- Scouse Crows and Bank Heists: Alfie Noakes at Didsbury Golf Club
Didsbury Golf Club, sprawled across Manchester’s leafy suburbs, is the kind of course that lulls you into a false sense of security before reminding you why you’re not on the PGA Tour. At 6,296 yards with a par of 71, it’s a parkland gem that blends forgiving fairways with greens sneakier than a politician’s promise. Designed in 1891 and tweaked over the years, it’s got history, charm, and just enough trouble to make you regret that extra pint the night before. Toss in a clubhouse that’s more welcoming than your nan’s kitchen—complete with coffee and bacon rolls this time—and you’ve got the perfect stage for Alfie Noakes’ brand of golfing chaos.
The weather gods, clearly still groveling for last year’s pathetic drizzle-fest, gifted us a day of dazzling sunshine that made Cavendish look like a warm-up act. It was also Mr. Captain’s birthday, adding a layer of faux grandeur to the Presidents Trophy—because nothing screams “happy birthday” like a bunker tantrum or Al Corbishly rocking a visor so flashy it could guide ships to shore. Al strutted about all day like he’d just signed a sponsorship deal with Oakley, and we’d know because Joe kept checking he was wearing it… a fine pre-loaded and raring to go if it came off!
Meanwhile, Steve stormed out of the clubhouse like a man on a mission, ranting that someone switched the toilet light off mid-business. Forced to use his phone’s flashlight to navigate, he was less than amused—until someone pointed out the light switches off automatically when you stop moving. Cheers, Einstein, crisis averted. Dwelling on Steve, our trophy “custodian,” for a moment if i may, he outdid himself in spectacular fashion. Not only did he bring a busted, moth-eaten relic that looked like it belonged in a car boot sale, but it was also the completely wrong trophy. Bravo, Steve. You’re the gift that keeps on giving.
The day kicked off with a par-3, and all eyes were on Mike Oakes, our resident golfing martyr still nursing a dodgy ankle from the last event. Some members, bitter about missing prior twos pots, chucked in a cheeky £4 each, sensing a chance to cash in. Big mistake.
Mike, with the smugness of a man who’s already won at life, nailed his iron shot and sank a two on his very first putt. A quadruple rollover pot, bagged before most of us had finished our bacon rolls. The collective groan from the group could’ve rattled Old Trafford—though we did wave at him with an appropriate two-finger salute. For the rest of the round, we were begging—begging—for anyone to land another two, just to dim that insufferable smirk. Spoiler: no one did. Mike, you absolute bandit, enjoy your ill-gotten riches.
Out on the course, Ian Morris, our generous sponsor, was tearing around in a single-seater buggy so dinky it looked like he’d won it in a box of Weetabix. Every time he whizzed by, I half-expected to hear Mario Kart music and see him lob a red shell.
My group turned the 6th hole into a bunker party while chasing nearest-the-pin. Every one of us plugged straight into the sand, like we were auditioning for a remake of Lawrence of Arabia. Joe, in a moment of pure, unhinged optimism, grabbed his putter to escape. I had to look away. Did he get out? Of course not. Why would logic apply? Speaking of bunkers, Colin deserves a ribbing for his effort on one particular hole. Trapped in the sand, he thinned a 30-yard shot that rocketed across the green, only to clang off a tree on the other side. By some miracle (or witchcraft), the ball ricocheted 20 yards back to the center of the green, leaving him a putt for points. Joe dropped to his knees, I dropped my jaw and instinctively shouted words that’d make a docker blush, and Colin just stood there unashamedly like he’d scripted the whole thing.
Then there was the crow heist. I swear these birds are Scouse. One brazen thief dove into my trolley, nabbed my Werther’s Originals, and hopped off with them in its beak like it was auditioning for Peaky Blinders. I half-expected to find my trolley jacked up on bricks by the next tee. Cheeky sods.
