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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.

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.

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.

Welcome back, golfing faithful, to another rollicking tale from the fairways! This time, our merry band of swingers descended on Chorlton-cum-Hardy Golf Club, the urban oasis where GolfMates YouTube stars strut their stuff and dodge errant shots. Nestled in the heart of Greater Manchester, this parkland gem is a proper test—tight fairways, cheeky bunkers, and greens that smirk at your putting woes. With 14 players ready to battle, one man—yep, you guessed it, Mike Oakes—decided to make the day his personal victory lap. Here’s how it all went down in the scorching sun.

A Day to Remember

The Summer Shield brought out a cracking turnout of 14 players, all eager to tackle Chorlton’s challenging layout. Adding to the fun, we welcomed two guest players, Robert and Jason Kane, who jumped into the fray with gusto. Nothing says “welcome” like new blood taking on the regulars, and these lads held their own with style.

The weather? Blimey, it was a scorcher—hot enough to “crack the flags” and have players guzzling water like they were auditioning for a camel convention. The sun blazed down, turning the course into a furnace, but it only fired up the competition. Chorlton’s members added to the vibe, turning the greens into a warzone with their eager pitching, much to the chagrin of one particular player, our Stuey. 

Shenanigans on the Green

No society day is complete without a bit of mischief, and our very own Mr. Captain provided the highlight. Caught red-handed receiving some dodgy coaching on the practice green to fix his woeful putting, he thought he could sneak it past the eagle-eyed Fines Master. No chance! The Fines Master, sharper than a freshly cut wedge, slapped him with an instant fine, and I reckon Mr. Captain’s wallet is now lighter than his short game. 

Mike Oakes: The One-Man Wrecking Crew

Now, let’s talk about the man of the hour: Mike Oakes. This bloke turned up with a bag full of magic and a scorecard that read like a fairy tale. He fired a jaw-dropping gross 68—2 under par—to bag the top spot with 37 points. Mike played like he’d made a pact with the golfing gods, leaving the rest of the field scrambling to keep up. But wait, there’s more! Not content with just winning, typically Mike swooped in to claim the nearest-the-pin prize and—brace yourselves—the juicy twos pot, which had swollen to epic proportions after rolling over. The man’s got a nose for prizes like a bloodhound, and the lads are already plotting to lock the pot in a safe before he gets near it again.

Hot on Mike’s heels was Stuart Shand, who matched his 37 points but got pipped on countback. Stuart’s so close to stealing Mike’s crown he can probably smell his aftershave, and he’s chomping at the bit for revenge. Meanwhile, poor Ron “The Tree” Marshal lumbered to last place, earning the infamous visor of shame. Ever the good sport, Ron took it like a champ, vowing to return with a game plan—or at least a bigger axe to hack through the rough.

Chorlton’s Warm Welcome

The day wasn’t just about the golf—Chorlton-cum-Hardy rolled out the red carpet. The Club Captain, an absolute legend, gifted the society two free single rounds of golf, which were promptly chucked into the raffle for the upcoming Captain’s Weekend. That prize pot’s now tastier than a clubhouse pie, and the anticipation’s building faster than a downhill putt.

Eyes on Belton Woods

Speaking of what was next, the society’s already buzzing for the Captain’s Weekend at Belton Woods. Two days of golf, rip-roaring banter, and enough laughs to fill a bunker—it’s shaping up to be the Ryder Cup of good times. Expect the usual chaos, a few dodgy swings, and maybe even Mr. Captain sneaking off for another “coaching session” (we’ve got our eyes on you!).

A massive cheers to Chorlton-cum-Hardy for hosting a belter of a day, to Mike Oakes for treating the course like his personal playground, and to Stuart for pushing him to the wire. Here’s to more golf, more laughs, and maybe someone finally wrestling that twos pot from Mike’s iron grip. Belton Woods was next — LFG!!!

The Autumn Handicap at Disley Golf Club took an unexpected turn this year, with the pairs competition swapped out for something more appropriate. The change came about as several club members were notably absent, off enjoying the scenic NC500 Birdies and Bogies Tour of Scotland. Their absence didn’t dampen the spirits at Disley, though, as those who turned up brought their A-game to make the day a memorable one.

• Winner: Len Potts stole the show with a stellar performance, racking up an impressive 38 points to claim the top spot. His steady play and sharp focus left the field trailing in his wake.
• Runner-Up: Pete Evens, ever the consistent contender, secured the runner-up position once again with a commendable 31 points. Pete’s knack for landing in the top spots is becoming the stuff of club legend, and whispers around the clubhouse suggest he’s got his sights set on snatching first place next time.
• Twos: The twos pot remained tantalizingly untouched, with no players managing to sink a two on the day. This means the pot rolls over to the next event, and word has it that Mike Oakes is already salivating ‘again’ at the prospect of the growing prize fund.

Congratulations to Len for his commanding victory and to Pete for yet another strong showing. The Disley faithful are already looking forward to the next event, where the twos pot promises to add even more excitement to the competition!