Ah, fellow hackers and fairway enthusiasts, gather ’round the virtual 19th hole as I recount the epic tale of our golf society’s Captain’s Weekend at Belton Woods. This year’s bash was a hole-in-one of camaraderie, chaos, and just the right amount of competitive carnage. For those not in the know, Belton Woods is a premier golf resort nestled in the rolling Lincolnshire countryside near Grantham, England. Boasting two championship 18-hole courses—the Lakes (which we tackled on Day 1, more on its deceptive “lakes” later) and the Woods—it’s a golfer’s paradise with over 7,000 yards of challenging terrain per course. The Lakes course features strategic water hazards (or should I say “puddles”?), undulating greens, and enough bunkers to make you rethink your life choices. It’s hosted PGA events and is known for its wildlife—think deer wandering the fairways, adding that extra “hazard” when you’re lining up your putt. All in all, a top-notch venue that set the stage for our annual two-day showdown, spanning Friday into Saturday, with a cheeky third day tacked on for the Die Hard Cup. Because why stop at 36 holes when you can test your stamina with 54? Who has the guts (and the glucosamine) to keep swinging?
Day 1: Early Birds, Eager Beavers, and a Ryder Cup Rumble
The weekend kicked off with a dawn patrol vibe for yours truly—up at the ungodly hour of 6am for a two-and-a-half-hour trek, complete with a pit stop to scoop up Steve. Now, did he have all the right trophies packed? Let’s just say, if forgetting hardware was a golf stroke, Steve would’ve been disqualified before we hit the M1. But we weren’t the only eager beavers; Alan and Ron showed up a full day early. Were they scouting the course like secret agents, or just ensuring they were as fresh as a daisy (or perhaps nursing a pre-game pint)? Either way, kudos to them for turning a weekend into a mini-vacation—talk about commitment!
Tragedy struck early when Len had to bow out, leaving his room up for grabs. We turned it into a charity auction, because nothing says “golf society” like turning misfortune into fundraising. After some cheeky shill bidding from Col and Dave (you know, inflating the price like a bad slice), Alex V emerged victorious at £50. Clearly, he was desperate to avoid sharing digs with “No Doh”—whoever that mysterious roommate is, they must snore like a chainsaw in a bunker.
Enter Bert, the man, the myth, the legend. Like Gandalf in golf spikes, he’s never late nor early; he arrives precisely when he means to. Half-walking, half-running with his bag slung over his shoulder, he made it just in time for the starter’s intro.
The action teed off under blazing sunshine on the Lakes course, which, let’s be honest, should be renamed the “Puddles” course. Those “lakes” were more like oversized divots—forgivable if you’re a frog, less so if you’re expecting Augusta-level drama. Mr. Captain set the tone right away by rugby-tackling me on the practice green, leaving me sprawling with legs akimbo. Thanks, Cap—nothing says “welcome” like a WWE move on the dance floor of the gods.
As members clustered on the first tee, our Ryder Cup captains—Alex for Team Europe and Steve for Team USA—rallied their troops for group photos. USA was their usual bolshy selves, chanting “USA! USA!” like they were auditioning for a patriotic pep rally. Team Europe? We kept our decorum, sipping tea and plotting quietly—because subtlety is our superpower.
Photos snapped, chants of “USA! USA!” echoing around the course like a bad earworm, and we were off. The day wrapped with beers and banter in the glorious sunshine as groups trickled in, scores tallied like confessions at a mulligan confessional.
In the Ryder Cup stakes, USA stormed to an impressive Day 1 lead: 211 points to Europe’s 175. USA! USA! You could hear the chants from the clubhouse bar.
Evening brought the meal in a room packed with other golf societies—think giant wedding dinner minus the top table and awkward speeches. The grub was spot-on, though as a growing lad, I could’ve demolished two portions without breaking a sweat. Joe, ever the DJ in disguise, hijacked the PA system right next to him and swapped the dreary tunes for Oasis. “Wonderwall” on the fairway? Maybe, but it beat elevator music.
Football cards circulated for charity—members snapping up teams like hot tee times—and then Steve donned his Quizmaster hat for a pub quiz showdown between USA and Europe. It was chaotic in that uniquely Steve way (think herding cats with a 9-iron), but USA clinched it again. USA! USA! Day 1: America the beautiful, Europe plotting revenge.
Day 2: Rain, Razzle-Dazzle Outfits, and a Plot Twist Putt
Saturday dawned wet and wild—we thought we’d dodge the deluge, but nope, it poured as we gathered in our traditional Day 2 colorful outfits. Think rainbows on steroids, or a bad acid trip at the pro shop.
Yours truly had a mishap in the car park: tripped, sprawled, attempted a commando roll (failed spectacularly), then popped up like a meerkat scanning for witnesses. Bloody knees wiped, blushing through my beard—and did I mention I was rocking Old Tom Morris with the whiskers? What a sight: Victorian golf icon meets slapstick comedy.
