More Agonising Golf 6c6k32

MORE AGONISING GOLF

Golf’s premier agony aunt, Ms Kallas-Way, answers more of those questions you’re too embarrassed to ask your pro.

By Kay Wall

Copyright Kay Wall 2012 Published at Smashwords.

FOREWORD

My instructional YouTube videoclips and ebook ‘Agonising Golf’ have helped many struggling golfers, worldwide, but the number of queries I’m still receiving indicate that another volume is due. As golf’s premier agony aunt/teacher, it is my duty to guide the misguided, teach the unteachable and clarify the buttered. A book dealing solely with problems can be depressing, especially to those struggling to reduce their handicap, so each chapter will start with an uplifting biographical piece which reinforces my credentials and illustrates my commitment to helping the less fortunate. This book will cover that period of my life in which I attended Q-School and the LPGA tour.

CHAPTER 1

Those who’ve followed my career know that at the age of 20 I’d discovered that the only relationship that mattered in my life was the one I had with golf. The Game provides a strong, ethical framework for humanity, and this book provides an indispensable guide for those troubled souls wandering life’s fairways. Having decided that my golf clubs would be my lifelong chief companions, I knew I had to test that relationship on the world’s toughest stage, the USPGA. Unfortunately, in those days, the PGA wouldn’t allow a woman to play on the men’s tour. They pointed me in the direction of the LPGA, who sent me an application for Q-School, to which I was accepted. I insisted on buying a plane ticket for my clubs so I could keep them next to me. I’d heard such horror stories about baggage handlers, most of whom are nongolfers so don’t understand the care needed when transporting clubs. (This was pre-terrorism days, when you could carry just about anything on board.) Desperate to avoid deep-vein thrombosis, I stood up every hour and had a few practise shots up and down the aisle. It proved a little tricky with the food trolleys, as the hostesses didn’t believe me when I said I could pitch the ball over them and get such backspin that the pilot would be in no danger. Unfortunately, I forgot to take into the effect of the high altitude, but as it was merely the co-pilot I put into a coma, I think they over-reacted when confiscating my clubs. The flight from New Zealand to the USA took 24 hours and I’d had little sleep when I stepped on to the practice green at the course where my first Q-School event took place. A large officious lady bustled over and handed me a list of rules and regulations. The first one was ‘All competitors must use carts’. I grabbed the lady’s elbow as she turned to leave. “Carts?” I pointed at the piece of paper. “Carts! Surely you jest.” “Jest what?”

“Jest!” “What did I jest do? What are you going on about?” “Real golfers would never use a cart! They upset natural rhythm. You can’t be serious!” The lady stared me up and down and peered at my name tag. “Ms Kallas-Way,” she muttered. “Hmph, thought it might be McEnroe.” She sighed. “Either use the cart, or go home.” So much for legendary southern hospitality, I thought. Bobby Jones would be horrified. I loaded my clubs and waited for the other golfer with whom I had to share transportation. And waited, and waited, and waited. One minute before our tee time, a dishevelled blond raced out of the locker room, observed that I had the last cart and ran up to it, dumping her gear on the back. She plumped down in the enger seat. “Hit it,” she barked, tying up her shoe laces. “We’re not on the tee. I’m not getting a two-shot penalty for hitting out of the teeing ground.” “The accelerator, you dope.” She peered at me as we set off. “I’m Jane. Where on earth did you get those weird clothes?” She plucked at my left sleeve. “I made them. The left gusset is bigger than the right so that my backswing is unrestricted.” I lowered my voice. “My shorts are extra baggy for unrestricted leg movement and so that I can fit more sponsors on them.” I looked around to make sure no one could overhear me. “I’m going to take my patterns to a golf clothing manufacturer. There’s nothing like this on the market.” “You’re kidding me,” said Jane. She shuffled to the far side of the seat. “You’re not from around here, are you?” “New Zealand,” I smiled. “Cheapest golf country in the world. Absolutely anyone from any walk of life can play.”

“I have no trouble believing that,” said Jane. “None at all.” * * * This leads us neatly into our first problem. Judging someone by the clothes they wear, or their choice of jewellery, can be a hard habit to break. But there may be a legitimate reason for someone’s unorthodox appearance. Our first correspondent, Don’t Ever Ring Me Again, is a good example of someone jumping to the wrong conclusion. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Several weeks ago at the 19th hole, my golf mates and I got talking about body piercing. My mates reckoned real men don’t wear rings so I told them that pierced nipples are a great golfing aid. Chain the nipple ring to the top of the sleeve seam and you’ll never have an ‘all arms’ swing again. Half a bottle of scotch later, out came a needle and my nipples. Don’t believe that alcohol is an effective anaesthetic! As the needle skewered my nipple to the bar, I sobered up completely. The trouble is, my nipple is still swollen and it seems to have affected my balance. Should I get the other one done, to even things up? Dear RING Of course you should. And also put a ring through your nose so you can have a chain running from it to your nipple rings. You’ll find this prevents you from lifting your head too soon. I advise you not to pierce anything lower. Sometimes the problem is preferable to the solution. * * * Too many people see ‘differences’ as a problem (whether it’s lifestyle, religion, or golf swings) rather than part of life’s great layout. Our next worrier, Is The Difference Too Great, needs to trust her judgement. (Working on long putts will help this.) Dear Ms Kallas-Way For eight months I have regularly been playing a round with a new guy. He’s on

a 10 and I’m on a 28, steadily increasing, but the difference in numbers doesn’t matter to us. “Yeah,” say my friends, “it’s not so noticeable now, but what about in 20 years when you’re on a 40 and he’ll still be low teens? It’ll never last, 18 shots is just too wide a gap.” Fonteyne tells me to ignore them, but I know they snigger and talk behind our trundlers. The snide remarks are ruining my enjoyment of the game. I’m desperate for your advice! Dear DIFFERENCE What is it with this lack of calcium and sagging spines? I blame it all on the day they stopped giving kids free milk at school. For goodness sake, your handicaps are irrelevant. Fonteyne obviously sees beyond your fluffs, duffs, shanks, tops and three-putts. (Are you sure it’s the handicap difference people are sniggering about?) * * * Can Physiognomy Provide Solutions To My Air Shots is one of many gullible twits who takes seriously anything she reads on the Internet. Readers, you must , not every golf website is written by someone of honesty and candour. If it doesn’t have my name on it, always be suspicious. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I have tried absolutely everything to stop having air shots. Golf lessons, video lessons, hypnotherapy, even re-birthing beside the first tee of our course. Nothing works. And then I found a site on the Internet which said that if I sent four photos of my shaved head (front, two sides and back) and $500 to Madame Po-face, all my golfing woes would be solved. The internationally renowned Madame Po-face will interpret my physiognomy [head shape, particularly lumps and bumps] and tell me exactly what to do. She says she has an extensive library of golfers’ headshots cataloguing a whole host of swing problems. So naturally I rushed out to the supermarket and bought a few razors so I could shave my head. (I can’t afford a hairdresser as all my money’s needed for Madame Po.)

Unfortunately, I’m short-sighted and I cut my head shaving and then bumped into the mirror so there are all sorts of lumps and bumps and scratches on my head that normally aren’t there. Will I have to wait until my head returns to its normal shape (by which stage my hair will have grown and I’ll need to repeat the process) or will she be able to ‘read between the lines’ as it were? Dear PHYSIOGNOMY Physiognomy was exposed as a fraud early last century. The only thing that bumps, lumps and scratches on a golfer’s face will tell you is that they spend a lot of time playing recovery shots from trees. Someone as knowledgeable as myself will indeed be able to read those marks and tell you if the golfer plays a links course with lots of gorse and blackberry or even the type of tree they’re having trouble with. However, this will not stop you having air shots. Take your $500 and visit a reputable optometrist. (Not one you find on the Internet.) * * * Our next troubled tragedienne, I Can’t Find A Golf Bag Which Matches My Shoes, is typical of golfers today who can’t learn ‘not to sweat the small-stuff’. I can tell a lot about a golfer by the letter they write and when I enquired further into this correspondent’s background, my hunch that she also dithered when reading borrow, proved correct. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I am a fashion consultant who recently took up golf so that I could entertain my clients, many of whom are keen golfers. As I’m sure you understand, in business (as with golf) you have to look good to perform well. Imagine my distress when I bought my golf outfit, complete with shoes, and then went to look for some golf gear, only to find that absolutely none of the golf bags matched my footwear. What’s wrong with these idiot manufacturers? Don’t they consider accessories when they make their bags? Are they only concerned with how many clubs it has to hold and having enough apartments to hold card, balls, water bottle and wet-

weather gear? As far as I can tell, no consideration is given to matching golf bags to shoes, and a matching hat is pretty hit-and-miss too. Is there any solution to this dilemma? Dear SHOES First buy your golf bag and then buy your shoes, as there are many more colour combinations in shoes than bags. If you haven’t been able to figure that out, you’d better loosen the strap on your hat, too. It must be too tight. * * * Not all of my correspondents seek advice. Many write to me asking if I’ll address their conference or group or hit the first shot in a fund-raising charity event. Will You Present Our Temper Tantrum Golf Oscars has invited me to attend their annual awards ceremony. Dear Ms Kallas-Way At the end of every season, our golf club (Troubled Waters Golf Course) holds a special prize-giving ceremony for the best performance after three-putting, topped drive, air shot, meanest hook, wickedest slice and buried-in-the-bunker. I appreciate that you don’t have time to judge 5,062 videos so can’t be on our , but wondered if you’d consider presenting a couple of the prizes? Our premier prize, The Shanker Yanker, is the highlight of the evening and the award we would most like you to present. While past years have seen incredible acts from our senior , this year we have some very exciting young talent performing. And, for the first time ever, we even have a woman on one of the short lists. (Just like Augusta, we too were threatened by Women’s Rights groups if we didn’t allow both sexes to compete for the awards. As we pointed out, we’ve always allowed both sexes, it’s just that men seem to throw greater tantrums on the fairways than women.) Anyway, every single member of our club has sought your advice over the years and you are our greatest hero. (Or heroine, if you prefer.) It would make our year if you would present the top prize.

Dear TEMPER Alas, I have such a hectic schedule that I will be unable to attend your event. On that very night I will be attending the awards ceremony for the best golf advisors on the Internet. I am a finalist in the most honoured category: ‘The really curly problems that are so difficult, often the afflicted don’t know they’ve got them’. While I would consider it an honour to present your Temper Tantrum Golf Oscars, duty calls me to meet with my peers at our hallowed event. Well, ‘peers’ might be a bit of an exaggeration. I’m sure I’ll bolt in with this award as the other four finalists must get all their advice off golf shoe boxes, judging by the quality. Schedule your TTGOs on a different week next year and I’ll be happy to come and present the top prize, the design of which, I might add, is an example of innovative excellence. I’m amazed that no one else has thought of combining a ball washer with a tranquillizer dispenser. * * * It’s not without good reason that experts assert that golf is 90% mental and 10% physical. Which makes the problem of One Of Our Suffers From Multiple Personality Disorder So Which Personality’s Handicap Does She Play Off a very curly one. Fortunately for confused golf committees everywhere, I have the answer. Dear Ms Kallas-Way One of our had a really tough childhood, which I won’t go into here. This has left her suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder. She currently has nine different personalities, eight of whom are very keen golfers and one that hates The Game. She only started playing one year ago because Sybil (the dominant personality) decided it would be a good idea to get some fresh air and exercise. Sybil proved to be a natural and got her handicap down to 20 in just 12 months. During that time another of the personalities, Cyril (handicap 15), started to

achieve dominance. This proved really tricky because often she’d start as Sybil and at the 10th, Cyril would take over. Which meant a switch to the men’s tees, half way through the round! As if that isn’t confusing enough, they’ll be almost finished when Cecily, the golf-hater, appears and smashes all her clubs and scares off the other golfers in her group. (That’s three other golfers, not personalities.) This is when Cecilia (handicap 34) takes over and steals the abandoned clubs, selecting 14 to play the last holes with and taking the rest to pawn at our local second-hand shop. Sybil’s taking a new medication which controls the violence, but we still have trouble sorting out which personality’s handicap she must use. Five committees have quit because they can’t solve the problem and I fear we may be forced to murder Sybil. (We can’t force her out of the club because she threatened to take us to court, suing for discrimination. We have few and can’t afford to defend a suit.) We’re at our wits’ end. Please help. Dear SUFFERS There’s much furore over whether or not MPD is an actual psychiatric disorder, or a load of hooey. I’ve recently submitted a paper to the New Zealand Institute of Psycho Golfers (servicing the most rapidly growing hip of any group, worldwide) asserting the latter, because I have been able to cure every single MPD golfer I’ve come across. This is what you must do. Welcome the MPD with open arms and tell them how delighted you are that they’ve chosen to your club. Sit them down and tell them you want to get to know each and every one of them. Make sure you have pen and paper and note down the name of each personality. When you send them the subscription invoice, include an invoice for each personality, and add on another ten, as golf always induces sides of people never seen before.

The bill will be such that I guarantee all personalities will then play as one. * * * Obviously An Idiot Decided The Size Of The Hole On The Green, is one who shares the conclusions of many. And, indirectly, she is right, although not for the reasons she believes. Dear Ms Kallas-Way After spending many weekends at home on my own while my husband went gallivanting off to the golf course, I finally decided that if you can’t beat them, you may as well them. So I paid my sub at our local club, had a few lessons, and ventured on to the fairways. I enjoyed the exhilaration of driving and playing full shots into the greens, but obviously there’s been a mistake way back in history when they recorded the size of the hole. After all, you go whack, whack, whack (at full strength) and then have to get delicate all of a sudden. It’s just not logical to change the nature of the game like that. Only a pea-brain would decide on such a minuscule hole. Who do I to suggest that instead of having a tiny little hole on a big green, the size of the hole should be extended to the size of the green? Dear OBVIOUSLY In the first days of golf, you didn’t putt into a hole, you putted to a post. But the grass was rough, which made it difficult to hit the post so the powers-that-be decided to cut a hole. Initially they cut around a gallipot [flower pot] placed on the ground (didn’t work so well if you held it in the air) but different courses used different sized pots, thus turning interclub competitions into civil wars when the respective teams argued about which size hole was correct. This attracted the ‘hoon’ element (undoubtedly ancestors of the beer swilling buffoons seen and heard in the crowds of pro tournaments today). Tiring of all the fighting and having to cart battered bodies off the course before play could commence, the committees decided to settle the dispute once and for all. They cut open the skull of a dead brawler and declared the hole would be the

size of the guy’s brain. However, it was only 2 inches in diameter, so they doubled it and added quarter of an inch for good measure, hence all holes are 4.25 inches wide. So yes, not only did an idiot ‘decide’ the size of the hole on the green but he was also responsible for the invention of ice hockey, when all the hoons lost interest in golf and adapted their version of The Game into a new sport. Don’t waste your time ing the R&A or USGA. Idiots’ brains are no bigger now than they were back then. * * * Our next seeker of knowledge, Am I Too Old, obviously has trouble with everyone’s appearance. While his self-confidence is irable, his way with words leaves a lot to be desired. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Judging from your photo, you’re patently no spring chicken so I figure if an old bird like you can play golf, maybe I can start too, even though I’ll have my 100th birthday next month. Whaddaya reckon? Meet me on the practice fairway next Monday and we’ll play a round. You’ll recognise me as the good looking guy who’s doing for the toothless what Kojak did for baldies. Dear OLD I have no doubts that golf is not the game for you. While a lack of teeth has never stopped anyone performing well on the fairways, bad eyesight is not so easily overcome. But despair not, there are other options. Instead of golf, I suggest you take up swimming. Precisely, swimming underneath bungy jumpers. You're bound to find at least one set of dentures that’ll fit. * * * Give Us a Break faces the sort of attention we women face when we grow out of our training bras.

