News

Nestled in the rolling hills of Derbyshire, Mellor & Townscliffe Golf Club stands out like a well-placed tee shot in a sea of mediocrity. What makes it truly unique? It’s one of the rare courses where buggies aren’t just an afterthought—they’re the stars of the show. Paved paths of lush astroturf snake all the way around the 18 holes, turning potential mud-fests into a smooth, carpet-like cruise. It’s like golfing on a giant putting green, minus the frustration of divots… unless you’re Ben Cryer, but more on that later.

Ryder Cup Rumble: USA vs. Europe at Mellor

Our intrepid golf society descended on Mellor for a Ryder Cup-style showdown, kindly sponsored by our fines master extraordinaire, Joe Wilcox—past Captain Chrystal must be beaming from the sidelines. The transatlantic battle pitted Team Europe against Team USA in a clash of clubs, egos, and questionable swing decisions.

Leading the charge for Europe was Captain Joe Wilcox, flanked by his merry band of misfits: Dave Mac (that’s me, your humble narrator), Mike Oakes, Alan Corbishly, and Bert Blower. After our Captains Weekend thrashing could Europe be the underdogs with a continental flair—think croissants and comebacks.

On the starry side, Team USA was captained by Steve, with Colin Butler, Ron Marshal, Stuart Shand, and Ben Cryer rounding out the squad. They came in hot, waving imaginary flags and probably humming “Sweet Home Alabama” under their breath.

The weather gods smiled upon us—reasonably dry, no biblical floods, and the competition rolled on without a hitch. Buggies were in full swing (pun intended), zipping along those astroturf highways like luxury golf carts on a velvet runway. Mellor’s paths are a godsend; elsewhere, you’d be bogged down in mud, but here? It’s pure, artificial bliss.

Clubhouse Shenanigans and Prankster Antics

Back in the clubhouse, the real action heated up. Steve, ever the prankster captain, couldn’t resist his signature move: sneaking up on Mike Oakes for a classic wet Willie. Mike’s reaction? Let’s just say it involved a yelp that could shatter glass and a vow of revenge involving golf balls and sensitive areas. Classic Steve—keeping the spirit alive, one soggy finger at a time.

Financial Windfall and Buggy Blunders

A massive bonus shoutout to our treasurer Len, who discovered winter rates were in play. Cha-ching! The society saved a tidy sum, proving Len’s not just good with spreadsheets—he’s a bargain-hunting ninja.

Anecdotes were slim pickings this outing (we must’ve been too focused on not losing balls), but one gem stands out: our favorite sub-mariner, Ben Cryer, proved he’s better suited to naval vessels than land-based buggies. Coming down the slick path on the 12th, Ben treated the hedge like a torpedo target—crash! The buggy nosedived into the greenery, leaving Ben looking like he’d just surfaced from a depth charge. Note to self: Stick to boats, mate.

The Results: Europe Triumphs (Barely)

In the end, Team Europe squeaked out a 3-2 victory over the Yanks. Take that, stars and stripes! No twos were claimed (slackers), but Nearest the Pin? Who else but Mike Oakes, the man with a magnet in his ball. Reminder to the rest of us: You gotta hit the green first, lads—airmail doesn’t count!

Best round of the day went to Colin Butler with a whopping 39 points. Will his handicap budge? Doubtful; the golf gods seem to have a soft spot for him. Hot on his heels was yours truly, Dave Mac, with 35 points—modest, but I’ll take it over a bunker baptism.

The infamous Visor (our society’s badge of buggy-related shame) lands on Ben this time. Crashed the cart into a hedge? Fair play, but let’s be honest—his buggy driving was smoother than his tee shots. Practice makes perfect… or at least hedge-free.

Season Finale Tease

That’s a wrap on Mellor, folks—a day of astroturf adventures, pranks, and just enough glory. Next up: the last hurrah of the season at Alsager. Warm coffee, sizzling bacon rolls, and who knows what chaos await. See you on the fairways—bring your A-game (and a helmet for the buggies)!

