At the weekend, Alfie Noakes Golf Society descended upon Romiley Golf Club for the much-anticipated Welcome Cup kindly sponsored by Elliot. Nestled in the heart of Cheshire, Romiley is a stunner of a course—founded in 1897, it boasts postcard-worthy views across the county and into the rugged foothills of the Peak District National Park. It’s the kind of place where you’d happily shank a ball into the rough just to take a moment and soak in the scenery. That said, the slope rating handed most of us an extra two shots, a subtle hint that this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park—or a stroll down the fairway, for that matter. With a slew of par 4s stretching over 400 yards, it was clear Romiley was ready to chew us up and spit us out like a divot on a windy day.
The day kicked off with an unusual but expected start for Alfie Noakes, no coffee and bacon rolls at the clubhouse. Undeterred, a few of us savvy members slipped into the village—literally two minutes away—for a pre-round Latte fix. Big mistake.
I rolled up to the course just past 10, blissfully overlooking the Official Welcome ceremony start time I had confirmed. Mr. Captain greeted me with a verbal wedge to the ribs, and the Fines Master swooped in faster than a seagull on a dropped bag of chips. I hadn’t even unzipped my bag, and my wallet was already lighter. Steve, my café accomplice, somehow turned a two-minute walk into a full-blown odyssey and arrived late too. Mate, it’s not the Peak District—it’s a village high street!
Sadly, Len couldn’t swing a club that day… ive never seen him so happy! He was however on hand to give me a crash course in mastering the scoreboard. With Ben off sunning himself somewhere exotic (probably sipping a Piña Colada while I wrestled with Excel), the competition admin duties fell to yours truly. No pressure, right? Just me, a laptop, and the hopes of an entire golf society resting on my hacky tech skills.
Miraculously, the weather gods smiled on us, and we teed off under dry skies—a rarity worth celebrating in itself. Things were rolling along nicely until the 3rd tee, where Joe spotted a £50 note fluttering in the breeze like a gift from the golfing gods. He pounced on it with the glee of a man who’d just holed out from a bunker—only to discover it was as fake as my promises to “play it safe” off the tee. Steve had mischievously set the trap a hole ahead and the group reveled at the prospect of the prank being pulled off. Top marks, Steve—your japes landed like a perfect chip shot. Joe’s expression must have flipped from ‘drinks are on me’ to ‘I’ve been stitched up’ quicker than a snap hook off the tee. Well played indeed.
As we reached the 18th green, Steve shuffled over with a frantic gleam in his eye. ‘Dave, mate, can you give me the hole for two putts? I need the loo—badly.’ Turns out his IBS was hitting him harder than the karma from that fake fifty. I smiled and said, ‘Just go, mate, were well ahead!’ Perhaps he misheard but he gripped his putter, determined to fight fate. Half amused, half evil, I offered, ‘Alright, get it within a bin lid, and it’s yours.’ In his haste disaster then struck: five putts, a blobbed hole, and Steve raging like a man cursed, before legging it to the clubhouse mid-tirade. He wouldn’t let me forget this, ribbing me that I’d made him putt out with a ‘disability’— but I guess that counterfeit cash came with a price.
When we finally returned to the clubhouse Joe began lavishly dishing out the fines, which were humorously received as usual by all including Romiley club members that were looking on. The round itself was a test of stamina, skill, and sheer stubbornness. Those monstrous par 4s had us puffing like we’d run a marathon, and the leaderboard was anyone’s guess. By all accounts, Joe had been smashing it and looked a shoo-in for a podium spot. But in true Alfie Noakes fashion, the day threw us a curveball—or perhaps a wicked dogleg.
Dave Mac stormed in with a whopping 41 points to snag the Welcome Cup, cementing bandit status again! Now you might suspect my old hacker skills came into play with my new scoreboard duties, but I think those extra two shots from the slope might’ve given me a nudge…. or did they?!!
The runner-up spot was a nail-biter. Joe’s solid round had the crowd buzzing, but PJ sneaked in with 39 points, edging him out by a single stroke. One point! That’s the difference between glory and “better luck next time, mate.” Joe took it like a gent, though I reckon he’s already plotting revenge.
The blind uphill MacKenzie green had PJ in contention for nearest the pin. He hit the green and was on the dance floor marker in place when everyone else had missed. However up stepped Mike Oakes and bagged the the nearest the pin honours this week. There were no twos this time round, it was a tough ask with the treated greens and therefore the pot gets rolled over to the next event.
All in all, it was a cracking day at Romiley. The course tested us, the fines stung us, and the fake cash fooled us—but the Alfie Noakes crew came through with laughs, banter, and a few respectable swings. Dave Mac’s walking off with the silverware, PJ’s basking in runner-up glory, and I’m left wondering if I can expense that café latte to the Fines Master. Here’s to the next one, Sale — may the fairways be flat, the bacon rolls be plentiful, and the £50 notes be real.