Dear Ms Kallas-Way My friends and I are reluctant to go to the golf club every Saturday, due to a few middle-aged would-be Lotharios who put us off our game by wolf-whistling at us. Is there no such thing as a quiet game of golf these days? We know we’re hot; we don’t need the asinine attention of inarticulate morons to prove it. Dear GIVE There are a couple of solutions to your problem, depending on the health of your finances. If money is no object, I suggest you consider using my most popular sideline business, developed specially to handle all sexist nuisances. As consultant to our local zoo, I have initiated several programmes to earn the cash-strapped institution a good income. By adapting police dog training methods, I have trained five wolves for ‘special’ jobs. For a mere $250 (plus travelling expenses), I and my best wolf will accompany you and your friends to your course. Upon the first whistle, my wolf will leap into action and tear out the throat and tongue of the offending whistler who, should he survive, can be guaranteed never to whistle at you again. Alternatively, my cheaper option (no money-back guarantee and much less satisfying) may work. Buy some earplugs. * * * Any other agony aunt would consider Ima Wimp a hopeless case, and advise her to throw into the deepest water hazard her golf bag, having filled it with bricks and tied herself to it first. I, however, never give up on anyone, no matter how deep their despair. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I desperately want to learn to play golf well. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do since my six-month birthday. I spend two or three hours every night weeping because I can’t realise my one and only deep and ionate ambition. (Weep and wail no more, Ima. It plays hell with your distance judgement. Staple your top eyelid to your brow and your bottom eyelid to your cheek.)

But you see, my Amish religion doesn’t allow me to play golf. I tried using a hand carved wooden club, and tucking my long skirts into my bloomers, but it just didn’t work. My conscience made me suffer so much for being frivolous and worldly. Also, I am crippled. I have one wooden leg, one hand missing, my left ear came off in an accident and I am horribly scarred on the face. I have heard that people as terribly crippled as I am are unacceptable to fine golfers such as yourself. (Completely wrong, Ima. The only unacceptable golfers are those who tromp all over your line on the green, use cell phones, and insist that genetically modified plants will revolutionise course maintenance.) I have some real problems on the golf course too. Sometimes I have been known to forget which ball is mine and hit someone else’s! It was probably because the ball got all tangled up in my long skirts, or it could have been because of my glass eye (my only ‘good’ eye has double vision) but nevertheless it was inexcusable. I’m afraid if I go out on the golf course again someone might take to me with violence. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never be the golfer I so much want to be. It hurts me terribly to write that, but one must be philosophical. (My Amish religion has taught me to have a stiff upper lip, which I have anyway after I had a pin inserted in it after a buggy crash). But when I saw your column, I felt a little ray of hope. Here, finally, was someone I could look up to, who might have some answers to my problems. If there is any word of advice or encouragement you could give to brighten my life, I’d be so grateful. I’d even send you my spare lip pin to show you how grateful I am. Yours in hope Ima Wimp Having received four emails in half an hour, I began to wonder whether someone had indeed taken to Ima “with violence” and, if so, whether I could persuade them to do it again. But on re-reading the emails, I perceived Ima’s deeper and plaintive message, and I resolved to help her.

Dear IMA Now that I’ve dried your eyes, we can move on to the trickier aspects. As a onelegged Amish golfer, you must have learnt to let a lot of golfers play through. The patience you’ve learnt from that is going to come in handy as it’ll take some months for you to see an improvement in your game. But look on the bright side. At least with double vision, you’ll see twice the improvement! Tucking your skirts into your bloomers will only stretch your elastic and, as you’ve only got one leg, you’re already over elasticised in that department. Staple your skirt up the middle so it turns into tros; that’ll keep your dress code intact, and your wooden leg. Take the hook off your wrist stump and attach it to the end of your umbrella. Employ a half-swing on a horizontal plane until you stop toppling over, then move to three-quarters. This will both improve your balance for the golf swing, and will take care of your worries over someone taking to you with violence. Finally, think positive and keep your chin up! (Use the 6 and 7-irons for this, the longer one for the side which is missing the ear.)

CHAPTER 2

I watched Jane set up to the ball and waggle three times. Her left sleeve caught under her arm. She’s going to hook this, I thought. Sure enough, her tee shot torpedoed into the water hazard on the left. Mine split the fairway, flying 250 yards. After nine holes of watching Jane hook every tee shot, I handed her my spare shirt. She pushed it away, before adding her score card. “Holy Toledo, 45!” She glanced at me and then stared at my spare shirt. She added her score again and approached, gingerly taking my shirt. She sighed and shook her head, disappearing behind a tree to get changed. Her tee shot on the 10th flew 250 yards, straight and true. “Wow, lookit that!” Jane smiled all the way to her second shot, a solid 5-iron to the middle of the green. On the back nine Jane scored a very respectable 34, but her 79 left her in the back third of the field. My 66 had me second on the leaderboard. I was sure I could have scored better, but my inclination to help those less fortunate had meant that I focused too much on Jane and not enough on my game. “Got any other weird clothes that’ll help me to the next stage?” Jane asked. “I’m going to need at least a 65.” Unfortunately, my spare shorts didn’t fit her. She slumped on the seats in the locker room. “I’m done.” “Not necessarily,” I said. “Follow me.” I had noticed that Jane had a dreadful chipping style. Like all nervous golfers, she looked up before the club ed the ball. Plus, the more pressure she faced, the quicker and longer her swing became. Armed with our practice balls and 9-irons, I led her to the dairy farm that bordered the golf course. I climbed over the fence and waited for Jane to do likewise. She stood and

stared. “Can’t we just go to the practice range?” “Do you want to make the next stage or not?” Jane climbed fences as well as she chipped. I had to go back and help her over. Fortunately for us, it was calving season and I found an old, smelly lump of afterbirth. I prodded it with my toe. Jane reeled backwards, holding her nose. “Tell me you’re not going to turn that into a pair of shorts.” “Hmm,” I said. “I’m not, but you could be on to something. I’ll fix your chipping first.” I strode away from the afterbirth, dropping five balls at one-yard intervals out to a distance of five yards. I pulled Jane’s hand from her nose and set her up next to the first lot of balls. “What are you trying to do when you chip?” I asked. “Land the ball on a spot on the green nearest to me and run it into the hole.” “What’s the worst thing you can do when you’re chipping?” “Look up, which alters my spine-angle.” “So how do you know you’ve landed it on the spot, when practicing, if you don’t look up?” “I always look up.” “Not any more,” I said. “Chip on to that afterbirth.” Jane looked at me as if I’d just said Jack Nicklaus was a hacker. I took my 9-iron and chipped on to the afterbirth. A pungent aroma told me I’d hit the target. Jane vomited. “No Jane,” I said, as she wiped her chin. “If you can’t find cow afterbirth, you may use road kill, but don’t ever use vomit for this exercise. Too many negative

connotations.” Because of Jane’s innate reluctance to smell the afterbirth, the pace of her stroke slowed down and she gently propelled the ball on to the chosen spot. I managed to stop her holding her breath during the exercise with a well-aimed prod in the ribs every time her face turned blue. After just half an hour, Jane hit the afterbirth every time. “Got a freezer?” I asked Jane, trying to pick up the afterbirth. Jane backed away. “Hell, NO!” “Damn,” I said. “If you’re serious about a career as a golfer, you really should buy a freezer. Wonder if someone else would lend you some space in theirs.” Jane yanked me away and had absolutely no trouble climbing the fence back to the golf course. “,” I told Jane, “just because something looks a little unusual or unorthodox, it doesn’t mean it won’t work. Just watch the start of Nancy Lopez’s swing.” I went upstairs for a meal, but couldn’t persuade Jane to me. * * * Back in those days, computers were hardly heard of. But in this computerised age, how do we sort the useful from the useless? Computerised handicaps, virtual golf and computerised swing analysis all have their place. With a bit of tinkering, Introducing The Golf-Fit Computerised Toilet could be on to a winner too. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I’m the manager of the newest golf club in New Zealand and we pride ourselves on having thought of absolutely everything to make the golfer’s experience at our course a pleasurable one. We’ve got computerised sprig cleaners, ballwashers, sunscreen applicators (works really well as long as you keep your eyes and mouth shut, don’t stand too close to the mirror and providing you’re more

than 5 ft 4 tall). When we read about those Japanese toilets which connect to the Internet and use a medical arm to analyse urine, we figured we could adapt it to fix golf faults. We simply decided to change the body fat analyser (which calculates the ratio of fat from electric conductivity through the ’s body) into a muscle tone analyser. My six-year-old daughter assured me she could fix the toilet to bounce electric impulses through the body and it would then print a readout (through the toilet paper dispenser) of which muscle groups needed targeting. This would be not only a New Zealand first, but a world first! And sales of the toilet would help the solvency of our club. When my daughter finished tinkering, I decided I should be the first one to test the Golf-fit Toilet. Consequently, I had a large meal of prunes and then...sat to work. For five minutes, nothing happened (computerised toilet-wise, that is, I was certainly doing my job) and then I experienced a pleasant tingling sensation throughout my body. It completely cleared my mind and I inadvertently broke off the readout from the dispenser and...used it, rather than read it. Every one of the 20 people we’ve tested our golf-fit toilet on has exactly the same experience. How can we adapt it so that we read the paper before we use it? It’s presently costing us a fortune in plumbing bills! Dear TOILET There are a couple of things you need to do to make the Golf-fit Toilet the next best thing in golf. And, let’s face it, the way technology is ‘improving’ balls and clubs, the market there is beginning to run out of innovation so I think golf toilets are a good market to target. You’ll have to ensure that the toilets are only available after the golfer’s round, or everyone will be late to the tee. Make sure your paper dispenser is that really annoying model which has two rolls of paper, one of which is almost impossible to get at and when you do, you can’t find the end. This delay in getting at the paper will be enough to snap the toilet out of their reverie so that they to read the paper first.

Just to be doubly sure, use extra-strength toilet paper and attach a delayed timer mechanism to the flush button * * * The next fumbler, Will My Clone Have A Better Swing, has misconceptions typically held by the general populace. If only people would do more research into these areas before coming up with these half-baked ideas! This is the sort of thing which gives ‘unorthodox’ a bad name. Dear Ms Kallas-Way As a salesperson for this country's biggest insurance firm, I make cartloads of money. In fact, I earn so much that I don't know what to do with it all. Two years ago I took up golf. I bought the best clubs, the most expensive golf balls, ed the most exclusive club, and have had lessons from the best in the business. Yet I still can't break 100! (The pros reckon I lack balance and keep whining about me not 'holding my finish'.) Anyway, I'm sick of listening to them and shelling out money for no result. And then I read about these scientists who have successfully cloned a human so I thought, why not me? You're the number one broad when it comes to golf problems. Do you reckon they could clone me and change the genes a little to produce someone with a better golf swing? Dear CLONE The fortunate thing for you is that money talks when it comes to cloning. Little things like worthiness, suitability, and 'will copies of this person add value to the world?' never enter a cloning scientist's mind. The unfortunate aspect for you is that clones get arthritis at a young age and arthritis inhibits the golf swing. However, I watched the video you sent me and have concluded that even with arthritis, you would swing better. Therefore, don't waste money on a clone. Take the brick I have sent you and get someone to drop it on your hands and feet.

* * * Our next correspondent, Have You Found Jesus, is a member of a cult golf club. People have lost faith in mankind so are searching for guidance elsewhere. (Nowhere do they search harder than on a golf course.) These fake clubs are springing up like triple-bogies at the end of a perfect round. My dearest Ms Kallas-Way Have you found the Lord? I detect from your letters of advice that you have not. Not once have you suggested your correspondents find help from that one perpetual source of succour, Our Lord Who Possesses a Heavenly Golf Swing. (Although they don't mention golf in the bible, I have no doubts that all the saints have taken it up and there is a heavenly golf course.) Yes, sister, I can lead you down the true cartpath of life's happiness. Visit my community and us for 18 holes; I guarantee that after that, you'll be able to TRULY help the poor wretches who seek your advice. Our first hole, Salvation's Ahead, (a tricky dogleg par 4 with a hidden green) is where we'll demonstrate the power of prayer to score par. The second hole, Be Healed, (a sin-of-a par 3 surrounded by bunkers) is where we'll demonstrate the efficacy of 'laying on hands' to achieve par. On each hole we'll demonstrate the power of our religion and at the 19th we'll show you how you can take your experience from the golf course and apply it to life's everyday troubles. (Don't forget to bring your cheque-book, as it only works if you sign all your possessions over to us, money being 'the root of all evils'.) We've got a spare start-time next Monday morning at 6.66 so I'll pencil you in. Until then, sister, swing sweet. Listen up, FOUND I'm an only child (my parents recognised perfection immediately) so don't go calling me 'sister'. I know all about you and your little group of 'swinging' acolytes. That 'tricky par 4' has a hidden green so your followers can 'help' the ball into the hole. The only 'sin' on your par 3 is the fact that the fairway's only 10 metres long.

And the only thing your course has in common with a legitimate golf club is that a lot of money changes hands at the 19th. Your days are numbered. I have exposed cult golf for the sham it is and soon all your followers will be swinging at a real club. I suggest you set up a compost farm on your acres, as the land obviously lends itself to recycling garbage. * * * Our next desperate duffer, Dyslexic Golf Is Stunting My Development, can help himself simply and cheaply. A common mistake these days is to look for an expensive cure. If you don't have to take out a mortgage to pay for the fix, then most people don't believe the remedy will work. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've only played golf a couple of times but would dearly love to a club and play regularly. However, my impediment to club hip is an embarrassing problem which I'm scared golfers wouldn't understand. I'm a dyslexic golfer. It hurts me even to it it but there's no getting away from the fact. No matter how much I concentrate, I always tee off with my putter and putt with my driver. I play bunker shots with my 3 iron and it takes me forever to get to the green from 150 metres with a sand wedge. The closer I get to the green, the further away my ball ends up, if you see what I mean. I'm sure I'm the only person in the world with this problem. I've employed caddies, practiced with measuring binoculars, even set up a hand held computer with instructions, but all to no avail. Please tell me how I can which clubs are used for particular shots. Dear DYSLEXIC Take heart that you are not the only dyslexic golfer in the world. I've seen lots of them. I've even seen golfers who would undoubtedly play better if they teed off

with their putter and putted with their driver. However, let's solve your problem. What you must do is approach your shot from another angle, i.e. instead of considering the flag from where you stand, look at the flag and work back from there. Sight a tree or some other distinctive fixture and work backwards. For instance, from the nearest tree to the green is a nine iron, from the next tree back it's an eight iron, and so on. Trust your judgement and I'm sure your golf will improve. (And if you can't trust your judgement, trust mine. I didn't get where I am today without being right EVERY time. Well, every time it counted.) * * * Area Fifty One, What's Really Inside, could be placing me in danger by asking me this. I know the American military are monitoring my website but I've never let a questioner down yet and will do anything, even risk my life, to put my readers' minds at ease. Dear Ms Kallas-Way My pal and I play golf near Area 51 (that's in Nevada, in case down in New Zealand you've never heard of it). Area 51 is notorious as the place that houses all those crashed UFOs and alien bodies. My pal, Rosswell, watched a documentary the other night which he reckoned proved that the US government really does have alien spacecrafts and stuff there. Why else would it be so heavily guarded, top-secret, and shoot tresers on sight? Me, I reckon that he's on completely the wrong track and you can't believe everything you see on the National Asker channel. I reckon it's not aliens that they've got shut up there but a super-duper golf course which only the President of the United States is allowed to play on. All the presidents seem to take to golf like a Texan to an oil well. There must be a connection. Whadda y'all reckon?