Back at the clubhouse, Joe’s finesmastery was, as always, a masterclass in savagery. He dished out penalties with the glee of a traffic warden, as he roasted every duff shot, dodgy visor, and questionable life choice, leaving us in stitches. Al Corbishly topped the leaderboard with a cracking 40 points, proving that visor wasn’t just for show. Mike, not content with fleecing us in the twos pot, limped his way to runner-up with 39 points—because apparently his ankle only hurts when it’s convenient. Worth a mention that Pete Evens, back after a long break, nabbed third with a tidy 38 points. A steady game and some tidy chipping that had us all quietly jealous. Nearest-the-pin went unclaimed again, a common occurence it seems. Seriously, lads, it’s not quantum physics—just hit the bloody green.
The day was another Alfie Noakes banger, packed with belly laughs that made the shanks and three-putts fade faster than Steve’s trophy credibility. From Ian’s top-notch sponsorship to the Scouse crow heist, it was a day to treasure.
A grudging nod to Mike for somehow turning a par-3 into a bank heist—enjoy your rollover riches, you absolute bandit. We’re already buzzing for Alfs Challenge at New Mills, where more glorious chaos awaits. Coffee and Bacon roll again this time. Nom nom, indeed.
- Sun, Swings, and Shenanigans at Cavendish Golf Club
Our illustrious leader and despot, Mr Captain brought us to Cavendish Golf Club Sunday last, perched in the rolling hills of Buxton, Derbyshire, it is the kind of place that makes you question why you ever bothered playing anywhere else. Crafted in 1925 by the genius Dr. Alister MacKenzie—yes, the Augusta National guy—this 5,721-yard, par-68 masterpiece is short but savage. With its sneaky hazards, greens that slope like a funhouse floor, and views of the Peak District that practically beg for an Instagram post, it’s no wonder Cavendish is consistently ranked among the UK’s top 100 courses. Nicknamed the “Inspiration for Augusta,” it’s as close to golfing royalty as you can get without a green jacket. Oh, and it’s stayed true to MacKenzie’s original vision, which is more than you can say for some members swing.
The Alfie Noakes Golf Society’s latest pilgrimage to this hallowed ground was a riot of sunshine, sarcasm, and some questionable golf. Our day was proudly sponsored by Mike Oakes, the man who’d sell his soul for a birdie. Tragically, fate had other plans: Mike sprained his ankle just before the event, leaving him hobbling like a pirate with a grudge. Did that stop him? Pfft, as if. The man rolled up anyway, commandeering a buggy with Len to bask in the glory of Cavendish. Mike’s love for golf borders on obsession, and he proved it mid round by limping to a red tee, balancing on one leg, and smacking a 7-iron that soared past all his four-ball’s drives. You gotta take your hat off to that. Well played sir!
The weather was disgustingly perfect—bright sunshine, clear skies, and a course so pristine it looked like it had been Photoshopped. Cavendish, true to form, was ready to humble us. Its fairways may look inviting, but they’ll chew up your ego and spit it out faster than you can say “triple bogey.”
Our crew, never ones to shy away from a challenge, arrived early, practically vibrating with anticipation. Leading the chaos was “No Doe” (Kevin), who decided the clubhouse was the perfect spot for an impromptu strip show, going topless to “prepare.” Subtlety, clearly not his strong suit. Meanwhile, Steve, our so-called custodian of the Alfie Noakes trophy collection, had a full-blown existential crisis (again) over which shiny relic to bring. His solution? Bring nothing. Brilliant, Steve. I think we need to invest in a laminated Ladybird book of ANGS trophies for him.
With no food on offer members took matters into their own hands. Some, in a stroke of culinary genius, detoured through the “Golden Archers” for a McMuffin others just ordered from the usual from the kitchen.
Out on the course, Cavendish didn’t disappoint. It’s the kind of place that lulls you into a false sense of security before reminding you why you’ve never gone pro. We figured a Stableford score of 36 would take the crown, given the course’s knack for breaking souls.
Enter Stuart, who apparently didn’t get the memo, racking up a ridiculous 42 points. Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. Len, our runner-up with a respectable 34, was so chuffed he broke into a jig that was equal parts adorable and alarming.
Colin Butler snagged nearest-the-pin, the only one of us with the nerve to hit the green and actually stay there. The twos pot? Untouched. It’s now rolling over to Didsbury, and Mike’s already rubbing his hands like a cartoon villain plotting a triple rollover heist.
