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Global warming ruined my Sunday. I took Brenda and the brat down to Camps Bay beach for a breakfast picnic and I was in the middle of buttering a Portuguese roll when we were engulfed by a mini-tsunami.
It struck with no warning whatsoever. And while there was no loss of life, I did lose 400 grams of imported ham, a block of Italian cheese, the Sunday Argus and the little that remained of my dignity.
Loudly condemning the Americans, I snatched up my waterlogged towel and stormed off the beach.
When I got home, I reached for my club. In the old days, I might have used it against Brenda the moment she walked through the door. These days, however, I blow off steam by using it for what it was designed. Hitting stupid little white balls. At least they don't call the cops on you.
I decided to take up golf after I heard that the environmentalists were opposing new golf estates for no other reason than they deface the natural environment, guzzle enormous quantities of water and benefit only the elite.
These are spurious reasons by any standards.
Environmentalists themselves consume a fair amount of water and from an aesthetic point of view, their scruffy beards, unshaven armpits, smelly lentil-breath and woolly jumpers leave a lot to be desired.
The problem is that when neighbour Ted and I went off to join a golf club, we found that none of them would have us.
Ted said things would be different if we were women and went on a misogynistic tirade lasting well over an hour.
Now, whenever we go for a round of golf, we have to park out of sight of the clubhouse, cut through the fence and jump straight in on the fourth or fifth hole.
We usually arrive without any balls because Ted thinks it is great sport to throw them at passing cyclists. Most times we are fortunate to find a couple of balls lying right there on the course, so we can start our game immediately. This is almost always followed by a lot of angry shouting and waving of clubs.
The good thing is that golfers are generally a puny lot and Ted and I simply push them over and carry on playing.
However, times are changing and many golf clubs are now allowing darkies to become members. For some reason, black golfers are in far better physical shape than white golfers. Ted says it is because they have spent so much of their adult lives working out in the prison gym.
What I like about golf courses is that they are smooth. You can run as fast as you want in any direction and you won't trip over any unsightly fynbos.
And there are no pointless trees standing around using up valuable oxygen. Deforestation is heavily underrated as a means of conserving the planet's natural resources, and golf estate developers understand this better than most.
These spoilsports in the Western Cape who are calling for a moratorium on golf course developments have clearly never felt the pleasure of walking out on to the fairway on a crisp spring morning and feeling the bite of the first chilled Chivas Regal as it slides down your throat.
They have never experienced the thrill of dragging an elderly couple from their golf cart and wheel-spinning on the green.
They have never known how much fun can be had simply by watching your caddy struggle to carry two golf bags, a cooler box, a portable braai and two hunting rifles.
Semi-automatic weapons are fast becoming the latest must-have accessories for the serious golfer. These days, few people are prepared to wait for that decrepit captain of industry to wrap it up with 28 shots and move on to the next hole.
A flesh wound inflicted from 500 metres away enables you to play through a lot faster.
Then there are the Egyptian snow geese that copulate loudly in the rough, emerging only to ruin your putt by uncontrollably defecating all over the green. In this case, a shotgun works better than a standard rifle.
When I am on a golf course, I enjoy knowing that I am helping to raise the national morale. Whenever a group of ragged urchins and their unemployed parents press up against the blade wire to watch me play a shot, I can see in their eyes that I am a role model to them.
I am a manifestation of their aspirations. As long as there is one man out there playing golf, even if it is by himself, they will have hope.
If I had my way, I would develop a golf course stretching from Hermanus to Amanzimtoti.
It would have about 9 450 holes and would take some time to complete, but just think how far it would go to instill a little ambition en route.
I may even have to start charging. Five rand per person for a shot of renewed hope doesn't sound unreasonable.
And like any developer with a social conscience, I would plough the profits back into the community. A chain of golf shops selling wine by the gallon should do the trick.
freebentrovato@yahoo.com
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