Dear AREA I have no trouble believing that there's a connection between your presidents and aliens. In fact, they say that alien activity increases when there's a threat of nuclear war, which explains why the skies buzzed with UFOs when George Dubya was in office. I also think you could be on the right track about that golf course in Area 51. Naturally, if aliens have evolved further than us, good golf courses would be a priority. And if they're really good, probably only the President of the United States, and Donald Trump, would be able to afford to play there. They should come out and it to this. It'd be enough to keep anyone away. * * * I ire the determination of Three Strikes And They're Out. I also empathise with her frustration that those around her cannot see reason. Alas, the world is full of these types who refuse to recognise common sense, even when you're a living example of it. Suffice to say, if the White House had phoned me first, instead of second, people would still associate cigars with smoking. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I'm writing to you because I'm your number one fan and I ire your forthright attitude, something we have in common. But, I regret, not one of my fellow committee possesses a gram of steely resolve. Naturally, we have the usual committees to organise tournaments, look after the gardens on the course, round up the sheep before the day's play and patch up sheep hit by flying golf clubs. But the one committee we desperately need, and no one will help me form, is a committee styled along New York City's 'Three Strikes and You're Out' policy. As you know, trundlers are forbidden on tees and greens but we have two holes in which the shortest way from the green to the next tee is to skirt the bunker and just run your right wheel over the green for five metres. Our habitually ignore instructions to go the long way around and simply pull out any barriers we place in their way (blaming flattened fences on

stampeding sheep). To combat this, I've suggested mounting two spy cameras (on a couple of stuffed sheep, so they'll blend in like hidden speed-cameras) to catch the offenders on tape. We'll then warn them once, deflate their trundler tyres the second time, and on the third occasion, they'll be chucked out of the club! I reckon that some of them might get to the second strike but after having their tyres flattened, they'd take us seriously and no one would get banished. But I'm having trouble convincing my fellow committee of this. How can I bring them around to my way of thinking? Dear STRIKES I ire your plan but your approach is lily-livered. Lead by example. Ignore the committee and take matters into your own hands. Although the 'three strikes and you're out' plan worked in a soft city like New York, I'm sure that for the backblocks of New Zealand, you're dealing with a much tougher group. So, this is what you must do. Forget the hidden cameras. The offenders know they offend and you know they know you know. Late one night, or in the early hours of the morning, take a shovel and some bamboo to the bunkers next to the greens you mentioned. Dig carefully into the wall of the bunker and form a cave underneath the green where the trundlers run. Make sure your bamboo has spikes on both ends (for easy insertion). Insert the bamboo (in the ground) and thoroughly cover your tracks when you leave so the cave and bamboo are completely camouflaged. Keep the sheep away! Make sure you're the starter for the next day and put your worst offender off first. Play in that group and make sure the offender walks over the cave and consequently becomes impaled when the green gives way. Make an example of him/her and the rest of your will get the message. * * * The Kallas-Way school of golf improvement demonstrates that golf cures exist everywhere, in the same way that many sports provide complementary benefits

for other sports. For instance, weight training helps discus, running helps swimming, and cycling helps tiddlywinks. But it looks like Belly Dancing Will Cure Your Shanking has got the cause and effect around the wrong way. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Six months ago I started a belly dancing class in Paraparaumu, home of the only golf course in New Zealand that Tiger Woods has played. Here on the Kapiti Coast, golf is really popular with at least 10 courses within a half-hour drive. (Unless you have a car like mine, and then it's an hour and a half.) Anyway, a lot of golfers have been coming along to my sessions and the best belly dancers amongst them have one thing in common. They all shank! (I have no idea what a shank is, but it sounds like the most traumatic thing that can happen on a golf course.) As I know nothing about golf, I'm having trouble analysing why this should be. My pupils suggested I you, as there is absolutely no golfing question in the world that you can't answer. I think this 'side effect' may be a way of increasing belly dancing's popularity while also helping the shank afflicted. I'd be very happy to offer you free belly dancing classes for a month, so that you can study the problem closely. All you need to bring is loose clothing which exposes your belly and I'll provide everything else. Dear BELLY I'm afraid I'll have to turn down your offer of free belly dancing classes as I maintain a high dress code and am never seen in ill fitting clothing. Indeed, I haven't exposed my 'belly' since learning to dress myself, at the age of 3 months. Your theory is a bit like the chicken or the egg dilemma. Which came first? The shankers are actually very good belly dancers because there's nothing like a shank to turn your insides to water and your belly to jelly. If you have once shanked, the mere thought of producing another one makes the stomach shake uncontrollably. Hence all your star pupils, the shankers, only have to start the first belly dancing movement to recognise that sinking belly sensation of the shank. At this point the golfer's muscle memory kicks in and then the belly dancers are dancing on

auto pilot. I don't have to study your pupils to know that it's the shanking which makes them great belly dancers, but belly dancing will certainly not cure their shanking. * * * Can Temporal Lobe Epilepsy Be The Reason My Score Never Adds Up has been reading too many Reader's Digest medical articles. Unfortunately golfers, whose imaginations are stretched more than any other sportsperson's, tend to latch on to obscure illnesses to try to explain their bad rounds. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been a keen golfer for two years now, but during the last three months I feel as if I've been playing in purgatory. I never seem to be able to get my score to add up to the same total my partner insists I got. Last week I played with a guy who writes articles for Reader's Digest and, as I've come to expect now, he said I'd scored 95 when I was absolutely positive I'd only had an 85. Our scores differed on ten holes, in spite of our having checked them on each green. The writer asked if I'd ever suffered any sort of head trauma because he reckoned I exhibited signs of Temporal Lobe Epilepsy, which is caused by a scar on the brain. He says the condition is linked to religious fervour (yes, I do say the name of the Lord after just about every shot), creativity (he reckons he's never seen such a loopy swing as mine) and sightings of UFOs. I can't say I've ever seen any Unidentified Flying Objects (on close inspection, they usually turn out to be golf clubs) but everything else fits! Is there any test I can take to discover if it is this malady which is causing me such heartache? Dear TEMPORAL If you're the sort of ignorant idiot who holds up players by filling in his card on the green, then you definitely SHOULD have TLE. Should, because golfers have every right to hit up on you and get the field moving. However, if you're standing on the green then you're probably safe from the majority of club golfers and it would be a huge fluke if you got hit on the head, especially if you're next

to the hole. I doubt very much that you have TLE but there is one certain test you can try, without going to the expense of a brain scan. Have you ever felt compelled to draw sunflowers and then cut off your ear to send to an ex? Apparently Van Gogh suffered from TLE, but I'm sure he had no trouble keeping correct score on the golf course. The only thing wrong with your brain is your ego. I bet your handicap has steadily dropped over the last eighteen months and now you've plateaued and you're too damn lazy to have lessons and put in an hour's practise every day. Your Reader’s Digests make fine toilet reading but, when you flush your loo, make sure your medical golfing excuses are flushed away as well. * * * It is indeed an overwhelming world we live in, in which everyday life proves more of a threat than any mugger or terrorist. I Think I'm Allergic To Golf Flags has an interesting reason for her three-putting, but could there be another explanation for her malady? Dear Ms Kallas-Way Golf is a great game but I feel that the people who are in charge of making golf flags haven't heeded the needs of all. There is a small group of golfers whose game is being compromised by the horrible materials they make flags out of. And that includes me! Okay, as the women's captain is forever reminding me, no one else in New Zealand has complained of this allergy, but we're a country of only 4 million! Give me a couple more weeks on the Internet, and I guarantee I'll find a group for those who are allergic to golf flags. And if not, I'll start my own and then you just watch sufferers flock to up. Anyway, I have absolutely no doubt that the horrible flags are the reason I often three- (and sometimes four) putt. As soon as I get near the hole, my eyes water and I can't see straight. My skin itches and my nose runs but as soon as I leave the green, I'm fine.

And it's no good telling someone to take the pin away from the hole. It must be full of minute particles of flag dust because I still three-putt. I'm also certain my allergy is not caused by vegetation because I'm a florist and have never had problems in my business. I've searched the Internet and you're the only person in the whole world who can help me. Please don't dismiss me as just another crackpot! Dear ALLERGIC I would never dismiss anyone as 'just another crackpot'. There's nothing ordinary about any of my crackpots, you included. And you're half right about your allergy, but you're wrong about the cause. You're not allergic to the flag, you're allergic to putting. Or, more specifically, bad putting. (And take heart, you are not alone. Anyone who watched Bernhard Langer putting in the days when he suffered the yips will have noticed the exact same symptoms as you display. Bernhard also suspected he had an allergy to flags but I was able to help him out and he went on to win tournaments, worldwide.) What you're actually experiencing on the green is a 'panic attack'. The best way to overcome it is to practice your putting (on a proper green, not the practice one which, as you mentioned in your abridged letter, doesn't have flags). Don't make the mistake of practicing on greens which aren't being played on. You must time your practice so as to be putting when golfers are playing their approach shots. The subsequent necessity of taking sudden evasive action will completely take your mind off your abominable putting and all your allergy symptoms will disappear. Okay, you may develop a somewhat jerky putting stroke but, once the sweats have disappeared, you can move back to the practice green and sort that out. * * * Our final letter comes from Which Energy Drink Will Improve My Golf. What is it with today's generation that they want someone else to do all the research? They're cynical enough not to believe advertising hype, but too lazy to find out

anything for themselves. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I'm playing in the finals of our club championships next week and would appreciate your advice. I went into the pro shop to get new grips on my clubs and took a look at his line-up of energy drinks. The range was stupefying. There are six different brands and the ingredient they all have in common is taurine. What is taurine, will it help me, and can I get it in anything other than a drink? Dear DRINK Taurine is a sulphur-containing amino acid that functions, with glycine and gamma-aminobutyric acid, as a neuroinhibitory transmitter and is involved in bile acid metabolism (promotes digestion). So, how can these 'wonder' drinks help your average golfer? Well, they provide access to another deity to call on for help. (Christian fundamentalists have tried to have these drinks banned, due to the sulphur content and its association with devil-worship.) In fact, these drinks should be avoided by the serious golfer who generally has an over-abundance of bile produced by shanked chips, pulled putts, and other golfers' lucky bounces. And you'd have to drink so much of the stuff, for it to calm your nerves, that your timing would suffer because of having to dash off to empty your bladder after every shot. Stick with household water. Every day scientists are finding more chemicals in the stuff and the odds are that they're not all bad. * * *

CHAPTER 3

Jane’s 79 meant that she was going to struggle to get to the next stage of QSchool. I had to come up with a plan to assist her, as I wasn’t playing with her the next day. How could I help from afar? My strong sense of golf etiquette precluded my shouting instructions. Besides, Jane had enough trouble understanding my accent when standing alongside me, let alone a couple of hundred yards away. “Suxty sux?” she’d queried the previous day, when I told her how I’d played. “Is that kiwi for, I had a bad day and my golf sucks?” I wrote my score on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Wow,” she said, “Sixty six. I’d love to have that sort of sucky day.” “Don’t you dare throw a sickie, just because today was tough.” “Throw a sucky? Are we talking lozenges here? Do I use both hands? What do I throw them at? Is this some weird way to strengthen my wrists?” I shook my head, and once again rued the fact that Jane had grown up in the USA where there was way too much access to television at an early age. One of Jane’s friends waved to us as she got in her car to leave. Got it, I thought. Sign language. But if she’s two fairways away, how is she going to ‘read’ my hands? I tapped my foot with my putter, which always helped me think better. Got it, I thought. I’ll use my feet and golf clubs! That night we came up with a set of signals to fix all the faults that plagued Jane’s game. She frowned as I showed her my signal for fixing a duck-hook.

“Don’t you think the gals you’re playing with will find it a little, um, ah, unusual, if you suddenly do that?” I slowly got to my feet. “There’s nothing sudden about that manoeuvre, believe me.” I rubbed the small of my back. “Whatever you do, don’t develop a duckhook early in the round.” The next day I watched Jane tee off, a weak slice indicating her lack of confidence in my plan. She didn’t hit the green with her second, but our work on her chipping paid off as she chipped and one-putted for par. In fact, she managed to complete the front nine in a very respectable 34, two under, the same as me. Jane’s next five holes consisted of two pars, an eagle and two birdies as she gained confidence in her swing. Only four holes to go, and she was on track for that vital 65. Then, on the 15th, a par three with water at the front and sides of the green, she shanked her 8-iron, fortunately just short of the water. Her playing companions immediately turned their backs. No golfer wants to be tainted with the image of a shanker. I saw Jane turn and stare at me. I’d just hit an excellent 4-iron to within four feet of the pin. I did a back-flip in the middle of the 14th fairway, signalling that she needed to set her weight back on her heels. “Boy,” said Louise, one of the girls in my threesome, “you kiwis sure get excited over a good shot. What do you do for a hole in one? Cartwheels?” Having observed Jane’s practise swing for her second shot on the 15th, I saw her watching me again. Good lord, I almost shouted, she’s going to hit it fat! I leapt high into the air, spine ramrod straight. Jane had another practice swing, this time maintaining her spine angle, and hit her ball on to the green. It struck the pin and stopped close enough for a tap-in putt. Catastrophe averted. I scored a hole in one on the par 3 15th and felt obliged to do a cartwheel for Louise. I hoped Jane hadn’t seen, as the cartwheel was a reminder to swing on plane. When under pressure, Jane tended to take her backswing away flat and then hit over the top.

