Cooney and Black

Monty Claus spreads Christmas cheer

Christmas Bauble art
IT was Christmas Day at the golf club, the coldest day of the year.

The members’ hearts were full of joy, their bellies full of beer,

Then up spake the most important member, face as bold as brass,

Cameras away, phones off and don’t dare interrupt whilst I’m talking!

Who exactly was this rather corpulent figure dressed from head to foot in flowing red robes and a blonde beard?

It couldn’t be, could it? No, surely not THE Colin Montgomerie!

Had Big Col really morphed into Monty Clause come hot foot in his spikes from his rich pile in the Perthshire hills to dispense much merriment?

Not even yet another year without a major could dispel Big Col’s sense of festive spirit and fun.

Soon, after clearing his plate of the last morsel of a splendid turkey dinner washed down by several cans of diet (?) Coke, it was time for Monty Clause to dispense gifts to the little children – at least those he had not already trampled underfoot in his rush to reach the jelly and ice cream first!

“And what did Santa bring you for Christmas?” he enquired of one little chap who had already soiled himself in terror-filled anticipation of meeting Monty Clause.

“Come  on, speak up,” Monty Clause sighed as only he can sigh while also screwing up his face and doing a passable impersonation of a warthog licking p… of a nettle.

“What?” he bellowed on learning that the unfortunate youngster had, in fact, received a copy of “A History of the Majors.”

“I suppose you think you’re being smart,” he growled in a menacing tone all too familiar to the Scottish golf writers.

With that the youngster took to his heels and was last seen heading into the nearby hills.

Once the remaining gifts had been dispensed – in matter of seconds, I might add – it was time for Monty Clause to perform his party piece.

To the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” it went something like this:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love (self) gave to me a major in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eleven pipers playing “Love, Love Me Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the twelfth days of Christmas, my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming up support for a fresh Ryder Cup campaign, eleven pipers playing “Love, Love Me Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

With that Monty took his leave, brushing aside autograph hunters as he went and trampling underfoot those few remaining children who had survived the jelly and ice cream scramble.

But there were those who swore they heard a lone voice drifting across the chill evening air singing “For I’m a Jolly Good Fellow” before being accosted by the smell of burning rubber as a top-of-the-range Lexus roared out of the car park.

Merry Christmas, Monty.

And to all of you, 24-handicappers, burgeoning amateur stars and seasoned pros alike, festive good wishes.

 

 

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