Today I’m writing about the first time I ever played golf – at the Snakehole Golf and Country Club, a sand, scrub, cactus and broken glass shard course in Apache Junction, Arizona.
How do they keep the sand from blowing and covering up the scorpion-filled holes? Why, they pour grease from the RV park diner all over it, of course.
What are all those extra holes, the ones at the base of the scrubby creosote bushes? Why, those are sidewinder and rattlesnake holes, of course.
As anticipated by all those who have ever seen me take to the pitch ‘n’ putt course at Tollcross Park in Glasgow’s East End, I was rather poor when it came to playing golf. My woeful playing got worse when it was pointed out that scorpions like nothing better than a wee golf ball-sized hole to have a cosy wee nap in. Luckily I very rarely managed to get my Pink Lady (TM) golf ball anywhere near an official hole, so this wasn’t too much of a problem. The stench of the grease also made approaching a hole to retrieve a ball quite an unappealing concept. And the thundering roar of 18-wheeler trucks on the two highways that border this chic course was quite distracting. As was the fact that my brother Mark, who was with me, was resplendent in a highly amusing straw Stetson-type number and an all-black-head-to-toe, completely-inappropriate-for-desert-wear wardrobe.
Neither of us has ever played golf again since this, our glorious debut.
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