Alas, Jane’s shot to the 16th showed she’d observed me. She played a high weak slice into the trees. From the tee, I could see her shoulders slump as she slunk after her ball. As with all golfers, it took 1,133 excellent shots to build her confidence but a single poor one to sink it. I waddled around the tee, flapping my arms like wings before erupting into four star jumps. Jane pulled her shoulders back and took a wider stance than usual, before playing a low slice around the trees and on to the green. Louise and Stephanie whispered and cast puzzled glances my way. “You haven’t hit the ball yet,” said Stephanie, “what are you celebrating?” “Er, nothing. It’s just that with a good score and three holes to go, I find that this pre-shot routine settles my nerves and calms the muscles needed for a long, straight drive.” I hit my drive 280 yards down the middle of the fairway. Louise and Stephanie, who were several shots worse than me, waddled around the tee, flapped their arms and did four star jumps before hitting their shots. Both balls ended within a foot of mine. “Well, I’ll be,” said Louise. “Why don’t we do that on every tee?” “You’ll have different tension in your arms and legs, depending on how much of the round you’ve played,” I explained. “If you did that on the first tee, you’d sky your shot.” “If we did that on the first tee,” muttered Stephanie, “we’d be dragged away in straightjackets by men in white coats.” Par for Jane on 16, then she went to the 17th tee and duck-hooked her ball out of bounds. “God no,” I groaned. “Anything but that.” Beside the 16th green, I stood on my head and furiously cycled my legs, at the same time juggling my driver with my feet before flinging it towards my golf bag. It turned a perfect 360 degree circle before diving, grip first, into the bag. Louise stopped lining up her 30-foot putt and stared. “Don’t tell me. That’s the

perfect exercise for sinking 30-footers.” She put her putter down and crouched for a headstand. “No, no,” I said, lurching to my feet. “You don’t do this one, you observe it. The cycling and juggling make your brain yearn for simplicity, so you swing your putter simply back and through, head clear of technical thoughts.” Louise and Stephanie one-putted for birdies. Ahead of us, Jane replaced her driver and took out her 3-wood, hitting her second shot 180 yards up the middle. Three off the tee and still 180 yards to go. Another 3-wood just short of the green and an easy chip and putt for par. The final hole was a dogleg left, only 340 yards but a narrow target area for the drive. I stood on my head, cycling and juggling, hoping Jane would leave the driver and opt for the 3-wood. Her drive showed she’d done so, placing her in the perfect position for a long iron to the green. I went on to the 18th tee. Jane looked behind. I acted as if mesmerised, put my hands on my hips and crouched, legs flexed. I slapped my right arm, stamped my foot, and rolled my eyes. “Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora. Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora.” Slap, stamp, chant. Slap, stamp, chant. Eyes rolling and tongue protruding, I finished the haka as Jane sank her second shot for a score of 63. I came out of my trance and looked around. Stephanie and Louise were hiding behind a tree, ready to take flight. “That is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” whimpered Louise. “What part of the game does that fix?” I smiled at them. “That,” I said, “is the haka and it boosts confidence and focuses the mind. It fixes everything from a bad swing to a bad score.” I sighed happily. “Keeps the men in white coats at bay too.” We finished the round with pars and all earned our cards for the LPGA tour. * * * If more people learnt the haka, there’d be less need for psychiatrists. It seems that psychological problems are on the increase, or are people less inclined to

turn a blind eye? My Son Is An Absolute Nutter certainly has a child with delusions, but are they as bad as the father believes? Dear Ms Kallas-Way I am at my wit's end trying to solve my son's alarming problem. He's 13 years old and has been playing golf for one year. He loved The Game and practiced for an hour every day after school. Three months ago he was having major problems getting his mid-irons to stop on the greens, so spent an hour hitting 5-irons into the 18th green. The green keeper found him and, enraged by a pockmarked green, whacked my son on the head and told him he could spend the next weekend fixing all the pitchmarks on the entire course. This act of violence had a profound effect on my son, who now believes he's a pitchmark repairer. He acts perfectly normally when indoors but it affects him when he goes outside. Immediately he spots grass, his arms shoot up over his head (like two prongs) and he dives at any scuffed ground and works the turf smooth with rigid fingers. You can imagine how embarrassing this is! I've got to the stage where I refuse to let him go outside because he's filling in all the neighbours' gardens. What's worse, I'd just bought him an expensive set of golf clubs and my wife's threatening to take up golf and use them because my son's been banned from the golf club. How can I get my son back to normal? Dear NUTTER The last person who consulted me with an 'alarming' problem had a son who thought he was an alarm clock, so don't despair, there are worse delusions than thinking you're a pitchmark repairer. He could have decided to be a ball marker. Indeed, when it comes to entrenched delusions, I know scores of people who

think they're good golfers. There's no hope of recovery for them, no matter how many times they see their swing on video or seriously consider their score. (They continuously bleat about 'bad luck'.) Is it a problem to have a son who thinks he's a pitchmark repairer? Surely this makes him considerably more useful than most 13 year old boys. If you really want your son to return to 'normal' adolescence, you'll have to approach this 'problem' from a different angle. Instead of steering clear of the great outdoors, you need to start immersion therapy, i.e. get him out of town into the country. Specifically, take him to a half-ploughed paddock. Multiply his height by his weight and that will give you the size of the paddock necessary to snap your son out of his delusion (e.g. 160 cms x 60 kilos = 96.00 hectares). Drop your son off at this paddock and tell him you'll pick him up in three and a half years, when he's finished the field. I guarantee by day's end he'll return meekly home with you and go back to playing loud music and communicating in grunts. * * * Will Morriss Dancing Really Improve My Swing is part of a phenomenon sweeping New Zealand. I’ve had several enquiries from handkerchief manufacturers asking to on my website to take advantage of this trend. Rest assured, I told them “No”. My website will remain unsullied by advertising, until someone offers to pay me what I’m really worth. Dear Ms Kallas-Way When I went for my yearly golf lesson, last week, my pro watched me swing a couple of times and then asked if I’d considered taking up morriss dancing. Having seen these ‘dancers’ prancing around waving handkerchiefs and looking like a bunch of woolly-woofters, I said, “Certainly not!” He then showed me a tape of my swing followed by a tape of morriss dancers skipping and circling and I have to it, there are similarities. He pointed out that because I was off balance, when I follow through I lift my feet in the air and

twirl about. He also mentioned that he’d watched me putt on the 18th green, several times, and I often waved my golf towel furiously when I missed. “What’s this got to do with my golf?” I asked. “Everything,” he said. “You’re obviously not in harmony with the inner you. I suspect that as a pre-schooler you loved dancing but someone, possibly a grouchy kindergarten teacher, slapped you for leaping around and stifled your urge to dance.” He took the 5-iron from my hand and put his arm around my shoulder. “Go and dance, my friend. Get it out of your system and then come back for a lesson.” I left the practice fairway with a lot on my mind but decided to take the pro’s advice. I had one session with the local morriss dancing club but now they won’t let me because they say I dance like a golfer! So I’ll never get it out of my system and will always golf like a dancer! I’m a social outcast. What can I do? Dear MORRISS Golf like a dancer, dance like a golfer...good Lord, sometimes I wonder where you people come from. I studied the tape you sent me and it’s not morriss dancing that you need to get out of your system, it’s crawling. Studies show that an infant who doesn’t crawl fails to develop emotionally and, worse than that, can never maintain their balance on their follow through. Further back than kindergarten, your mother obviously was having a bad day and slapped you for toddling out of the house and on to the road. Although done with the best of intentions, this punishment stifled your natural inclination to crawl. And studies show that if you don’t crawl before learning to walk, your coordination goes completely up the chute. So my friend, forget the morriss dancers. Get down on your hands and knees and crawl for half an hour every day. (Crawling to your boss doesn’t count, this has to be an individual exercise.) After a solid four month’s crawling, go back to your pro for a lesson.

* * * Is it a good idea to solve all this world's mysteries or are there things which enhance our lives because there's doubt about their validity? Powers of observation are important to both golfers and scientists. The Shroud Of Turin Belonged To The World's First Bad Golfer puts forward a convincing argument. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Having studied the Shroud of Turin for 25 years, I am convinced it did not cover the body of Christ but actually covered the body of the first golfer ever afflicted with a chronic bout of shanking. Consider the anguished look of resignation on the face of the covered one. Having studied the faces in paintings of crucified ancients for 25 years, and being the partner of a shanker of 25 years, I can categorically state that the expression is the same for both afflictions. If you study the cheek muscles of the shroud and compare them with the cheek muscles of a shanker, you will note that the lines are identical. The clinching argument is that experts have used pollen fragments to date the shroud, and they say there's an uncommonly large amount of pollen in it. And why is this so, you may ask? Only one answer; the person was a golfer. To be exact, a shanker, a person whose swing path means more pollen will stick to them than anyone else, due to the wind pattern they produce. Will you help me get the word out and enlighten the world? Dear SHROUD By printing your letter in my book, I have already helped you get your message to the world. Whether or not this will convince the world is another matter. I suggest you develop a website in which you can detail your study methods and invite those of similar, and opposing, opinions to contribute. Rigorous debate over your findings can only strengthen your claims. But I add one note of caution. Did you also study the faces of people whose tee shots hit

the pin on par threes but lipped out? You'll find the lines around the mouths of these golfers are identical to shankers and those on the Shroud of Turin. * * * "Knowledge is Power" is often quoted at the beginning of any book trying to sell advice or any website attempting to sell encyclopaedias. Radiation From Space Storms Is Making My Backswing Wobble is one of those people for whom a little less knowledge would be a good thing. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been reading in The Times about how the sun is blowing up and sending bursts of radiation at the Earth. It has been particularly bad over the past couple of weeks and the radiation has upset satellites and all sorts of communication technology stuff. Coincidentally, over the last couple of weeks my golf has been lousy. My golfing buddies have noticed that at the top of my backswing, I change swing planes. I've never had that problem before. Do you think it could be the sun's radiation that's zapping me and knocking my backswing out of kilter? (I'm 98 years old and play with steel shafted clubs.) Dear RADIATION Space storms occur when the sun throws off an outburst of radiation and energetic particles that can interact with Earth's magnetic field. Such storms can disrupt communications, damage satellites and even pose health risks. However, there is no recorded case of the phenomena affecting anyone's backswing. Which isn't to say it's impossible, merely improbable. 99.9 percent of golfers like to think that the problem with their golf is not their fault but is caused by something over which they have no control, such as noisy playing partners, 'bad' bounces or the blister on their little toe from 12 years ago which made them change their swing and they've never been able to regain it since. As we get older, everything slows down. Ask your friends to time the pause at

the top of your backswing. If it's taking longer than .25 of a second, there's your answer. Shorten your backswing and start your downswing quicker and you'll get rid of the wobbles. * * * All golfers know that golf is a game which is 90% mental so the brain plays a major role in the score. Many people write to me asking if there's an easy way to improve their thinking game. Can I Deposit My Brain And Receive Interest On It knows that the Harvard Brain Bank has over 400 preserved brains, but I'm afraid it's not the sort of bank he has in mind. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I was moaning to the guys at work about how much trouble I've been having with my golf game over the last six months. Doesn't matter how I approach the tricky holes, I keep ruining my score with a couple of double bogeys on each nine. One of my work mates said he'd heard that 90% of golf is mental while just 15% is physical so maybe my problems were "all in my mind". Sure enough, I checked out his theory on my favourite question-and-answer golf website and it turns out he's right. My mate also told me to check out the Harvard website because they have 400 brains in their bank so maybe they'd be able to help. There must be at least one brain amongst the 400 that belonged to a good golfer, considering the popularity of The Game. Do you know if they take trade-ins? They won't send me any deposit or withdrawal slips so I'd appreciate your intervention. Dear DEPOSIT You're right about one thing. The Harvard Brain Bank does have at least one brain of a very good golfer. My grandmother donated her brain to them when she died. However, I'm sorry to inform you that they don't take trade-ins and, considering your woeful arithmetic when it comes to percentages, they've told me that your

brain would go straight to the student lab for dissection and wouldn't be preserved. Fortunately for you, I still have a couple of copies of my best-selling book, 'Mind Improvement for Golfing Morons'. Just send me $99.99 (includes P&P) and I'll post you a copy. Don't forget to include your address and handicap (golf, not mental). * * * In all walks of life, from the time we take our first steps to our last, everyone needs an inspirational being to spur them on to reach their full potential. But Adolf Hitler Is My Role Model For Improving My Golf needs to further explore the reasons for his choice. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Having read your outstanding book, 'The Golfing Bible; Old, New and Yet-tobe-Discovered Testaments' 643 times, I've finally figured out who should be my role model for golf. For months I thought it should be you, but I realised that no one in the world will ever come close to matching even 20% of your golfing achievements, so I needed someone who was not so obviously out of reach. As chapter 621 of your 12,000 page guide states: "Having figured out the weakest part of your game, this is the area you must work on the most. Concentrate 75% of your energy here. Get a role model who excels in this part of The Game and closely study him/her/it." Suddenly the solution to my biggest golfing problem came to me! Every tournament or event I enter, I always finish last. Even when I sneak into another state and pretend I'm a beginner. So, all I had to do to come first was to eliminate the rest of the field! (I noted that you haven't listed this solution in your book. Might I suggest that you add it to Appendix 4,307. Page 11,982 would be the perfect spot.) Hence, my ideal role model to improve my golf will be Adolf Hitler, surely the best in the world when it comes to mass elimination. As it's really, really hot where I live, everyone showers after their game so I reckon I could adjust our showers the same way Hitler did.

However, my mom has expressed doubts so I thought I should check with you first. What do you think? Dear ROLE MODEL Although chapter 854 states that role models may be anything from inanimate objects through to (rarely) non-golfers, the reference to Appendix 4,308 expressly forbids taking dictators, mass murderers or Catholic priests in charge of orphanages, as role models. Any 'success' this group achieves is fleeting. It's the weakness of YOUR game you must improve, rather than preying upon the 'weaknesses' of others. * * * It's every golfer's ultimate ambition to achieve a hole in one. Some can play for 50 or 60 years and never come close while others can achieve the dream before they've even got their handicap. My Hole In One Should Count In Spite Of The Volcano Erupting is understandably upset. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for 57 years and have scored many eagles but never managed a hole in one. As I'm an 89 year old woman, I feared that my one remaining unfulfilled ambition would never happen. (Which means I would never be able to rest in peace, and I'd make darn sure no other golfer at our course could either, as I'm sure this missing milestone would make me return from the grave.) This was until last week, when at long last the almost impossible happened! I teed off on our shortest par 3, the 98 metre 18th hole 'Stinking Steamy', and watched the ball soar directly for the hole. However, whilst it was on its way down, we had an earth tremor and the entire green disappeared! Swallowed by volcanic activity! A gaping hole remained where the green had once been, and my ball disappeared into it. And I don't care what our nitpicking greens committee says, on that day I scored a hole in one! Is it my fault that the hole was a little bigger than usual? No. They should never

have placed that green on a fault line when laying out the course 107 years ago. Besides, I have a card which is signed by my golfing partner of the day (I managed to bring her round just long enough to add the score and sign it. Unfortunately the glob of lava which hit her meant I had to wait until she'd cooled down before I could press the card into her charred fingers, but it's definitely a legible signature). The committee say that the card is too smudged (Madge was a skinny wee thing but you wouldn't believe the amount of fat which melted out of her fingers) and they won't accept it. Ms Kallas-Way, only you can help an old woman go peacefully to her grave. I know you know everything. Please, please, what can I use on the card which will get rid of charred human skin and fat but won't obliterate the score underneath? Dear HOLE Now you know why you should ALWAYS carry spare golf gloves in your golf bag. Even if they're left gloves and the person is right handed, you can generally force one on to any hand which has been mutilated and get that oh-so-necessary signature. Had you read my bestseller "Always be Prepared for the Unpreparable", you would have known (from chapter 62) how to get a clean signature from someone soaked in hot lava. You don't get them to sign with their hands, you get them to sign with their mouth while lying on their back, stupid! The mouth cavity collects any fat that's dripping and saliva (if they're gasping) simply dries off the card. How do you think those foot and mouth painters got started? Disabled wannabe painters heard about charred golfers g their cards with their mouths and simply adapted the process. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if people live their lives under a stone, considering the well-known facts they fail to pick up on. Nothing will remove the charcoaled fat from your card. Simply take it to your nearest radiology department and ask them to X-ray it for you and your score will show up.