Ladies and gentlemen, grab your four clubs, clutch your putter, and brace yourselves for a riotous recap of our golf society’s Chairman’s Cup at Davenport Golf Club. Kindly sponsored by the ever-generous Colin Butler, this wasn’t just a day on the links—it was a comedy of errors, soggy socks, and some downright bizarre golfing moments. With a healthy dose of golfing humor and a few well-placed roasts, let’s dive right in.

Davenport Golf Club, a Cheshire gem, is a parkland beauty that tests your accuracy and your patience. Its tree-lined fairways, sneaky doglegs, and greens slicker than a politician’s promise make it a proper challenge and this time, the course was recovering from a biblical downpour the day before, turning buggies into a distant dream.

The Day: Four Clubs, One Putter, Endless Chaos

The Chairman’s Cup was a Four Clubs and a Putter event, a format that am not too keen on but let’s see. Limiting your bag to four clubs is like choosing which four foods you’d eat for life—frustrating, but it forces creativity (or despair).

The rain-soaked course complemented with stop start drizzle had us all channeling our inner Noah, but the show went on, and the society delivered a day of pure entertainment.

First, let’s talk about Bert, who rolled up dressed like he was scaling Everest, not playing golf. Hiking gear, Bert? Were you expecting to trek to the 19th hole? Meanwhile, our Fines Master was unpredictably late because he forgot his fines book, grabbed two barms and headed to the tee with hair looking like he’d been electrocuted.

The first tee was an absolute circus—think less Augusta, more Big Top. Bert stole the show, sporting what can only be described as his mum’s wig while doing a Joe Wilcox impression. At least he didn’t impersonate Joe’s sand wedge obsession and smashed his drive down the fairway.

The Golf: Hooks, Shanks, and a Wig-Wearing Legend

The golf itself was a glorious mess of ambition and mishaps. PJ made a triumphant return, his first drive a snap hook that miraculously avoided his usual “four right” routine—progress, PJ, progress!

Alan Corbishly took some heat for whining about the cold, only to silence the haters with a self-proclaimed “dick out” shot. To be fair, Alan, it went exactly where you aimed—straight into the highlight reel of questionable decisions.

Then there was Stu Shand, who redefined “short game” by clattering the 1st tee sign, sending his ball a grand total of three yards. His second shot? Didn’t even clear the ladies’ tee. Stu, mate, was your driver still in the car?

The day’s low point (or high point, depending on your sense of humor) came when No Doh shanked a shot into the trees, only for it to ricochet like a pinball and smack Stuart as he strolled up the fairway. Stuart, maybe walk faster next time—or invest in a helmet.

But it wasn’t all calamity. Oaker pulled off a miraculous two on a par 4, pocketing the Two’s pot and leaving us all torn between admiration and envy. Love you, Oaker, but we’re side-eyeing you for that one.

The Nearest the Pin went to Mike Oakes—because of course it did. The man’s got a GPS in his wedge.

The Visor award was technically Joe’s, but thanks to the twice rule, it was passed to Ron. Wear it with pride, Ron, and maybe lend Joes comb for that wig-inspired chaos.

The leaderboard told its own story:

Winner: Dave Mac – 37 points – A masterclass in four-club wizardry or luck! You choose.

Runner-Up: Mike (on countback) – So close, yet so far. Better luck next time buddy.

The Wrap-Up: A Day of Soggy Socks and Side-Splitting Stories

From a waterlogged course to Bert’s hiking gear and wig-wearing antics, the Chairman’s Cup was a day to remember—or forget, depending on your score. The four-club format tested our skills and our sanity, but the society’s spirit shone brighter than the post-rain sun. Davenport delivered a tough but fair challenge, and we delivered enough banter to fill a clubhouse.

Next up, we’ll be back for more fairway follies at Mellor on Sunday. It’s a match play format with the Ryder Cup up for grabs!

Will Bert trade his hiking boots for golf shoes? Will Stu clear the ladies’ tee? Will No Doh aim away from his playing partners? Only time will tell. Until then, keep your swings smooth, your shanks rare, and your wigs securely fastened. See you on the tee!