As we prepped for the putting comp, Steve realized he’d forgotten his brolly, so he “borrowed” Alan and Ben’s buggy—zooming off with all their gear, leaving them putterless and probably plotting revenge. The comp itself was bonkers: everyone putting at once, like a mosh pit on the green. Ian, who couldn’t play that day due to injury, won by holing a 25-yarder. Bravo, sir—proof that sometimes the best shots come from the sidelines.
Alex V, nursing a hangover that could’ve felled a lesser man, creamed his drive down the first to the sound of cheers or jeers? With that bandit, it’s hard to tell—was this a harbinger of glory or just the hair of the dog?
Bert let rip on the 10th (and I don’t mean his drive)—so worried, he dashed off with wet wipes in hand. Classic golf: when nature calls mid-swing. Colin achieved the impossible on one hole: losing two balls without advancing 10 yards. That’s not golf; that’s a magic trick gone wrong.
On the nearest-the-pin, Phil shanked so badly he yelled, “Fuck me up the arse!”—prompting his Apple Watch Siri to chirp, “I don’t know how to respond to that.” Hilarious—technology’s way of saying, “Keep it PG, mate.” Stu’s practice swing on the 18th approach? Shanked his actual ball. And Mr. Captain? Drove his into a tree… where it stayed. Tree-mendous effort, Cap.
As groups finished, we clapped Mr. Captain in on the 18th—a fine conclusion to two days of golfing glory. Scores gathered amid beer priorities, but the real fun was evening-bound. If you ask Mr. Captain his arch-nemesis, it’s Naga Munchetty. His mates know this, so they surprised him with a life-sized cutout date for the night. He was thrilled (not), while we howled with laughter—barely standing straight.
In our private room, with Naga “accompanying” Cap, an excellent meal fueled the festivities. Joe, fines master extraordinaire, dished out penalties like candy: even the wives got fined for attending without swinging a club. Ouch!
Par 3 comp went to Bert Blower with 12 points—though Col’s Barnes Wallis impersonation was impressive. What a shot skimming that ball across the pond in that way. No one else would have dared attempt that. Bert also nabbed the twos pot.
Alex Vietor, the man who turned a hangover into a highlight, deserves a standing ovation for his heroics at Belton Woods. While most of us would be nursing a headache and praying for a bacon sarnie, Alex V staggered to the nearest-the-pin hole, squinting through a fog of last night’s revelry, and somehow stuck his shot closer than anyone else. Not to be outdone Kevin also grabbed a nearest the pin and Joe Wilcox bagged the nearest-the-pin-in-two. Nice one, Alex, Kev and Joe—proof that even on a rough morning, you can find the sweet spot!
Ian Morris snagged the Alf Crapper trophy—a prestigious honor for, er, not playing Day 2 and like a bad smell his hated recyled booby prize trophy found its way back to him. Day 1 winner was Joe Wilcox with 39 points and Dave Mac snapping at his heals with 37. Day 2: Stuart Shand’s 39, Kevin Murray’s 36… or so we thought. Two-day Master champ was Joe Wilcox with 71 with Dave Mac still in Joes wake with 68.
Ryder Cup? USA triumphed 406-387, despite Europe’s valiant 212 on Day 2. Shoutout to Steve’s squad: Joe, Phil, Alex V, Colin, Ben, and Kevin.
Alex’s charity, Dementia UK (close to his heart after family impacts), raised a record-smashing £824.
Raffle madness ensued—Joe stacking prizes like a trophy hoarder. But plot twist! There was a scorecard mix-up discovered post event. Actual Day 2 winner was Kevin Murray (36) and runner-up Ron Marshall (35). Whoops—golf’s version of a recount.
In a moment that’ll go down in our golf society’s lore, Mr. Captain was left gobsmacked at the evening ceremony when Col presented him with a memento as unique as his infamous swing. Col crafted it with devilish ingenuity, the trophy was a masterpiece of mischief: a sculpture of pipes twisted into a quirky frame, topped with four golf balls perched proudly to the right—a cheeky nod to Alex’s nickname, “Four Right,” earned from his legendary, wicked slice that sends Pro V1s veering starboard like they’re fleeing the fairway. The room erupted in laughter as Col handed over the bespoke creation, with Alex’s face torn between mock outrage and genuine amusement. It was the perfect tribute to a captain whose leadership (and errant shots) will be remembered long after the beers ran dry. Hats off, Col, for a gift that’s as much a jab as it is a jewel!
Day 3: The Die Hard Cup – For the Truly Indestructible
Four hardy souls—Alex Baker, Alex Vietor, Joe Wilcox, and Colin Butler—braved a third day at Brierley Forest for the Die Hard Cup. Colin emerged victorious with a 92 gross, netting 41 points on his “bandit” handicap. Well played, Col—stamina like that deserves a medal (or at least a stiff drink).
What a cracking weekend—my second, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can’t wait for Steve’s captaincy next year.
Finally, no wonder Alex hates Naga Munchetty; Joe’s a fan even if she is just cardboard, but what a tart!
Next up: Brookdale up yon, near Oldham—a quirky new challenge for the society.