* * * Is it best to be super-serious when on the golf course, or should we have the occasional joke and laugh between shots? (As opposed to 'at shots'.) Would Light Hearted Joking Make Me Play Better poses an excellent question, one which can only be answered by considering the others in his four. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I really ire Lee Trevino's approach to golf, even after being struck by lightning three times on the golf course. How could anyone keep laughing after the trauma of being zapped so often? Lee was a great golfer well into his senior years, whereas I'm only 25 and struggling to break 100. I've always taken The Game very seriously and studied all the pros' books of tips and I even practised once! However, I've been golfing for over a year and am getting no better. Would it help my game to maybe read a few joke books between holes and thus lighten my mood? Dear LIGHT How could Lee keep laughing? Good god, man, have you not heard of hysteria? Lightning is the best known cause of hysteria in the Universe. It directly affects that part of the brain which controls emotions, specifically hysteria. While there's nothing worse for your game than dejection and bad temper (apart from a lethal lightning strike) the quality of your laughter will determine how much better you play. Yes, laughter can improve your golf, but it has to be the right type and timing is everything. Laughing the wrong way (never snigger on a golf course) at the wrong time when the other three golfers are engrossed (or dejected) in their games can lead to a violent reaction and subsequent cessation of that game, and possibly any games in the future. Send me a cheque for $99.00 (includes P&P) and I'll send you a copy of my bestselling 'Laughter, the Best Lesson' which will put you in exactly the right frame of mind to enjoy, and improve, your golf.

* * * Many medical complaints and disorders can be exacerbated by a bad day on the golf course. Or a prolonged session at the 19th. However Alien Hand Syndrome Is Holding My Golf Back needs to stop watching so many Horizon documentaries and switch to the Golf Channel. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Having played golf for five years, my handicap seems to have plateaued at 16. It doesn't matter what I do or how much I practise, I just can't get below that figure. That is frustrating enough but worse, two months ago I developed what I thought was a nervous tic. I would put my tee in the ground with my right hand and my left hand would then rip it out. Any time I walked past a golf bag belonging to someone else in our four, my left hand would snatch out the driver and heave it as far away as possible. I daren't hold the flagstick any more because as soon as anyone's ball approaches the hole, my left hand takes over and whacks the ball away! Having watched the latest BBC Horizon documentary on 'Alien Hand Syndrome', I'm wondering if I could possibly be afflicted by this. I don't recall having a stroke or epileptic seizure, which are generally the precursors to this condition, but it's possible I'd be unaware of that anyway...isn't it? Dear ALIEN While you may be unaware of a minor stroke (unless it's missing a 6-inch putt to win the club champs, in which case that will be ed even when you're in the final stages of Alzheimer's), I seriously doubt that 'Alien Hand Syndrome', also known as 'Anarchic Hand Syndrome', is the cause of your complaint. There is also a common complaint amongst golfers of a 'dominant left hand'. This can lead to major swing problems but they do not include the ones you have listed. I can also rule out 'nervous tics' as the problem...at least for you, although the golfers you play with have probably developed some.

I can categorically state that the syndrome you suffer from is called 'temper tantrum syndrome'. Fortunately, the golfers you play with can cure you of it. Tell them that whenever your left hand makes a move to disrupt play, they must grab your favourite club and threaten to break it...across the knuckles of your errant hand. This process has never failed. * * * I'm surprised Can You Tell Me The Rules Of Synchronised Golfing bothered to seek my advice. Being a typical Australian, who just can't help taking a sideswipe at our cricket team, I'd have thought it beneath him to ask a Kiwi anything. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I have it on very good authority (from my mate who's in charge of accepting bribes ... I mean donations) for the Olympic committee, that the next Olympics will feature a new sport. Synchronised golfing. My mate tells me that it's all the rage in New Zealand, and if anyone can tell me the rules, it'll be you. As it's a matter of national pride for us Ockers to beat you Kiwis in all sports (got any decent cricketers yet?) I figured I'd do the patriotic thing and get trials underway. I've managed to find the special clubs and bags you need for the sport, but I can't figure out what the pegs are for. Do you stick them on your nose, or what? And don't worry about the cricket - at least you still lead the world in the melanoma stakes. Dear RULES First of all: WE INVENTED THE PAVLOVA. PHAR LAP WAS BRED IN NEW ZEALAND. WE DON'T SAY 'FUSH AND CHUPS'.

And now that I've sorted out those confusions, once and for all, on to your problem. Yes, it's true that synchronised golf is next on the list of sports the Olympics committee is keen to introduce. It is also true that New Zealanders are currently the best exponents of this form of The Game. Can I tell you the rules? Yes I can. Will I tell you the rules? No I won't. But I will tell you what to do with the peg. By all means, put it on your nose. Even better, buy another peg and put it on your lips. Then get another two pegs and put them on your tro pockets. When putting out in synchronised golf, you must stand on your head and wave your legs in the air, hence you need the pegs to keep your tees, ball marker and pitchmark repairer from falling out of your pockets. Although most Aussie's pockets are so deep there's no chance of anything falling out anyway. * * *

CHAPTER 4 After the final round of qualifying school, I had finished first while Jane just scraped in. A dilemma faced me. Did I want to go on tour and make heaps of money to secure my future, or was teaching my real ion? In spite of Jane’s squeamishness, I had become fond of her. To watch her hooking and slicing around the links broke my heart, when I knew I could fix every fault. I decided the best thing I could do was offer to become Jane’s caddy. “Are you nuts?” said Jane. “You’ve just finished top of the Order of Merit. You can play in any tournament. You’re bound to be successful.” I nodded. “Yes, but is that the sort of success I want? Where’s the challenge? It would be more of a challenge to caddy for you and help you win.” “You ain’t kidding,” muttered Jane. “And it would legitimise my teaching methods because,” I put my hands on my hips, “I’ve noticed that here in the US, golfers are very conservative when it comes to lessons.” Jane shuddered. “You didn’t manage to freeze that afterbirth, did you?” I shook my head. “No, toilets are easier for chipping, when on tour. They’ll work well, now that you’ve graduated from the afterbirth.” Jane blanched. “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “it’s part of the pre-shot routine to make sure they’re flushed, first.” The room had gone quiet and people were staring at us. Jane grabbed me by the hand and pulled me away. “Just for now, can we keep your instructions to ourselves? Our little secret?” “But I want to help every golfer...” Jane put her arm around my shoulders and shepherded me out the door. “And the

best way to do that is to prove those methods work, rather than face ridicule while playing.” She had a point. Most of the American golfers I’d tried to help had treated me as if I’d escaped from a madhouse. When I’d offered to show them a sure-fire method of playing low shots under trees, they took one look at my portable electric fence and walked away. “Is this not the country that invented the electric chair?” I’d yelled after them. “This is low voltage. At least your brains won’t come sizzling out your ears!” I knew I could improve every golfer who gave me a chance, but how could I convince them to give me that first chance? Jane had to be my opportunity. Everyone at Q-School knew her swing broke down under pressure, so if I could make her successful on the tour, my methods would gain credence. And if I could make it here, I could make it anywhere. Even New York. Although I’d finished first on the Order of Merit, my fellow golfers figured I was that fluke of nature, a natural golfer. A female Moe Norman. But I was determined not to let them undermine me, as Moe had been undermined and sent scuttling back to Canada. New Zealand would have to wait a little longer before I graced its shores. Our first tournament would be in San Antonio, Texas. Hmm, I thought, oil wells and cowboys. And really good irrigation. There’d be ample opportunity for Jane to immerse herself in Texas golf on our drive to West Texas. Golf acclimatisation involved more than simply becoming accustomed to the weather. “Don’t forget the rattle snakes,” said Jane, as I listed the only things I knew about the Lone Star State. “Maybe we can find some rattlesnake afterbirth to help my pitching.” “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Snakes lay eggs, they don’t have afterbirth.” I tapped my chin as I considered the possibilities. “But that rattle could come in handy. How difficult are they to catch? Do you think one could survive in a golf bag?”

“You’re kidding me,” Jane laughed nervously. She watched me write ‘leather gloves’ on our shopping list. “God help me, you’re not.” “We don’t have snakes in New Zealand,” I said, rubbing my hands. “This trip is going to open up a whole new world of coaching opportunities for me. I can’t wait!” “Me neither,” sighed Jane, “me neither.” Our first Texan pumpjack loomed into view. Fortunately, it was close to the road so we pulled over and watched it pump oil for a while. The rhythmical up and down motion was mesmerising. We got out of the car and walked over to the pumpjack. “You can use this as a role-model,” I told Jane. “It’s working under pressure but its rhythm never changes. No matter what the weather throws at it.” “All I see from that machine is that I need a backbone of steel.” “That’s fantastic Jane! You’re getting the hang of Kallas-Way golf at last!” “Yes,” she wrinkled her nose. “And it always seems to involve something smelly.” “That,” I pointed at the oily machinery, “is the smell of money.” I patted the pumpjack. “And that inexorable rhythm produces a steady flow of cash.” I peered around. “Wonder if there are any rattlers around here?” Jane almost dislocated my shoulder in her haste to get me back to the car. “Sometimes,” I said to Jane, “I wonder if your heart’s really in pro golf.” “Sometimes,” Jane told me, “I wonder if my heart will keep beating.” Not for the first time, I regretted that Jane hadn’t had the benefit of growing up in the backblocks of New Zealand. * * * Difficult decisions and new beginnings. Often people have trouble finding the

right path because it’s easier to stumble along the track they’ve always known. What Does My Dream Signify needs to spend less time dozing and more time 'doing'. Too many z's are detrimental to any sportsperson. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've read in the latest 'Slice of Heaven' golf magazine that correctly interpreting your dreams can shave shots off your handicap. As your knowledge knows no bounds, I was wondering if you'd tell me what my recurring dream means, in of my golf. I always have this dream before club day: I am driving to the golf course in my cream BMW convertible when I'm forced to stop because someone's left their huge trundler and bag in the middle of the road. Suddenly Seve Ballesteros leaps out of the bushes on the left and shatters my windscreen with his driver. From the other side, Nick Faldo leaps out of the shrubs and smashes the back windscreen with his 2-iron. As I cower in the front seat, Laura Davies leaps on to the bonnet and destroys my roof with her 9-wood. At this stage I always wake up because, even if comatose, NOBODY could believe that Laura Davies would ever use a 7-wood. I have started having this dream during the daytime as well as at night. So...what does this mean for my golf? Dear DREAM It means there's little hope for you to ever improve your game unless you make one major change. GET OUT OF THE BLOODY CART AND WALK THE COURSE, YOU FOOL. How could you possibly fail to interpret such a clear message!? There are two abominations on the golf course; the golf cart and the 7-wood. Only a smashed golfer would use either. * * * We may have trouble understanding others’ decisions but, rather than

condemning them out of hand, we need to look deeper into their reasons. Our next solution seeker, They Must Change The Date Of The 2024 Masters, should delve deeper before heaping opprobrium. Either that or he needs a new message paging service. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I am the president of the 'Welcome Aliens To Earth' (WATE) society and we've been sent a message from the galaxy of NGC 2770 (the Supernova Factory) that aliens will make their first appearance on Earth at the Augusta Golf Club, during the 2024 Masters tournament. None of us are golfers but we figured it wouldn’t be too difficult for the club to reschedule its tournament so there's no chance of our extra-terrestrial friends being hit on the wrist by a golf ball. (They don't have heads as they suffered dreadfully from head-colds when they first evolved so have developed brains in their wrists and have done away with heads by eating and breathing through...another orifice.) To our amazement, the Augusta golf officials are flatly refusing to even consider changing their tournament dates. And they think we're a bunch of weirdo lunatics and have threatened legal action if we so much as poke our noses within 200 miles of their golf course! We're the weirdos? Like, who is it that needs 14 sticks to whack a little white ball into a tiny hole? Over and over again. And then moan like hell, only to go through it all again the next weekend. Anyway, I'm not interested in a sanity contest. According to our extra-terrestrial s you are the only intermediary who can solve this problem. Please make the Augusta officials see sense. Dear CHANGE There's no problem here. The Augusta officials have seen sense by refusing to postpone the tournament for a preposterous proposal such as yours. 'Aliens from Shank due to arrive...' For goodness' sake, where do you get your messages from? Old Star Trek re-runs? I happen to know that the aliens came during the 1996 Masters tournament. It's

their fault that Greg Norman blew his lead and handed the trophy to Nick Faldo. (I kept telling them that it wasn't etiquette to sit on Norman's shoulder to observe his swing up close but, you know aliens. They won't listen to a damn thing from a newly evolved species.) Get a new paging service. Your 'messages waiting' shouldn't take years to get to you. * * * The most difficult decisions can be those which involve our nearest and dearest. However, Panic Attacks Threaten To Ungolf Me should spend less time impersonating a door mat and more time reading this column. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for 10 years and am now on a three handicap. I'm sure I'd be on scratch if it wasn't for one thing. Panic attacks! I can handle the out of bounds left on the first three holes, the tee shots over water on seven of our holes and the bunker surrounded greens from 12 to 17 hold no fears. But as soon as I step on to the 18th tee, I start to worry and obsess over what's to come. I'm generally square with the card, or even under par by this stage, but my concentration deserts me here. My legs shake, my eyes water, my hands sweat and my stomach heaves. All because I know that as soon as I finish my round and step into the clubhouse, the three golfers I'm playing with are going to expect me to buy them a drink. And my husband only gives me enough money for one sandwich and a cup of tea. What can I do? Dear PANIC Have an affair with the barman. Unless your husband IS the barman. In which case you should always carry four straws with you. And make sure the tea's cold.

