The Hacker | Peter Corrigan

The wooden spoon: give it a good stir

Being kind to those worse off than ourselves is one of the cornerstones of the goodwill season. Unfortunately, one of the many troubles of being a hacker is that in golfing terms it is very difficult to find anyone worse off than yourself. And if you do, the instinct is to laugh.

It is hard, therefore, to describe the strain for those brave souls who compete in the thousands of winter leagues throughout the country. The pre-Christmas session is nearly over and there is an unholy scramble to avoid finishing bottom and receiving the wooden spoon.

Nothing cheers a hacker more than seeing some other poor blighter getting one. Sympathy at the misfortunes of others is not a golfing trait, even at Christmas.

The scene at our club today will be one of tension. It is the final day, and although there is an exciting tussle at the top of the league the real dramas are at the bottom, where several pairs are in contention for last place.

On the last day, those in contention at either end go out for their matches armed with Stableford cards, because the number of points they get will distinguish between the pairs with the same number of victories. For the lowly, this adds extra pressure on relationships that may be already close to breaking point after nine weeks of meagre achievement – although I have to say that the favourites for the wooden spoon have no such problem.

This owes much to Charles, a well-known member of the licensed trade in the area, who shows a lot more patience and forebearance than the average member of his profession. Publicans are drawn to golf like many of us are drawn to pubs, though not for the same reasons. It gets them out of their smoky bars, puts colour back into their pallid cheeks and injects spring back into legs bowed by heavy jobs like throwing men out and carrying the takings upstairs every night.

In common with most outdoor sports, there is a strong correlation between playing golf and taking potent refreshment, and mine hosts are at peace in such company. For the last year, Charles has been steward at the local yacht club, where one or two of the briny brigade have been tempted to take up golf. There are few similarities between the two sports, but you get marginally less wet playing golf.

Knowing that the winter league is the best way for a newcomer to meet other members, Charles offered to partner one of them; Glen, a fiftysomething gentlemen's hairdresser who has yet to progress from the highest handicap of 28. Charles plays a tidy game off 13, but this is a tough competition through which to nurse a beginner and, although they have had their moments, it has been hard going.

At 9am today, they begin their match against a partnership which includes the club president, who is celebrating reaching his seventies by having a good year on the course. He and his low-handicap partner are among the contenders for the top prize, so Charles can expect no favours. But this is golf and, more importantly, this is winter golf, in which anything can happen on a dark December day. As they say in hackerland: cometh the hour, cometh the flukey sod.