Ladies and gentlemen, grab your clubs, polish your spikes, and prepare for a tale of triumph over adversity at Hazel Grove Golf Course, where our golf society day turned from a potential washout into a sun-soaked spectacle. This wasn’t just any day on the fairways—yours truly had the honor of sponsoring the Pairs event, ensuring the stakes were high and the banter even higher. So, let’s tee off and recount the day’s shenanigans, with a healthy dose of golf humor and a few well-aimed roasts.

The Venue: Hazel Grove Golf Course

Nestled in the heart of Cheshire, Hazel Grove Golf Club is a classic parkland course that’s as welcoming as a warm pint in a cozy pub. With its tight fairways, sneaky bunkers, and greens that demand precision (or a miracle), it’s a course that rewards the steady and punishes the overconfident. The course boasts true USPGA spec greens with the 18th being guarded by non other than Alistair McKenzie himself.

Notable this time? The course took a biblical 22-hour deluge in the days leading up to our event, leaving everyone bracing for a mud-fest. Miraculously, the golfing gods parted the clouds overnight, delivering glorious sunshine that transformed the fairways into a playable paradise. Buggies were back in action, and the course was open for business—no excuses for slicing into the rough this time, folks!

The Day: From Deluge to Delight

The lead-up to the event had us all checking weather apps like obsessive meteorologists, convinced we’d be wading through fairways or canceling altogether. But as dawn broke, the skies cleared, and Hazel Grove sparkled under a summer sun that had no business showing up in late September. It was as if the course whispered, “Play on, you hackers, I’ve got you covered.”

Now, let’s talk about our esteemed Mr. Captain, who decided punctuality is overrated. Rolling in embarrassingly late, he swore it had nothing to do with a hangover. Sure, Captain, and my slice is just a “strategic fade.”

In a plot twist for the ages, even Bert—notorious for treating start times as mere suggestions—arrived on time, a first that deserves its own trophy. The society was buzzing, though we were gutted to lose Len at the last minute to unforeseen circumstances. We missed you, mate, but the show must go on.

Enter Carsten, our brand-new old player, who brought some international flair to the day. Word on the fairway is he unleashed not one but two “dickout” shots! Carsten, you’ve earned a nickname and a few raised eyebrows. Welcome to the chaos!

The Golf: Swings, Slices, and Sand Wedges

The Pairs event was a masterclass in golfing grit, questionable decisions, and outright hilarity. Leading the charge in the “what is he thinking?” department was Joe, who decided his sand wedge was the Swiss Army knife of golf clubs. On the 5th and 18th, he abandoned his bag and used it for every shot—including, yes, putting. Joe, mate, we admire the commitment, but next time, maybe give the putter a chance to shine? The crowd went wild, or at least chuckled into their pints.

The Nearest the Pin competition was, frankly, a disaster. Not a single soul hit the green, proving that our collective aim was about as accurate as a blindfolded dart thrower. That trophy’s going back in the cupboard to be recycled for another event. The Two’s pot? Untouched. It’s rolling over to Davenport, where we’ll no doubt continue our proud tradition of missing short putts.

Despite the comedic mishaps, some serious golf was played. Colin Butler and Ron were the stars of the show, storming to victory with a sizzling 64 points. Colin’s been on a tear lately, and Ron’s steady hand sealed the deal—take a bow, gents. The rest of the order of merit looked like this:

• 64 points: Colin / Ron – The dynamic duo, untouchable on the day.
• 60 points: Dave / Stuart – Solid, but left dreaming of what could’ve been.
• 51 points: Kev / Alex V – Respectable, but no cigars.
• 51 points: Dave / Mr. Captain – Captain’s late arrival didn’t help, did it?
• 49 points: Alan / Carsten – Not bad for a newbie with “dickout” credentials.
• 43 points: Ben / Steve – Middle of the pack, but at least you beat Joe.
• 42 points: Joe / Bert – Sand wedge heroics weren’t enough, lads.

The Wrap-Up: A Day to Remember

What could’ve been a waterlogged disaster turned into a glorious day of summer golf, filled with laughs, roasts, and just enough decent shots to keep us coming back. The timekeeping was (mostly) on point—Mr. Captain, we’re watching you—and the vibe was electric. Hazel Grove delivered a course in fine nick, and the society brought its A-game (or at least its A-game banter).