* * * We now hear from Should I Eat More To Control My Temper On The Fairways who is making the common mistake of taking results from scientific studies and twisting them to justify his decision. This is a common trait among statisticians but even more prevalent in the political world. (It's especially rife among proponents of GM.) Alas, our golf courses are not exempt from these types. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Having exhausted ALL other options for playing a peaceful round of golf, you are my last hope. Recent research asserts that hunger and anger are controlled by the same part of the brain. Normally an even-tempered individual, I find that the golf course is the only place where I can't control my temper, so I applied the hunger/anger link to my golf. I figured that if I eat lots and make sure I'm never hungry, my anger will be squashed. Consequently, I won't act out my aggression on my golfing partners. Naturally, I did my own research as to which type of food would best help me retain my equilibrium for the entire 18 holes. I soon discovered fresh fruit wasn't a good option because of the satisfaction I get from placing it on the seat of my opponent's golf cart, just as he is about to sit down. (I figured perhaps dried fruit would be better till I discovered how well it sticks to golf shoe soles and renders the sprigs useless.) Gum sticks well to the driver clubface, but people notice it after they've teed off so I daren't chew that any more. I've discovered muesli and health bars aren't healthy when ingested through the ears, so I won't be buying them again. But, I have found something that does work. Chocolate! Specifically, the one with runny caramel inside. As long as I snack on a bar from the time I step on to the first tee to the time I leave the 18th green, my playing companions are safe. My golf improved markedly for the next six months until one day I played with someone who asked me, "How do they get the soft filling inside the chocolate?" Since discovering the slap-dash way they do it, I've been plagued by the worry that some bars will have more filling than others and I might be getting shortchanged. Because I'm sure the caramel is the active ingredient for my new-found calmness, what if one day I'm out playing and I don't get my full hit? The

consequences could be disastrous! What can I do? Dear EAT Yes, well, considering your cure, it's probably not just your anger you're squashing. Indeed, it is true that anger and hunger are controlled by the same part of the brain but you've used your natural gluttony to turn the reasoning the wrong way. After all, have you ever seen a starvation sufferer angry? No. To ensure you get your ‘full hit’, simply make your own caramel chocolate. There are many home-made chocolate kits on the market, just don’t lick your fingers when inserting the caramel. * * * Can the people in your four adversely affect your game? As long as you've read and memorised my last year's book, 'Mind Over Chatter', you'll be able to block out any annoying talk, laughter or raging. Which Star Signs Are Incompatible Golfers For Me is using a wide range of variables to help her make the correct decision. Dear Ms Kallas-Way According to my astrologer, I (a Capricornian) should never play golf with a Cancerian or Arian. She says that the depressing nature of the first and the impulsive, erratic nature of the second are holding back the development of my game. She says I should only play with Taureans and Virgins. At this stage, I'd take any advice if it meant my game would improve. But I'm a little embarrassed to ask all the golfers at the club what their star signs are. And can you believe anyone when they tell you they’re a virgin? How can I find out without asking them directly? Dear SIGNS

Get a list of all the at your club, with their addresses, and follow each one (secretly) for a week. Record their habits and foibles and then consider them against sign traits. As long as you have purchased three copies of my latest book, 'Shoot for the Stars: Astrology and Your Perfect Golfing Partner', you'll be able to confidently match the players to their signs. (You must purchase three copies so as to have one on hand at all times. One on your person, one in your golf bag and one in your car.) Don't forget, you must also observe them at night, which is when particular traits come to the fore. Play my latest compilation CD of comet to earth near-misses to set the ambience and focus your concentration. Alternatively, if you lack stamina and determination (judging by your handicap, that's the case) tell the you're a license inspector and have to check that the photo on their driver's license is a true likeness. Then simply record their birthdates. * * * When I read the letter from Will A Holiday In The Sahara Improve My Bunker Shots, I was reminded of the completely exaggerated fear the average golfer has of bunkers. Also of the fact that many mining companies discover their best miners in sandtraps, and hackers can often launch a new career, thanks to their ineptness. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for five years and am on a 15 handicap. I've always been a natural and never had to bother with lessons from a pro but the last six months have made me just about desperate enough to consult one. Bunkers have always been my nemesis, but I've been taking my sand wedge with me every time I go to my bach at Waihi Beach where I determinedly practice amongst the sand dunes. I'd got really good at poached-egg lies, buried-in-the-wall lies and had just about mastered the downhill lie when an irate local waylaid me! She pointed out that there's a lot of erosion and they're trying to save the dunes and I was undoing all their hard work by loosening the sand and smashing plants.

She told me that if I was serious about playing better bunker shots, I should go to the Sahara Desert and practice total immersion therapy. Initially I thought she was just being nasty but, as I untwisted my sand wedge from my neck, I reflected on how much I'd improved by playing in the sand dunes. Maybe the old crow had a point. What do you think? Dear HOLIDAY As a Waihi Beach bach [holiday home] owner, I can assure you that 'the old crow' had an entirely valid point. Total immersion bunker therapy is definitely your best option and there's no better place than the Sahara in which to carry it out. There's also no better season than the middle of summer because that's when the condition of the sand is such that if you can handle the explosion shot there, you'll handle it anywhere. I presume you realise that 'total immersion' means exactly that, so you'll need to spend the rest of your life immersed in the Sahara. Don't worry though, I'm sure that won't be for too long. * * * It's true that playing in windy conditions can be dangerous...but with life being so tame, there's no reason why golf should be. However, If I Swing Funny And The Wind Changes, Will I Be Stuck With That Swing is the first person I've come across with this particular worry. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for six months and am so keen that I will play in any weather, as long as I can stand upright. I haven't bothered having lessons because I'm a member of MENSA (Men of Exceptional Natural Sporting Abilities) and we believe that our superior musculature and mental adroitness will provide all the guidance we need. However, I am also a fan of the Internet and have perused various golfing sites (of which, I have to say, yours is the best) just to see what lesser people do. And I'm amazed at the lengths some of them go to, just to break 100! Weekly lessons! Hours spent on the practice fairway! Sessions with marriage guidance counsellors!

But one site intrigued me, www. [Readers, I have deleted the name of this spurious site, for your own protection]. They talked a lot about 'muscle memory' being important for any golfer striving for single figures and said that serious golfers should buy this company's wind direction device to make sure they weren't swinging when the wind changed. Because they reckon that the wind can knock you off balance and your muscle memory will then imprint the resultant awkward lurch into your swing. The device looks like a small windsock and comes with its own retracting pole and you simply use the setup of the pole as part of your pre-shot routine. Just before you swing, you check the direction of the windsock and make sure it's safe to proceed. I've seen some really weird swings on the golf course and nobody seems to be able to explain their variety. Considering every golfer is of human shape, maybe this wind theory has something to it. What do you think? Dear SWING While the Internet can be a great source of educational material, it is also the home of unscrupulous charlatans. It's quite true that if you swing funny and the wind changes, you may be stuck with that swing. It's also quite true that if you swing funny and the wind doesn't change, you may still be stuck with that swing. There are two obvious solutions. Don't swing funny. Don't golf when it's windy. Doubt is fatal to a golfer's swing so if you're still worried, don't buy that ridiculous windsock as you'll merely make already slow rounds even slower. Just add something to your pre-golf routine. Specifically, get to the golf course early and hide your partner's cap/visor then note which way the wind blows their hair, just before you play your shot. (If your partner's bald, pick a thread on their shirt and watch that.) * * *

I never cease to be amazed by the number of people who fall into a job and then stay with it for the rest of their life, even when they hate it. Are My Low Shots A Sign That I Should Get A New Job needs to take charge of his life instead of leaving it up to 'fate'. Dear Ms Kallas-Way When I left school at the age of 16, 34 years ago, I entered the family business of worm farming. I wasn't really that interested in it, but it was something I knew well and I didn't have to apply for the job. It was an easy option. We make a lot of money out of our worms, which we have bred and trained for the specific turf they'll be working, i.e. golf course, golf greens, bowling lawns, dairy farm, horticulture, etc. In training the golf worms, we found the most effective method to keep them working hard was to play lots of golf shots just above their heads so they stayed well below ground. We do this by working in golf shoes in a special worm training paddock, so that the varmints recognise the noise of sprigs in soil and the thud of a golfer taking their stance. Thus, they learn to dig deeper before being decapitated in a divot. They also recognise the air pressure on the grass of a low shot, and so keep burrowing, thereby improving aeration. The trouble is, I've come to quite enjoy The Game and want to stop playing those low shots so I can get my handicap under 20. But I love the price I make from our specialist worms and don't want to risk a drop in lifestyle. Can you think of another way to train them, which won't have such a bad effect on my golf? Dear LOW As you only ‘quite enjoy’ The Game, I don’t know if I can ‘quite’ be bothered answering. Here’s ‘quite’ a good solution. You could put really heavy fillings in the worms' teeth, so they can't lift their heads. Or put a ring through their noses and chain it to their belly buttons, achieving the same sub-surface behaviour as low shots.

And, luckily for you, this method will solve your problem too! Because 95% of all skinned shots (low trajectory) are caused by the golfer altering their spine angle. Nose to belly button chains cure that immediately. * * * Golfers are legendary for their superstitions having more influence on their game than anything else, including the Rule Book. Hardly surprising, considering the Rule Book has less logic. Golf Course Would Be Golf Curse If You Removed The 'O' is a prime example of a golfer covering all options. Dear Ms Kallas-Way, bless you in case you sneeze. I have been an avid golfer for seven years and have purchased everything necessary to ensure continued enjoyment of The Game. I have a rabbit's foot from a rabbit which dug the hole which became the notorious Road Hole bunker on the 17th at St Andrews. I have a four leaf clover which came from the practice green at St Andrews. I also recently purchased, over the Internet, a lucky stone which had been jammed between the sprigs of Tiger Woods' golf shoes when he played at Paraparaumu's NZ Open in 2001. All these talismans have helped me get my handicap down to single figures and always enjoy the game, but I fear my fun days are over, now that I've realised that the term 'golf course' only came about because of defective hearing. That's right, my research has shown me that the original game of golf was played in a field owned by a witches' coven. When one of them was struck down by a sliced tee shot, the others yelled out "A golf curse on you and your descendants!" The golfers thought the witches had yelled, "A golf course would give you independence." A great idea, they thought, and confiscated the property and burnt the witches at the stake. I'm a direct descendant of one of those first golfers and I'm terrified that the curse will strike soon and I'll be rendered golfless. Is there any talisman that can save me?

Dear GOLF CURSE I can confirm your research and you're quite right that a curse was placed upon you and your kin. You are also fortunate that there is indeed a talisman available to protect you from the curse. As the witches were burnt at the stake, the curse takes the form of spontaneous combustion. I note that all your antecedents have died a fiery death upon reaching the age of 36, a number which coincides with the first official handicap. You must give up alcohol immediately (it's a fire accelerant) and persuade your course committee to increase the size of those little sand buckets you carry to fix your divots. To roughly the size of a 44-gallon drum. Stick some wheels on them and they won't slow down play very much. Make sure they're only half full of sand so you can easily empty them upon yourself, should you feel spontaneous combustion coming on. * * * It's amazing that in this world where everything and everyone has to go faster, the golf course is the one exception to the rule. But Would A 'Baby On Board' Tag On My Trundler Stop People Hitting Up On Me is trying to solve her problem from the wrong end. Dear Ms Kallas-Way In spite of what people say, I am not a slow golfer. I just like to carefully consider each of my 157 shots, in the hopes of playing better. After all, it takes less time to play one good shot than six bad ones. And this must be working because I used to shoot over 200! Unfortunately, I play at a course where everyone wants to go flat-out and they don't give a darn about safety. I get hit-up on at least twice every hole! Even though I've self imposed a rule to let one four by when it takes me more than half an hour to play a hole. (Unless it's a long par 5, of course.) I've seen cars with a 'Baby on Board' bumper sticker which makes the driver behind slow down. Do you think it would do the same if I put one on my trundler?

Dear TAG This will not work because you make the incorrect assumption that those ridiculous 'Baby on Board' tags make any difference to the way people drive. They don't, because they have nothing at all to do with the type of person who is following your car. Should you be followed by a person who is concerned by our over-populated world, you've just set yourself up as a target for road rage. Or, perhaps the driver behind you has no children but their neighbour's baby keeps them awake by crying every Friday night and consequently ruining their concentration for Saturday's golf. Once again, you've just entered their line of fire. A bumper sticker saying 'Taxpayer on Board' or 'New Set of Golf Clubs on Board' is more likely to guarantee the respect of the following driver. However, the fairway is a far more frenzied place than the freeway. Until you can play every hole in no more than 12 minutes, you should stick to the practice range. * * *

CHAPTER 5

It took eight hours to drive to the venue of our first tournament. I told Jane that we’d start with putting first. I removed a large bag from the car and hoisted it on my shoulder. Jane leant close and sniffed the bag. “What’s in there?” The bag rattled and she leapt backwards. “You haven’t...” “Yes, I have. Last night while you slept, I bagged a rattler.” The bag rattled and hissed. “She’s not quite trained yet, but I think she’s close enough. In fact,” I carefully removed the snake from the bag, “I’d be willing to bet my life on it.” “Not me!” I heard golf shoes clacking away from me up the path at a great rate. “Jane? Jane? Where are you going?” It took me an hour to find her, trying to hitchhike home, and another hour to persuade her to return. Jane took me to the practice green furthest from the clubhouse. As it was a small green, fifteen minutes’ walk from the other practice facilities, we were the only ones there. I put the bag down and went to open the zip. “Wait.” Jane stopped me. She searched the immediate area, peering behind bushes and scanning the horizon. “Okay,” she sighed, “let’s get this done before anyone else arrives.” I showed her the glass in which I’d milked venom from the snake. “See, I’ve taken precautions. It’ll take ages before there’s enough venom to hurt anything.” Jane took a couple of steps backwards. “Besides,” I said, “as long as your putting stroke is correct, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Jane groaned and sank to the ground. While her chipping had improved tremendously, Jane’s putting let her down, especially on three-footers. The smooth action she managed on long putts changed into jerky jabs when faced with short ones. If I didn’t address the problem immediately, Jane was headed for a life plagued by ‘the yips’. I had tried pretty much everything in my repertoire to fix the problem. The first remedy was strangling possums immediately before practice. (This tires the wrist muscles so they can’t tense up. Because of Jane’s squeamishness, I had swapped the real thing for a toy possum but she couldn’t even bring herself to throttle that properly.) Burnt palms. (Stops you gripping the putter too tightly. Although it’s only a light burn, as you still have to be able to grip a driver, Jane wasn’t keen on using naked flame and kept pulling away from the sulphuric acid I’d substituted.) I came to the conclusion that I needed an outside agency to fix her putting. Something that only happened if she putted poorly, rather than something applied to prevent poor technique. The rattle snake was perfect. I helped Jane up and handed her the putter. She gripped it like an axe and swang it over her shoulder. “Waste of time, Jane. The snake would strike before you’d got the club anywhere near it.” “The snake wasn’t my target,” muttered Jane. Not for the first time, I wondered whether my pupil was as committed as me. “You’re so lucky in this country,” I said. “So many elements to help with your golf. Snakes, oil wells, nuclear weapons... All we’ve got is possums!” “Nuclear weapons?” Jane paled. “Still working on that one, but I’m sure once you elect a president keen on golf tuition, he’ll give me access.”

I dragged Jane over to the putting green. The rattle snake was sleeping under the bag I’d covered it with when Jane fled. “Right,” I said, setting up Jane to putt. “I’ll give you a few practice putts while I pretend to be the snake. Just this: as long as you putt with a smooth rhythm, the snake will be mesmerised by the motion of the putter, and it will not strike.” “Mesmerised...” “That’s right,” I assured Jane, “just like the cobras in Egypt who are mesmerised by the swaying of the snake charmer and not, as is commonly assumed, the dreadful caterwauling music they play.” Jane swallowed. “I feel caterwauling welling up inside of me.” I stepped back. “Just as long as it isn’t vomit.” I crouched opposite Jane and swayed gently, hissing occasionally. “You’ll also have to keep your head dead still while putting, or the snake will strike.” Jane jerked her first putt and I jabbed her right knee with a needle. “Ow,” she yelped, “what’d you do that for?” I stood up and fetched the snake. “Multiply that feeling by 1,000 and you’ll have some idea of a snake bite.” I set the snake in front of Jane, who froze. “If you don’t get that putter swinging in five seconds, that snake will snap out of its reverie.” Jane sank 500 three-footers in a row. Her rhythm was perfect and her head didn’t move once. Nor did the snake. After three hours, I decided Jane was cured for life. “Now comes the tricky bit,” I told her. “You need to step away without getting bitten.” “Why is that tricky?” she asked, still swinging the putter rhythmically. “Surely as long as I swing the putter, the snake will stay hypnotised.” “Yes, but you can’t step away without moving your head. I hadn’t really thought that part through.”

