The Alfie Noakes Golf Society descended upon Sale Golf Club on a gloriously sunny Sunday morning for the Spring Cup, and what a day it turned out to be. The clubhouse, a grand old relic known as the Lodge of Sale Old Hall (circa 1830), oozed tradition—like stepping into a time capsule where waistcoats and plus-fours were still the height of fashion. It’s also famed for its Open Champion Richard Burton, the last club pro to hoist the Claret Jug. No pressure then, lads.
I barely had my shoes tied when Len pounced like a hawk on a hapless mouse. “Where’s the laptop, you forgot the laptop didn’t ya?” he barked, and before I could stammer an excuse, my wrist was metaphorically slapped, and my fines tally began its inevitable climb. Little did I know, it’d be a record-breaking day for me in more ways than one.
The course itself sparkled in the spring sunshine, all green and gorgeous, whispering promises of birdies and glory. That is, until the club pro sheepishly offered refunds due to the state of the greens. A Sale member later confided that in their last comp—a field of 140—only six birdies were sunk. Six! That’s fewer birdies than I’ve had hot dinners this week, and I’ve been on a diet. Ominous signs indeed.
The first hole set the tone. Al Corbishly, with the confidence of a man who’d clearly had an extra Weetabix, smashed his drive left—straight through an oak tree, no less. We held our breath, expecting a lost ball and a tirade, but the golf gods smiled, and it popped out like a well-trained retriever, plopping smugly in the heart of the fairway. Al had a massive grin on his face, and we all pretended not to notice the sweat on his brow.
Then there’s PJ, our resident long-hitting legend. We’ve all seen him launch drives that could clear the Pennines, but his 100-yard shank on the back nine? That’s a new chapter in the Alfie Noakes lore.
The greens, sadly, lived up to their billing—or lack thereof. Freshly treated and dressed, they resembled a scarified battlefield, with putting lines like railway tracks. You’d aim for the hole, and the ball would veer off like a toddler chasing an ice cream van. No wonder birdies were rarer than a quiet moment from our fines master.
Despite the greens’ best efforts to ruin my day, I had an absolute blast. The course (greens aside) was a treat, and the company? Top-notch, as always. Maybe I enjoyed myself too much—Joes little red book ran out room as he gleefully scribbled my fines. “This has to be a record!” he cackled, and I’m fairly sure I saw him rubbing his hands with glee. I’d have argued, but I was too busy handing over my life savings.
With 37 Stableford points in the bag, I swaggered back to the clubhouse, soaking up the “bandit” jibes and eyeing the top prize. Runner-up, it turns out—pipped by Alex ‘Made Man’ Vietor’s cracking 39 points. Then, post-fines, New Alex dropped the bombshell: “Oh, full disclosure, I’ve had a couple of lessons.” Lessons?! The cheek! The bandit crown is hereby passed to you, sir—wear it with pride, you sneaky bugger.
Nearest the pin went to Steve, who’d scarpered early, probably sensing the fines master’s gaze. He got the news over the phone while regaling his pub punters with tales of glory. I rocked up mid-story to drop off his trophy, causing a minor commotion as he proudly showed it off to his customers saying…you guessed it… “I never win anything!”
No twos that day—which wasnt too much of a shock to be honest, given the greens looked like the Somme. The pot rolls over to Cavendish, where we’ll try our luck again.
Speaking of luck, Ron “The Tree” Marshall (rustle rustle) was handed “the visor” for his, ahem, arboreal performance. But wait! A Master Scoreboard review revealed a twist—it should’ve gone to none other than Joe Wilcox, our fines master extraordinaire. Still nursing a hangover a week later, Joe? Maybe that’s why the numbers were off—too many pints blurring the lines.
All in all, a fine day of golf with a fine bunch of reprobates on a very fine day. The Spring Cup delivered laughs, shanks, and enough fines to fund a small nation. Now, eyes on the prize: The Founders Cup at Cavendish.
Spring has sprung Alfie Noakes. LFG!!!