Next up, we’re off to Davenport for more fairway frolics with a twist. It’s time for four clubs and a putter. Will Joe just bring his sand wedge? Will Mr. Captain set an alarm? Only time will tell. Until then, keep your swings smooth, your putts straight, and your excuses creative. See you on the tee!

Welcome, dear readers, to the soggy, chaotic, and downright hilarious tale of our Golf Society’s latest misadventure—the Captain Elect Cup at Macclesfield Golf Club, generously sponsored by non other that Steve Jones of course, who probably deserves a medal for enduring our shenanigans.

Picture this: a room full of grumpy golfers sitting in the dark, twiddling their thumbs like a bunch of lost souls, all because our esteemed fixtures secretary—henceforth known as “Captain Cock-Up” when we’re feeling particularly spicy—botched the tee time by misreading the confirmation email. Macclesfield Golf Club, nestled in the rolling Cheshire countryside, was the stage for this comedy of errors, and oh boy, did we deliver a performance worthy of a sitcom. So, grab a coffee (which we almost missed that morning), settle into the virtual clubhouse, and let’s dive into the farce that was our day.

Macclesfield Golf Club is a gem of a course, perched on the edge of the Peak District with views that could make even the most wayward shot feel poetic. At just over 6,000 yards from the white tees, this par-71 layout is a test of skill, strategy, and sheer stubbornness, with undulating fairways, sneaky bunkers, and greens that can be slicker than a politician’s promise. The clubhouse is a welcoming haven, perfect for drowning your triple-bogey sorrows, but on this particular morning, it was darker than Dave’s understanding of email confirmations. The course demands precision and a good sense of humor—both of which were in short supply as we sat in the unlit clubhouse, waiting for someone, anyone, to rescue us from Captain Cock-Up’s epic blunder.

The day started with a cracking turnout, our society’s finest hackers ready to battle for the Captain Elect Cup. But there we were, huddled in the dark clubhouse like a bunch of moles, wondering why the place was deader than Dave’s timekeeping skills. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the eerie silence where the clink of coffee cups and sizzle of bacon rolls should’ve been. No staff, no pro to organize buggies, just a bunch of us staring into the void.

Our illustrious fixtures secretary rolled into the clubhouse with his usual round of hearty handshakes, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing. It didn’t take long for him to clock that something was amiss, and as he scrambled to figure out his colossal error, the tables turned. Ironically after slagging off the golf club for the lack of lights and bacon rolls, he located the confirmation email and began sweating like a priest in a brothel, wishing he could vanish into the shadows. The group’s good-natured jabs landed like a perfectly struck 7-iron—sharp, on target, and vintage society style.

Thankfully, salvation arrived in the form of Macclesfield’s Lady Captain, Hilary, who was alerted via the club’s WhatsApp group, no doubt buzzing with messages like “Why are these idiots sitting in our clubhouse at dawn?” Hilary, an absolute saint, swooped in to sort out the mess caused by Dave’s monumental balls-up. Turns out, Captain Cock-Up had misread the confirmation email, and our tee time was 11 a.m., not 10 a.m. as he’d triumphantly announced to us all. Hilary, if you’re reading this, thank you for smoothing things over and welcoming us with a smile, despite our collective incompetence (all eyes on you, Dave). You’re a legend, and we owe you a pint—or at least a bacon roll when the clubhouse lights finally flicker on.

The greens, as it happens, were in pristine condition, having been ironed not once but twice the day before for the President’s Cup. They were lightning-fast, slicker than a used car salesman’s patter, and ready to send your ball skidding into the next county if you so much as sneezed on it. Captain Cock-Up probably thought he could blame his usual three-putts on the greens, but we all know it was his email-reading skills that were the real hazard.

The weather, however, had other plans. For the first five holes, we battled bravely, dreaming of glory under a sky that started promisingly enough. But by the sixth hole, the heavens opened, unleashing a deluge so biblical it made Noah’s flood look like a light drizzle. By the ninth hole, with thunder rumbling and lightning cracking like the wrath of an angry golf god, we abandoned play faster than Dave abandoned his dignity in that dark clubhouse. Wandering around on hilltops with metal clubs and umbrellas during a thunderstorm? Yeah, that’s a hard pass, even for the most eager golfers amongst us.