Jane started sweating and I could see she was about to start caterwauling, which might have been okay with cobras but probably not so okay with a Texan rattler. The snake rattled its tail. I picked up the golf ball bag. “When I say jump, jump backwards.” I saw Jane’s calf muscles tighten and hoped it wasn’t cramp. “Jump!” I yelled, throwing the bag at the snake. It turned and struck the bag, before slithering off into the bushes that separated the putting green from the 5th fairway. “I bet you never hook your tee shot in there,” I confidently told Jane. Something hit me on the back of the head and I ed out. Although Jane assured me, when I came round, that it had been a tumbleweed, I never did find the evidence for it. “Which is a shame,” I told Jane later. “I reckon those tumbleweeds would’ve been perfect for helping core rotation.” Jane frowned. “Perseverance and overcoming your fears, Jane. That’s a combination for success.” * * * This leads us perfectly into this chapter’s first conundrum, which is Does Whacking a Snake Constitute a Shot. We golfers in New Zealand never face this as there are no snakes in our country. Well, except for the two-legged kind running finance companies. And whacking them certainly doesn't add to your score, only your popularity. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've recently shifted to New Mexico and our course, The Gardens of Eden Golf Club, harbors a favourite hibernating spot for the state's rattlesnakes. This is a minor problem in summer, as the snakes disperse to other areas so few golfers are bitten and killed. However, it's become a major problem in winter...if you hook your drive on the 5th tee and get a wicked bounce off the cart path which ricochets off the willow stump and then bounds into the cave immediately over

the stream. Upon doing this, most people abandon their balls, except for visiting New Zealanders. They seem to look upon a lost ball as an integral challenge of The Game and would rather wave people through than abandon any golf ball, whether brand new or falling to pieces. As we have a sister course in New Zealand (the Mt. Eden Golf Club) we get a lot of Kiwis playing here and they will keep disturbing those damn rattlers. It doesn't matter what we do or say, those darn NZers refuse to abandon a ball without first using the five minutes search time allowed under the Rules. And, believe me, you can wake up a whole lot of rattlers in five minutes. While this is seldom a repeat offence, Kiwis new to our course insist on carrying out the Rules to the letter. As they are such sticklers, we wondered if we could institute a local rule which says that a swing at a rattler must be counted on your score. I fear that's the only way to stop them, as they resent penalties of any kind and will alarmingly contort themselves rather than declare a ball unplayable. Dear WHACKING You're approaching this problem from completely the wrong angle, as is usually the case with golfers who've never got their handicap lower than 15. I needed only to read the first three sentences to realise that you'd supplied the solution yourself, if only you were capable of thinking outside the square. But first, to answer your question about whacking snakes and adding shots. I'm quite sure that if you followed those Kiwis into the cave, you'd realise the futility of the local rule you're proposing. Because, being canny Kiwis, (I'm pleased to note that you use the term correctly, 'Kiwi' being a person from New Zealand and not a hairy berry) I guarantee that every one of them whacks the snakes with a backward swing, as opposed to taking a 'backswing', which could constitute a shot if followed through. So, forget the local rule. Simply dig up the cart path and there'll be no more bad bounces into rattlesnake caves and you can then ban those cursed carts from your course. Thus, you'll suffer less snake bites because the rattlers will have ample time to get away when your golfers go back to playing the game the way

it should be played, by walking! * * * Everyone seems to be undertaking surgery or seeking out the latest potion to overcome their fear of ageing. As I've Invented A Fantastic Hand Cream But It's Smoothed My Golf Grips would do well to , every remedy carries a risk. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Recently, while searching for a ball in the manuka which lies to the right of the first fairway of our course (the Peka Peka Links Club), I tripped. A not unusual occurrence after a champagne breakfast. Anyway, as I fell, I clutched at the manuka bush and grabbed a handful of leaves before falling headlong into a smelly muddy patch. I wiped my hands on my golf towel and continued my round. (I don’t wear a glove. You can get a good bottle of wine for the price of a golf glove.) I didn't play the last couple of holes very well, a not unusual occurrence after a champagne lunch, and my club felt super slippery. Imagine my amazement when I studied my hands and they were smooth and unlined as any teenager's! (I'm in my mid-sixties and have tried every hand cream invented. Nothing works like this.) Unfortunately, when I studied the grips on my clubs, they were also as smooth as a teenager's hands but I rushed back to the smelly muddy spot and collected buckets full of the mud, and stripped the manuka of leaves as I was sure I could overcome such a small problem. Alas, the exact effect has occurred every time I play. Even if I borrow gloves for both hands, the grips are still smooth by the end of 12 holes. How can I keep the benefits of my brilliant potion but lose the side-effects? Dear INVENTED Your priorities are completely warped. Having the appearance of a wrinkled

crone is a small price to pay for playing well. Give up the champagne on golf days as sobriety will overcome the slipperiest of grips. * * * Have you wondered about the differing criteria for sportspeople to be inducted into Halls of Fame? Perseverance is definitely one. (Just about every Hall of Fame in the world has invited me to , offering to waive their rules if I don't meet all of them, but I have declined. You must never waive a Rule of Golf.) But Will You Our Hall of Infamy is on to a winner. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Here in Waikikamukau, we decided it was time that New Zealand started a golfing Hall of Fame. I know we have the sports Hall of Fame, but we reckoned The Great Game deserved its own hall. But you won't believe the trouble we've had. Apparently, there's some sort of copyright issue if you want to use the words 'Hall of Fame' and you have to jump through hoops of bureaucratic red-tape and fill out all sorts of forms. Well, that's bloody ridiculous because all our spare time is spent on the golf course and we're not going to give up any club days because some idiot behind a desk wants to justify his salary. So, we came up with a new idea. They can keep their Hall of Fame. Here in Waikikamukau, we'll be unique in the world and have a Hall of Infamy! We're going to write to John Daly and ask if he'll be our honorary president but we also want a woman to be co-president. And there's no one more qualified for this position than you. Will you accept the position and also help us with the criteria? Dear INFAMY What a wonderful idea! I'd be delighted to be an honorary president of the Waikikamukau Golfing Hall of Infamy but, considering JD’s habit of pulling out, you should forget him. Here are my ideas on how people could be elected to the Hall, considering you're going to have an overwhelming number of nominations.

Throwing your putter into the lake is a good starting point BUT, let's face it, anyone can do that. To enter the Hall of Infamy you would need to not only throw your putter in the drink (and leave it there) but you would also have to heave it at least 75 metres, with the putter completing at least six full anticlockwise turns before touching the water. (If you can toss your caddy as far, and in the same manner, you become vice-president.) Forget golfers who merely thump their clubs or break the odd shaft, that's too easy. However, golfers who wrap their trundler handle around their trundler wheels and bend the frame until it resembles a modern art sculpture (but will never again be capable of carrying clubs) will be at the top of the list. Swearing and cursing will not get anyone into the Hall of Infamy. We must hold high literary standards in which only imaginative vituperations will qualify. For example, after duck-hooking: "May this steel shafted driver turn into two of the overhead rungs on an uncovered jungle-gym, located in the wettest part of the country, used by severely overweight children with sweaty hands." Personally, I don't think we should allow entry to anyone who drives a cart. Because (A) they're not real golfers so shouldn't be encouraged and (B) they could injure others with their carts in their attempts at induction and we don't want to encourage that sort of behaviour. I'd be happy to discuss this with you. Let me know when you're holding the first meeting. * * * Many people consider that dreams can play an important part in their life, either by foretelling events or as a means of understanding what's bugging them. I Have A Recurring Dream That My Tees Are Falling Out is one such golfer who needs to understand the importance of the mental game, whether asleep or awake. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been a keen golfer for three years and play at least four times per week. Unfortunately, over the last six months my game has fallen off considerably. And I'm beginning to wonder if it's got something to do with my troubled sleep.

My partner has really cold feet so I suggested she sleep in our spare room until winter is over, but this doesn't seem to have made me sleep any better, although she says she'll stay there now because she no longer gets woken up by my tossing and turning. Which took care of my second solution. No sex the night before golf, which, come to think of it, has stretched on a bit. Then I read on an Internet site that you can interpret your dreams to help solve your problems, because your subconscious can't be controlled and it instructs your brain to dream certain things as a release. Ms Kallas-Way, I have a recurring dream, which I hadn't taken much notice of until I read that. It's more of a nightmare, really. And it's that my tees keep falling out. I'll put my gear together beside my car and take one step towards the course and my tees fall out. Every single one of them! Although I know no one will lend me their tees, I valiantly make my way to the first tee and desperately search for tees other golfers have lost. I eventually find a red wooden one and tee up my ball. I take my stance and then at the top of my backswing, the tee falls out of the ground. Over and over and over again! After 189 backswings, I wake up whimpering and covered in sweat. What does it all mean? Dear RECURRING 'My tees keep falling out' is a common dream amongst golfers and always hits when the golfer's handicap plateaus. It's a signal that the golfer is moving beyond the 'childhood' and 'golf is fun' stage into the more serious 'I've gotta put in some serious practise if I want to get better' stage. Golfers are notoriously lazy and fear the extra effort this will entail. Especially as they've got to do major work on their mental game as well as the physical. Thus, the dream signifies that you don't want to grow up as a golfer. You want to

go back to your first carefree days when you just whacked away and often didn't even bother to use a tee, such was your haste to get going. The only way to regain peaceful sleeping is to make sure you get BEYOND the 189th backswing and complete that particular shot. You must dream that you hit the sweet spot and the ball sails perfectly down the fairway. The red wooden tee in your dreams signifies a stop light. Thus, you must dump your golf cart and only walk courses, never ride. The 189 swings stands for the number of negative thoughts a golfer can have between teeing up the ball and the top of their backswing. The 190th thought is always positive (32nd law of physics) and that is why you must break through to it. The easiest way to do so is to send me $99.95 (incl. P&P) for my best-selling book, Dream Golf, which is guaranteed to improve your game when you're asleep. (Alas, this important nightly aspect of practice is often overlooked by golfers.) * * * It's a germ-ridden world out there...and in here...indeed, pretty much everywhere. Considering all the obvious hazards facing golfers, how much time should we spend worrying about the invisible ones? Plagues Of Germs Mean The Rules Need To Be Changed must refocus his attention. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Do you know how many germs there are on your average golf ball? Over 6 trillion! (At least until you hit it and then, depending on how many your clubhead squashes and how well the rest of them hang on, anything from 7,623 to 5,689,231. Yes, someone has written a thesis on this very subject and counted them.) Apparently, these germs can carry deadly diseases but they hardly ever infect the golfer because they're really dopey and only one thing activates them. In common with golfers, it's the short game which causes trouble. That final putt when your ball drops in the hole and makes that satisfying clonkity-click jolts the germs into action. The pitch which that sound produces energises the germs and they attack the

very next thing which touches the ball, the poor unsuspecting golfer! I believe this is why 'gimmes' were invented. Not because of sloppy, lazy morons who can't be bothered completing the hole properly but because of the human survival instinct. Surely it's time the 'gimme' became a legitimate part of The Game so that we keen practitioners of The One True Sport can stay in perfect health. How do I the R&A and USGA to set the wheels in motion? Dear PLAGUES All 6 trillion of those germs can be dealt to before you tee off. Completely submerge your ball in alcohol before you set foot on the course. (An insipid Chardonnay which requires more body is your best bet.) These germs may be dopey, but they are not stupid. Well, not until they've spent some time in the alcohol, anyway. Germs are like life insurance peddlers, always on the lookout for a better potential carcass. A glass of wine is a superior host to a golf ball, thus the germs will jump ship. As for the teetotaller germs, whilst they might not imbibe, the fumes will be enough to loosen their grip on the golf ball and they'll be knocked off at the first shot. Even an air shot will provide sufficient wind to dislodge them. Your sacrilegious comment about gimme putts becoming an integral part of The Game makes me realise that while you may have guarded against golf ball germs, you've obviously neglected your golf visor hygiene. Alas, the visor termite germs have obviously already excavated large parts of your brain. Forget the R&A and USGA. Update your will immediately. * * * In the heat of the moment, we all say things we don't mean. "Cough again at the top of my backswing and I'll kill you." "Okay, I'll have one more drink but then

I've really got to get home to the husband and kids." But, as I've Really, Honestly, Definitely Given Up Golf Forever found out, it's not a good idea to put anything down in writing. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for six years now, five of them happily. I pretty much took to the game like a new golf ball to water and, once I'd got rid of my slicer's grip, made steady progress. Unfortunately, my husband isn't a golfer (he plays billiards, which involves getting a ball into a hole, so you'd think he'd be a little more sympathetic). Consequently, he fails to appreciate the psychological side of The Game. Over the last three months I've slunk home every week from the course, dumped my golf clubs in the garage, collapsed in front of the TV, quaffed a few glasses of Pinot Noir and then sworn to give up golf. Of course, EVERY golfer ever born has made that statement, and even meant it for the 2.7 seconds it takes to utter. But the last time I declared my intentions, when I opened my eyes, my husband had thrust a piece of paper in front of me which stated, in large capitals: I'VE REALLY, HONESTLY, DEFINITELY GIVEN UP GOLF FOREVER. SHOULD I EVER VENTURE OUT ON THE COURSE AGAIN, BRIAN HAS THE RIGHT TO CONFISCATE MY CLUBS THE NEXT DAY AND SMASH THEM INTO A MILLION PIECES. Dated:__/__/_. Signature:________________ I'd gone a little over my usual two glass limit so grabbed the pen and signed. It wasn't until the next day that I realised what I'd done. I've been brought up understanding that my word is my bond and if I can't be trusted to do as I say, then I'm worthless. Being a lawyer, my husband Brian puts a different slant on keeping one's word, unless it is in writing. He's always begrudged my enjoyment of The Game and sees this as a way to keep me at home. How can I resolve the situation? Dear REALLY

Take a lesson from Shakespeare and The Merchant of Venice. Brian may smash the clubs into a million pieces, BUT not one piece less nor one piece more. As the agreement stipulates 'the next day' (which never arrives) I don't like his chances of succeeding, especially when you insist that you want each piece categorised and numbered. * * * If someone with a swing like Jim Furyk can be a successful pro, does it mean that others with an unorthodox action can become proficient at The Game, if they persevere long enough? Or should they take lessons to achieve a more regular swing? I've Changed My Swing So Often That I've Become The Rubber Man is desperate to go back to his old swing, but doesn't know how. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've been playing golf for six years and managed to get down to a 15 handicap without having lessons. However, I seldom managed to crack 84 and am yet to break 80 so I decided to have lessons to achieve my goal of single figures. Over the last six months, I've been having weekly lessons with the pro at my local golf course. "Your swing's too flat," he said, on my first visit. "Now your swing's too upright," he said, a week later. "You're taking it away too far outside the line." Yep, the next time it was too far inside the line. Then I was wobbling at the top, pointing the club to the left of the target. This was followed by "That hip action would be great if you were a hula dancer". Now I'm lucky if I break 100! When I started, I was told I had a swing like Jim Furyk's. Now, people say I have a swing like Kermit the Frog, but less fluid. I've had a guts full of pros and want to go back to the good old days. How do I get my old swing back? Dear CHANGED It's amazing the number of enquiries I get from people who want to go back to their old swing, and find they can't. As a non-golfer once noted, "Every moment of our lives we are influenced by the footsteps of our past.” In golfing , this translates to: "Every time we change our swing, we are influenced by the swings of our past."

