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Straggleton

On rugged cliff-tops facing north
Across the deep blue sea
Is Straggleton, a holy place
For golfers such as me

 The rolling hills, Upgang Ravine
The White House Pub, Hotel
The ozone from the crashing waves
Cut grass, that heady smell

 Through summer sun and winter snow
Through hailstones, rain and gales
Us golfers hit our dimpled balls
‘cross fairways hills and dales

 And when our game is over
We’ll sit and have a beer
In the comfort of the nineteenth hole
With friendliness and cheer

 We’ll talk of pars and birdies
And where we didn’t score
But one thing’s always certain
We’ll aye come back for more

Dave Kirk  July 2009

The City of Golf

(copied from an 1896  Whitby Golf Club Rule Book kindly lent by Trevor Stuart)

Would you like to see a city given over
Soul and body to a tyrannising game?
If you would. there's little need to be a rover
For St Andrews is the abject City's name

Rich and poor are smitten by the fever
There business and religion is to play
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer
Unless he goes at least a round a day.

The City boasts an old and learned college
Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek
Even there the favoured instrument of knowledge
Is a driver and a putter and a cleek.

In the morning when the feeble light grows stronger
You may see them going out in shoals
And when night forbids them playing any longer
They tell you how they did the different holes

From the "Scarlet Green" by R F Murray

200 Club

There are still some numbers left in the 200 club.  For just two pounds a week you will be entered into a Weekly Draw for £100, a Monthly Draw for £200 and a Grand Christmas Draw with prizes of Christmas Draw £1000, £500, Christmas Draw £200 and £100.  Forms are available from the Club Office.

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most surely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere. 

John Betjeman

In My Hand I Hold A Ball,
White And Dimpled, Rather Small..
Oh, How Bland It Does Appear,
This Harmless Looking Little Sphere.

By Its Size I Could Not Guess,
The Awesome Strength It Does Possess.
But Since I Fell Beneath Its Spell,
I've Wandered Through The Fires Of Hell.

My Life Has Not Been Quite The Same,
Since I Chose To Play This Stupid Game.
It Rules My Mind For Hours On End,
A Fortune It Has Made Me Spend.

It Has Made Me Yell, Curse And Cry,
I Hate Myself And Want To Die.
It Promises A Thing Called Par,
If I Can Hit It Straight And Far.

To Master Such A Tiny Ball,
Should Not Be Very Hard At All.
But My Desires The Ball Refuses,
And Does Exactly As It Chooses.

It Hooks And Slices, Dribbles And Dies,
And Disappears Before My Eyes.
Often It Will Have A Whim,
To Hit A Tree Or Take A Swim.

With Miles Of Grass On Which To Land,
It Finds A Tiny Patch Of Sand.
Then Has Me Offering Up My Soul,
If Only It Would Find The Hole.

It's Made Me Whimper Like A Pup,
And Swear That I Will Give It Up.
And Take To Drink To Ease My Sorrow,
But The Ball Knows ... I'll Be Back Tomorrow.


A recent study found the average golfer walks about
900 miles a year.

Another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year.  That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon.

Kind of makes you proud!

Sent in by Graham Bedford & Neil Clarkson