The 19th hole brought the real entertainment: Joe’s finesmastery. With the precision of a sniper and the mercy of a tax collector, Joe unleashed a barrage of fines that left no one unscathed.
From dodgy swings to dodgier excuses, he had us in stitches, with belly laughs echoing across the patio. It was the perfect cap to a day of superb golf, superb company, and just the right amount of stupidity.
Cavendish was everything we’d hoped for and more—a course that demands your best and rewards you with views and memories worth framing. A massive shout-out to Mike for sponsoring and dragging himself out despite his busted ankle. Mate, you’re a legend, and we’re not worthy. Here’s to Didsbury, where we’ll chase that rollover pot, more fines, and another round of Alfie Noakes anarchy!
- The Spring Cup at Sale Golf Club: Sunshine, Shanks, and a Fines Master’s Dream Day
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!!!
- Welcome Cup Chaos at Romiley
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.
- Alfie Noakes Golf Society: The 2025 Season Tees Off with a Dictator’s Drive
Last weekend, the Alfie Noakes Golf Society dusted off the cobwebs (and possibly a few cobweb-covered clubs) to kick off the 2025 season with the Captain’s Drive at the picturesque Antrobus Golf Course. Nestled in the heart of the Cheshire countryside, this clever little track is a beauty with a beastly side—think water hazards galore, wooded traps, and fairways so narrow they’d make a tightrope walker sweat. Off the back tees, even our resident “pros” were muttering prayers into their gloves, while the well-guarded greens smirked at every approach shot.
Our new captain, Alex Baker, rolled up to the occasion sporting a hangover that could’ve sunk a battleship. Clearly, the pre-season celebrations had taken their toll, but nothing says “leadership” like a bleary-eyed dictator ready to rule the fairways. The day itself was a stunner—sun blazing, temps soaring into the high double digits, and a chance to shed the winter layers. Well, until the duffed shots and cries of “where’d that go?!” reminded us that golf is the ultimate humbler, no matter the weather.
The Texas Scramble format had us drawing lots for teams, which led to some delightful chaos as we squeezed four tee times into the space of three. Members were politely “encouraged” to keep the pace up, though judging by some of the swings, a few might’ve mistaken this for a leisurely nature hike. New fines master Joe was already in mid-season form, wielding his shiny new fines book like a medieval tax collector. I hadn’t even unpacked my clubs before I copped a fine for “driving into a hedge”—a crime I didn’t commit, unless you count my car’s brief flirtation with the shrubbery on arrival. Joe’s enthusiasm was unmatched; he’d clearly spent the off-season dreaming up penalties obscure enough to rival a pub quiz.
We welcomed some fresh faces: guest Mick, new member Alex (already eyeing “bandit” status), and Kevin, who arrived with empty pockets and instantly earned the nickname “No Doe.” It’s sticking, folks—he’s got the charm to pull it off, but we’re keeping an eye on his wallet next time. The group photo was a sight to behold, all of us grinning like kids at a candy store, before Alex stepped up for his big moment. Ex-captain and now Chairman Colin Butler handed over the new captain’s hat—a snazzy number with a “Commie” logo. Alex, embracing his inner tyrant, declared, “This isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship!” The crowd jeered, the tension built, and then—true to form—Alex’s antique wooden wood sent his first ball screaming “FORE RIGHT!” as it vanished into the Cheshire wilderness. Somewhere, a farmer’s cow is still dodging that Titleist.
The golf itself was a mixed bag of brilliance and blunders, but the real fun came at the 19th hole. Basking in the sun, cold drinks in hand, the ribbing flowed as freely as Joe’s fines. Alan copped one for “grumpiness,” though who wouldn’t scowl when the winter mats turn your tee shot into a comedy act—his ball rolling off the tee more times than a toddler chasing a balloon? Joe’s fines book was a masterpiece—overflowing with creative offenses. The man’s a natural, and we’re already dreading/loving his next performance.
The winners? None other than our illustrious Dictator—sorry, Captain—Alex Baker, alongside Chairman Colin Butler, Alan Corbishly, and Kevin Murrey. Nearest the Pin went to Elliot, who probably celebrated with a smug nod, while the twos pot was nabbed yet again by Mike Oakes. Through gritted teeth, he had to split it with No Doe—congrats, gents, enjoy the spoils.