With play abandoned, the society retreated to the clubhouse, where the lights were finally on and the beer was flowing. Over pints, the lads gave Captain Cock-Up the grilling of a lifetime, roasting Dave for his email blunder with a ferocity that would’ve made a barbecue pitmaster proud. I think it is safe to say this fiasco isn’t going to be forgotten anytime soon—Dave’s legacy is now etched in society lore, right alongside tales of shanked drives, missed putts and Joes hair do.

Before the skies turned apocalyptic, a few brave souls managed to post scores worth bragging about. Kev, Jay, and Al led the pack with a respectable 20 points after only eight holes, strutting around like they’d already won the Claret Jug. Hot on their heels were Steve, Dave, and Len with 19 points, probably cursing the rain for robbing them of a chance to overtake the leaders. Alex, Alex V, and Ben managed 14 points, which is honestly impressive given the conditions. Bringing up the rear were Mike, Ron, and Rob with 11 points, but let’s give a special shoutout to Oaker, who somehow eagled the ninth. An eagle, Oaker? In that downpour? Either you’re a wizard, or that hole was feeling extra generous. Either way, take a bow buddy.

The Captain Elect Cup at Macclesfield Golf Club was a soggy, shambolic triumph, a testament to our society’s ability to find hilarity in disaster. From Captain Cock-Up’s email fiasco to Hilary’s heroic rescue, from lightning-fast greens to lightning bolts that sent us scurrying, and from Oaker’s eagle to the epic clubhouse roast, this was a day that’ll go down in society lore. Our next outing takes us to Hazel Grove, Dave’s home course, where Captain Cock-Up himself is bravely (or foolishly) stepping up to sponsor the event. No doubt heckles are being sharpened and the magnifying glasses will be out to triple-check tee-times.

Here’s to the next outing—hopefully at the right time, with lights on, bacon rolls aplenty, and a forecast that doesn’t include Armageddon. Until then, keep swinging, you magnificent bunch of hackers, and maybe slip Dave a calendar, a clock, and a remedial reading course before he has us teeing off at midnight or bankrupts us with his next catastrophic cock-up.

Welcome, dear readers, to the riotous recap of our Golf Society’s latest escapade—the Saudi Cup at Buxton High Peak Golf Club, proudly sponsored by the enigmatic Ron “Rustle Rustle” The Tree Marshall. Whether his nickname comes from his knack for shaking branches or the suspicious crinkle of his wallet, Ron delivered a day of golfing glory, gut-busting laughs, and enough roasting to make a Sunday roast blush.

Buxton High Peak is a course that feels like it was carved out of the hills by a giant with a pitching wedge and a bad attitude. Stretching just over 6,000 yards from the white tees (which, in a cruel twist, were off-limits to our ragtag crew), this par-70 beast is a rollercoaster of tight fairways, sneaky bunkers, and greens that guard their pins like a dragon hoarding treasure. The elevation changes will have your calves screaming for mercy, but the views—oh, those views—are so breathtaking you might forgive your ball for vanishing into the gorse on a course that demands precision, patience, and a sense of humor thicker than the rough.

Ron kicked things off with a power move that had us all scratching our heads. Apparently, the white tees were too sacred for our hacking hands, so Ron quickly rejigged the comp and we’d play nine holes from the red tees and nine from the yellow. Was this a tactical genius move or just Ron trying to sow chaos? We’re betting on the latter, especially since half the group spent the first hole arguing over which colored markers we were supposed to aim for. Ron, mate, next time just let us tee off from the car park—it’d be less confusing.

The course was busier than a pub on pie night, with tees backed up like rush-hour traffic on the M1. At times, we had three groups glaring at each other, each waiting for someone to shank one into the heather so they could move on. Patience was stretched thinner than Steve’s excuses.

