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.