After a long, soggy winter that left me and my clubs in a state of grumpy hibernation, this day was a tonic. Great weather, great company, and a cracking start to the season. Congratulations Mr Captain on a great day of golf and a successful start to the season. Here’s hoping the rest of 2025 stays warm, dry, and full of laughs. Next up is Romiley—a beautifully groomed parkland gem that’s calling our names. See you all there next week, and may your drives stay straight (or at least on the course).
- Season’s Last Swing: The Committee Cup at Alsager Golf and Country Club
The last dance of the season arrived with the prestigious Committee Cup at Alsager Golf and Country Club, and it was a day packed with surprises, slip-ups, and dodgy swings. Now, let’s clarify—this was the Alsager with an actual golf course. Turns out, some of our members had made a pit stop at “Alsager Golf Club,” which sounds right but boasts one small flaw: there’s no golf course.
Our members tracked the weather like meteorologists, watching the skies in hopeful suspense. Sadly, Mother Nature wasn’t feeling cooperative. With rain through the week, Health & Safety put a kibosh on buggies—bad news for some of our more “well-seasoned” members. But despite the lack of wheels, spirits were high, and we had a fantastic turnout, including our newest members, Alex and Josh, ready to dive into the deep end of society golf.
The morning wasn’t without hiccups. Burt, who’s no stranger to odd excuses, strolled in late, claiming a herd of cows had obstructed his commute which he eventually overcame. Impressive dedication, but the fines master Alex wasn’t buying it and slapped Burt with an appropriate tax. Then we had Joe, who finally made it to the correct Alsager course, albeit looking as though the previous night had put him through his own version of “18 holes.”
The Game’s Afoot: Texas Scramble with a Side of Shenanigans
With the teams sorted via a good ol’ random number draw, members grouped up for a Texas Scramble—team-based chaos, for the uninitiated. Some members sported their “Mr. Captain Tribute” golf shirts from Herons Reach, a sentimental nod to our Captain’s final day in office. The look was stylish, spirited, and—let’s be honest—they looked as damn fantastic as last time!
Warm-up was interesting, putting greens, driving nets, pitching range and unusually an XplainR swing trainer hoop was available to members. Our resident bandit, eager to try the training aid, actually managed to take a divot on his first swing, proving that maybe, just maybe, a few sessions with the XplainR wouldn’t hurt.
On the course, we saw all kinds of action but it was noted that Mr. Corbishly, ever the competitor, was caught off-guard and shocked that someone almost hit him when a golf ball seemingly landed beside him out of nowhere. It turns out Stu had simply decided to “drop” a ball next to him.
Finale Fines and Turkey Trots
In his final duties as fines master, Alex ensured no one escaped unscathed. From Burt’s bovine delays to questionable fashion choices, fines were dished out generously. Alex handed over the title to Joe for next season ready for Joe’s to bring his own unique approach to the “fine art” of fines.
As tradition demanded, members showed up with presents for the Turkey Trot. The prize pool was a delightful grab bag of mystery gifts, with only the bottles giving any hint at their contents. Those brave enough to take the plunge walked away with everything from “mystery” socks to some holiday cheer in glass form.
And the Winners Are…
When the final scores were tallied, there was no denying who came out on top:
- Champions: Burt, Oakers, and PJ, cruising to victory with a whopping 47 points.
- Runners-up: Steve, Mr. Captain, and Alex V with a solid 42 points.
- Third Place: Dave Mac, Joe (eventually sober), and Josh with 39 points.
- Fourth Place: Alex, Alan, and Stu, also at 39 points.
- Fifth Place: Elliot, The Tree, and David B, close behind with 38 points.
As autumn settles in and our clubs retire to hibernation, we look back fondly on a season filled with unforgettable moments, legendary banter, and the undeniable camaraderie of our golf society. Planning for next season is already underway, and as we close the chapter on this year, we can’t wait to tee things off again in March.
Here’s to another year of (mostly) straight shots, and plenty more stories to tell! We’ll see you all at the AGM next year!