captain, bless his dictatorial heart, gave us the shot of the day on the sixth. He absolutely creamed his drive, a screamer that looked destined for glory – until it veered straight into the forest like it was auditioning for a horror movie. Miraculously, five minutes later, the trees took pity and spat the ball back into the middle of the fairway. The forest giveth, and the forest taketh away – but mostly it just laughed at us.
The 18th hole, Shrigley’s infamous water-guarded beast, lived up to its reputation. The clubhouse balcony was packed with members jeering like Roman spectators as ball after ball met a watery grave. It was less a golf hole and more a marine biology experiment. Ron, however, proudly declared he finished with the same ball he started with, despite his best efforts to lose it in every hazard available.
Joe, our fines master, was in top form, doling out penalties with the enthusiasm of a kid in a sweet shop, nailing every infraction with a grin that could light up the fairway. No violation was too small, and the lads took it in stride, their wallets groaning in harmony.
Dave Mac nabbed nearest-the-pin, a fine shot if I do say so myself, leaving it 4 feet from the pin. However he was left hopping mad after missing his twos putt – a crime so heinous it deserved its own fine.
In the race for glory, Steve “I don’t win anything” Jones defied his own nickname with a cracking 39 points, only to be pipped for runner-up by the bridesmaid curse yet again. The day belonged to Alan Corbishly, who stormed to victory with an impressive 42 points, accepting the Ebenezer Cup from the sponsor Ben with a sheepish smile that suggested he knew his handicap was about to take a beating.
All in all, it was another cracking day out with the Alfie Noakes crew – superb company, a top-notch course, and enough laughs to keep us going through the long break until our next gathering at Style, where it’s golf only this time. Here’s hoping Alan doesn’t dominate there too, or we’ll have to start checking his clubs for performance-enhancing magic. Fingers crossed the weather gods stay kind, and the trollies stay loyal!