Speaking of characters, let’s talk about Len, who rolled up with a pink golf ball so bright it could guide ships in a fog. Joe, never one to miss a chance for a zinger, took one look and declared it looked like a “Virginia.” No one’s quite sure what he meant, but the sniggers that echoed across the fairway suggested it wasn’t a compliment. Len, undeterred, strutted his stuff like he was auditioning for the PGA’s most flamboyant player award, swinging that pink menace with the confidence of a man who knows he’s stealing the show. Shine on, you glorious peacock.

Then there’s Bert, our resident bargain hunter, who sauntered into the pro shop and emerged with a shiny brand new second hand driver. Not content with that steal, Bert then fished a head cover out of the actual bin. A head cover, Bert? From the bin? That’s not a deal; that’s a health code violation. We’re all placing bets on whether it smells worse than his scorecard by the next outing.

The weather gods weren’t sure what to make of us either. The day started under a blanket of clouds so gloomy it looked like the sky was nursing a grudge. But, as if inspired by our sheer determination (or Len’s pink ball), the sun burned through, transforming Buxton into a sun-dappled paradise. By the back nine, we were shedding layers and squinting into the sunshine, wondering if we’d accidentally teleported to the Mediterranean as the glorious weather only amplified the day’s highs and lows.

Now, let’s tip a nod about the practice green—or rather, the practice postage stamp. It must be the tiniest practice green in the UK, so small you could probably putt on it with a teaspoon and still overshoot. Most of us gave up after one attempt, fearing we’d chip the ball into the next postcode.

And so, to the leaderboard, where the real drama unfolded. Step forward, Pete Evens, our Saudi Cup champion, who stormed to victory with a majestic 39 points. The man played like he’d bribed the golfing gods, dodging hazards and sinking putts with a swagger that left us all jealous. Or maybe he just got lucky—either way, Pete, take a bow. You made that gorse jungle look like a putting green.

Poor Steve, though. Our eternal optimist thought he’d clinched runner-up, strutting up for his photo op with a grin wider than the 18th fairway. But, in a twist sharper than a dogleg left, he discovered he’d been pipped—again. The collective laughter was louder than his protests, and we’re pretty sure he’s still muttering about “dodgy handicaps” while polishing his imaginary silver medal. Steve, mate, you’re the bridesmaid of our hearts, but maybe it’s time to accept you’re cursed to forever finish just shy of glory.

Mr. Captain wasn’t immune to the drama either. He swaggered up, chest puffed out, convinced his 38 points had sealed the deal. The man was practically picking out his victory speech when the bombshell dropped: Pete had edged him out with a scorecard mixup. The group’s “oooh” was pure comedy gold, and Mr. Captain’s face was a masterclass in crushed dreams. Chin up, Cap—second place is just first place with a side of character-building.

I almost forgot to mention Dave Mac, the sly fox, who pulled off the shot of the day to snatch the twos pot right from under everyone’s noses. With a cheeky chip-in that was equal parts skill and sheer dumb luck, Dave sent his ball rolling into the hole like it was magnetized. Tough luck, Oaker—no rollover pot for you to snaffle this time!

The Saudi Cup at Buxton High Peak was a glorious mess of shanks, laughs, and moments that’ll be retold (and exaggerated) for years. From Ron’s tee-time tyranny to Bert’s bin-diving bravado, Len’s pink-ball panache, and Steve’s perennial almost-victories, this was a day that reminded us why we keep coming back to this maddening game. Buxton High Peak tested our skills, our sanity, and our ability to laugh at ourselves—and we passed with flying colors (especially pink ones). Here’s to the next outing at Macc on Sunday, where we’ll no doubt see more wayward drives, more savage banter, and hopefully a practice green that doesn’t require a microscope. There’s food on this time so until then, keep swinging, you magnificent bunch of hackers.

Alfie Noakes embarked on an exciting new adventure to Brookdale Golf Club, a course that was a fresh addition to our roster. Nestled in the heart of Manchester, this gem proved to be both quirky and challenging, offering a delightful mix of undulating fairways, strategic bunkers, and unexpected twists that kept us on our toes throughout the round. The newness of the course added an extra layer of intrigue, as we navigated its unique layout for the first time.

Col won with 47 points because he’s a massive bandit.

The end.