There is a saying in poker. ‘If you can’t spot the sucker in your first half hour at the table then you are the sucker’.
Golf is full of suckers, of course. Hackers who think they’re pros. Rules pedants. Anyone wearing a white belt.
But there is one who stands above. I’d normally write ‘proudly’, but this player has got nothing to be content about.
If you can’t recognise this cancer on the fairways from what I’m about to tell you – and it seems every fourball has got one in their ranks – well, hello, it’s you.
Who is the worst person in the club? The straggler. This individual’s so wicked, so nefarious, their playing partners have rid themselves of any desire to be in their company. That’s why they’re always lagging behind. Miles behind.
They’ve got a compulsive need to fuss and fanny about.
They’re the golfers who can’t let a ball go. They’ll roam up and down like a robot mower until they find something – anything – to replace the battered Molitor they’ve just smacked into the cabbage. Three minutes? You’re having a laugh.
This is not 2013 anymore – five minutes expired 10 minutes ago. These insufferable people never give in and cannot accept that they might lose a ball. It’s never their fault either, is it?
‘I struck that really well, too well if anything!’ No, no you didn’t. It is why we are searching in waist-high grass.
The straggler has also got a Masters in fiddling. It’s very easy to get a headcover back on but they make it look like they’re deciphering quantum mechanics.
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Can’t play, won’t play: The straggler is the worst person at your golf club
Their trolley is always on the wrong side of the green. YOU KNOW WHERE THE NEXT TEE BOX IS – YOU PLAY HERE FOUR TIMES A WEEK.
Then, after you’ve been queuing up to hit that approach shot for the last 10 minutes on a crammed course, they’ll saunter right across your line as they clear the putting surface and send your blood boiling further.
Filling in scorecards? You know where this is going. Stood like a statue on the green, natch. Yes, you’re the only golfer on the course. You take your time. After all, this monsoon we’re standing under is due to pass in two hours.
On the few occasions they’re actually level with the rest of their group, this is the time they choose to impart something they consider of crucial importance to an innocent victim in the party.
This conversation can’t take place on the move, you understand. It must be conducted at close quarters, at a standstill, with you naturally swinging behind in fury on the tee.
And can they play? Don’t be so stupid. You’ll tap into your keyboards in a frenzy about 54-handicappers but this is your real enemy. Tee shots are topped, approaches thinned, putts blazed past the hole.
The only possible excuse I can come up with for them is the theory of time dilation.
Not heard of it? It’s where the length of time changes when objects travel close to the speed of light. So 30 seconds for them is like three years for the rest of us.
Are they actually going so fast they just seem really slow? Einstein says it’s possible. It’s much more likely, however, they’re just ignorant.
So as I fume at this latest idiot flailing around 250 yards behind the rest of his group on a par 5 (they were actually putting out as this guy was still fumbling around for something in the middle of our fairway), I’m sharpening the edge of my wedge.
It would be an act of mercy. For the rest of us.
Now have your say
What do you make of the Angry Club Golfer’s latest moan? Have you suffered at the hands of a straggler, or is this just another pointless storm in a teacup? Let us know by leaving a comment on X.
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