You're worrying needlessly. In my study on swing planes, I discovered that there are exactly 4517 permutations possible in one person's swing. Most golfers go through 37 of these permutations, immediately after having their first poor shot of the round. As soon as you've gone through all 4517 permutations (taking precisely 122.08 rounds), you'll be back to your original swing again. As you've been golfing like this for six months, and you say you average two games per week, you have about 68 rounds to go...or another 34 weeks. The tricky thing is, don't go past that 4517th permutation or you'll be stuck in that vicious cycle again. * * * I get so many queries which begin, "I'm really embarrassed to mention my problem, but..." It amazes me that people don't realise they're never the sole sufferer of whatever it is that ails them. I'm Really Embarrassed About My ToeKnuckle Hair has a common problem, especially amongst male golfers, but he must overcome his fears or he'll never lower his handicap. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I'm blushing as I put pen to paper to you. In fact, it's all I can do to stop squirming in my seat long enough to write legibly. I have an especially debilitating condition which stops me from following through fully, which means I'm off balance and not getting full power from my swing. My awkward action is caused by an excessive amount of toe hair which snags in my socks. The pain is barely noticeable on my backswing, but is excruciating on my follow through. I've tried playing without socks but then the hair simply snags on my shoes. I've also tried socks of differing materials, but still no relief. Shaving the hairs doesn't work because I have delicate skin and the abrasions mean I can't go near any shoes until the skin has healed, by which time the hair has grown back. Waxing is the same. I'm not allowed to play barefoot. What can I do? Dear EMBARRASSED

All this red faced reaction and squirming in your seat... It sounds to me like you've got worms. Which, in a round about way, is the solution to your problem. Snagging toe-knuckle hair has ruined many a great golfing career. The first to suffer from this painful problem was Young Tom Morris, back in the 19th century. (As with many genetic complaints, toe-knuckle hairiness skips a generation, so Young Tom's father, Old Tom Morris, never had the problem and, consequently, no empathy for his son.) It took years to find a cure which, as usual, came about by accident. One of Young Tom's relatives (Young Young Young Younger Tom) was visiting Africa in March 1960 when attacked by jigger fleas. The jigger flea or chigoe (Tunga penetrans) is a serious pest in the tropical and subtropical regions of the Americas and Africa. Both sexes feed on blood. The female flea, after insemination, burrows itself in the skin of the toes and the sole of the foot. The jigger fleas infested only the toes of YYYY Tom and consequently made his toe-knuckle hair fall out. It never grew back. YYYY Tom went from a 24 handicap to scratch in just two months. (Actually, he scratched immediately upon infestation, but that's a different type of handicap.) YYYY Tom subsequently formed a group for Afflicted Toe-Knuckle Hair Golfers and if you them, they'll put you on to your nearest jigger flea practitioner who can get rid of that pesky hair once and for all. Just make sure he/she is the real thing, though. If the specialist doesn't tourniquet each toe, the jigger fleas can travel. * * * The only certain things in this world are taxes and death, some intelligent nongolfer (usually a contradiction in ) once said. Is It Fair To Tax Slicing has come up with a novel approach to supplementing green fees but, as usual, there is a simpler way. Dear Ms Kallas-Way

Thanks to the economic downturn, our club hip has dropped by 50%, down to two people. Okay, we don't have the flashest golf course in New Zealand but we guarantee that we have the friendliest! (Now that our grouchy founder has been hospitalised by stampeding sheep.) We get quite a lot of green fee traffic, (we're at the bottom of a really twisty road on a major tourist route so lots of people stop at the gate to be sick, then decide a little exercise would help so play nine holes) but we'd like to make more than $5 out of them. As I'm sure you know, the NZ government once proposed to tax farmers for their animals' flatulence. This gave me a great idea! Unfortunately, visiting golfers refused to wear the flatulence harnesses we lifted from our sheep, even though we told them it would stop excessive swaying and would promote a powerful pivot. So, I reckon we need a different sort of tax and I came up with taxing people who slice (as a slice is more common than a hook). Can you foresee any problems with my scheme? Dear FAIR You may have trouble policing this policy, unlike the flatulence one which is policed by the gauge on the harness. While sportsmanship and honesty are prevalent in golf, as soon as you introduce the word 'tax', people automatically think 'avoidance'. Which is not a great thing on the golf course, when associated with raising money. Your scheme has its positives, i.e. it would provide incentive for people to fix their slicing, but it has way too many negatives. For instance, how are you going to define a slice as opposed to a fade? The more extreme shot will be easy, but the slight tail will not. You'll also have to get rid of all dogleg-right holes, so course improvement will be restricted. No, you must forego your idea of taxing slicers. Instead, double your green fees to $10 and open a clubhouse which provides meals. Considering the reason they stopped, you're going to have a lot of ravenous golfers at the completion of their

rounds. * * * I've noticed that many golfers possess knowledge on an incredibly wide range of subjects. ittedly, sometimes they're completely wrong as they've shanked their interpretation of the facts. However, an enquiring mind is as necessary to the golfer as her putter. One such correspondent is The Universe Is Finite So Will That Halt Future Course Development Dear Ms Kallas-Way I have just read in the Dominion Post that scientists have discovered that the Universe may not be infinite but is actually spherical and patched together like a football. Apparently, they analysed astronomical data and came up with the above statement. Amongst their data listed, I couldn't find any reference to your earth shattering paper, "The Universe is Infinite and Shaped like a Fethry Golf Ball", so I haven't given their idea a lot of credence. However, if they're right and the Universe is finite, should I get out of my family business of building golf courses? I'm the third generation to enter the business, but I don't want to end up ing on a dead-end livelihood to my great, great, great (add ‘great’ another 10,007 times to get us to the stage of reaching the far side of the Universe) grandchildren. Have you read their paper and what effect will their 'discovery' have on the future of golf course development? Dear UNIVERSE You were quite right to doubt the findings of these charlatans. I can categorically state that there is no way the Universe could be shaped like a football. And that's because what continually shapes the Universe (by swallowing stars and planets), are Black Holes. Are they spherical, like footballs? No, most definitely not. Their business end is round, just like a gigantic golf hole.

In fact, this discovery is what led to my thesis "The Maker of the Universe was the First Ever Golfer (and female)". I am about to publish this thesis but if you send me a cheque for $50.00 (includes P&P) I will send you a preview copy. In my thesis you will discover that our Universe is part of a gigantic practice fairway and the maker is going through her practice routine of putting planets and chipping stars. Fortunately, her short game is lousy and that's why not many planets and stars are entering oblivion. By the time she gets close to our galaxy, she'll be up to practicing her tee shots. Considering the percentage of tee shots that end up as holes-in-one, I can advise you not to get out of the family business. It'll take 1,222,345,607 greats before your family business will be affected. By which stage your offspring should have developed the gumption to make their own way in the world. * * *

CHAPTER 6

At last we were ready for our first tournament. I checked that I had everything needed to keep Jane on track. She had put her foot down at the idea of my putting wheels on a chilly bin [portable freezer] so that the smelly afterbirth would be on hand, should she need a reminder how to chip. Instead, I’d sliced off a small piece and placed it in a bottle, confident that a quick sniff would fire her muscle memory. I’d also acceded that the portable electric fence was too bulky, so I’d substituted that for an electric prodder, which fitted neatly into the umbrella slot. I merely had to hiss and rattle something, every few holes, for her putting stroke to remain rhythmically smooth. As I’d be by her side, our sign language would prove unnecessary. The front nine went beautifully, with Jane effortlessly converting her birdie opportunities and reaching the 10th at three under par. Jane birdied two of the next four holes, and parred the others prompted mainly by the electric prodder and my hissing and rattling. Her playing companions looked a little perplexed by my actions but, as I never did them while they were playing, they had nothing to complain about. Five under with five holes to go. The leader boards showed Jane to be four shots ahead of her nearest rival and I was sure there were at least one or two birdies left. The 14th was a long straight par 4 with a water hazard left of the green and bunkers to the right. Jane’s tee shot split the middle of the fairway, leaving her with a four-iron to the pin at the back left of the green. Just as Jane was at the top of her backswing, an armadillo lumbered across the

middle of the green. “Stop,” I yelled, as the animal hesitated directly in line with Jane’s shot. Unable to halt her swing, Jane tried to take evasive action and, alas, shanked. The ball shot sideways deep into the trees. Jane glared at me. “Why’d you do that? The damn armadillo has armour for skin. Even if I’d hit it, it wouldn’t have felt a thing.” “If you’d hit that armadillo, your ball would have ricocheted into the water. It was sitting at an angle of 45 degrees and anything other than a headshot would have resulted in a penalty and you’d have had to drop the ball in the worst possible spot.” “Wow,” said Hope, the woman marking Jane’s card. “Where’d you get such a precise caddy?” “I didn’t,” mumbled Jane, “she got me.” Not for the first time, I wondered if I embarrassed Jane. She wouldn’t be seen with me anywhere other than on the course or the practice facilities. I pushed my doubts aside and headed for the trees. Jane followed. The armadillo left the green. We found the ball and Jane chipped it out on to the fairway. She now faced a sixiron shot to the flag. At the top of Jane’s backswing the armadillo’s mate ambled across the green. As it was side on, I kept my mouth shut. Jane’s ball struck the armadillo and rebounded onto a baby armadillo before caroming between the bunkers and into the bushes on the right. Jane spun around and waved her club. “Why didn’t you warn me,” she shouted. “Look what you’ve cost me.” I was seeing a different part of Jane, and it wasn’t one I liked. “I didn’t see the baby. If it hadn’t been there, you’d have had an easy putt, so I didn’t think it was worth risking another shank.” Jane threw her club at me and stalked off. I looked at the club for a while and then left it where it lay. As we were last off, it wouldn’t impede any other

golfers. Jane cursed and swore all the way to the bushes. The other three golfers and their caddies helped search. “Are you timing this?” spat Jane. “Of course,” I replied, “we have another minute before we have to declare it lost.” With five seconds to go, one of the other caddies found the ball, near the trunk of a straggly shrub. Jane wormed her way into position and figured she could manage a short backswing, enough to get the ball back on to the fairway. “Hand me the six-iron,” she said. “No, you can’t use that club,” I replied. “This is no time to argue with what I want to use. It’s my favourite club. Just give me the damn iron!” “I didn’t say you shouldn’t use it. I said you couldn’t use it.” Jane poked her face between a couple of straggly branches so that she could see me. “What?” “The six-iron is where you threw it. Choose another club.” “Why you…” “Come on Jane, play the shot,” called Hope, “the officials are heading this way.” “Gimme the goddamn putter,” said Jane. I handed her the club, ignoring her muttering about my parentage. First practice swing, jerky. Second practice swing, jabby. Hiss, rattle, hiss, rattle. “Shut up,” said Jane, “I know it’s jerky but I’m not on the green.” Third practice swing, even jerkier.

Hiss, rattle, hiss, rattle. “For the last time,” growled Jane, “shut up!” Before I had a chance to tell Jane that I wasn’t the one hissing and rattling, the rattle snake struck. Quick as a shank, it sank its fangs into her calf. Jane had an air shot. Her mouth dropped open. She let out one blood-curdling scream before sinking to the ground, legs tangled in the bush. The snake struck again. Jane flailed hopelessly at it. “Rhythmically,” I yelled, “you’ve got to hypnotize it with rhythm.” But it was too late. The venom spread swiftly and by the time we’d removed Jane from the bush, she’d expired. The other three golfers finished their round but played poorly. Although I tried to help them with the next day’s play, they refused to listen and had me thrown off the course. Labelled a pariah, I packed my bags and headed home to New Zealand. My US experiences made me confident that the only negative golfing experience I couldn’t fix was death. For now, anyway. * * * People who've had a near-death experience being drawn towards an amazing bright white light and dead relatives. I Feel Funny Every Time I Play Our Third, A Par Three Over Water; Could It Be A Near-Death Experience has suffered feelings common to most golfers. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Last night I watched on TV this amazing documentary about near-death experiences. I listened to four people tell what had happened when they'd died and been brought back again. Bright white lights, dead relatives offering advice, a powerful 'presence'.

These are the exact same symptoms that I get when I tee up on our first par three, which has an 88 yard carry over water. My god, I thought, I'm dying every time I get to that hole! I see pinpoints of bright light, I hear voices and I feel the 'presence' of a powerful entity. I can't figure out that last bit, but I instinctively know that it commands respect. In the five years I've been playing golf, I've never yet managed to carry that damn lake with my first shot. Often the second one lands on the green, but by then the damage has been done. The thought of having to play that hole is taking all enjoyment out of The Game for me. What can I do to stay 'live' when I get to that tee? Do you know who the 'powerful entity' could be? Dear NEAR-DEATH Unfortunately, near-death experiences frequently occur on golf courses and often where a carry over water is required. There is one consolation, a near-death experience is better than a complete-death experience, as you can finish your round with the first but will have wasted your sub/green fees with the second. The golfer's near-death experience lasts between 6.75 and 6.8 seconds. This is long enough to ensure that the shot which follows will have dire consequences for the golfer's score, and ball. So, while it is only near-death for the golfer, it is generally fatal for the ball. You see bright lights because golf fear (unlike the less scary types of fear such as those caused by 'that saw is going to sever my hand' or 'that crocodile is going to eat me') drives the blood from the brain so rapidly that you're almost blinded. This lack of blood also has the unusual side effect of making your dead relatives' lives flash before your eyes. Along with their voices. As for the 'powerful entity', that is the memory of the course committee threatening to confiscate the clubs of anyone who holds up play. Near-deathers are notoriously slow. The only way to overcome this experience is to play nothing but foursomes or four-ball-best-ball. In the first case, you make sure that your partner has to tee off on the dreaded hole and, in the second case, you can rely on your partner.

Providing their near-death experiences occur on other holes, you'll be able to enjoy your game. * * * Think of any ridiculous proposition, and I guarantee someone will have done a thesis on it. Fortunately, some students manage to come up with worthwhile subjects which will enhance life on Earth. Can You Help Me With Statistics For Golf Suicides is studying a taboo subject that needs to be brought out into the open. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I come from a golfing family and have played the Great Game since I could sit up. (Which, I've decided, was starting too young because I tend to resort to an upper-body swing and not use my legs properly when under pressure.) I'd considered studying that for my thesis but decided I was too close to the subject and wouldn't be able to maintain my objectivity. So I decided on another subject close to my heart. Golf suicides. Considering the incredibly high number of useless golfers with dire swings, it's amazing the golf suicide figures are so low. As there are so many hopeless golfers (who continually return to the fairways expecting to play the round of their lives), why do so few 'top' themselves (as against topping the ball)? To explore the subject fully, I need to know the percentage of golfers who slice, hook, shank, three putt, etc. With these figures I can then work out which is the most dangerous shot and which trends you need to watch out for if you don't want your four to become a three. Your golfing knowledge knows no bounds, Ms Kallas-Way, can you help me with the percentages? Dear STATISTICS It's difficult to supply concrete percentages of the worst bad shots, leading to suicide, because so many people will overcome a vicious slice only to develop a mean hook. Bad shots are a fluid problem.

However, when I researched this problem for my sell-out conference (My Golf Really Is Killing Me) in Wellington in 1993, I discovered that there's really only one shot which consistently leads to suicide. The shank. Yes, golfers will persevere through any shot (and that includes buckshot from irate partners who think the golfer spends too much time on the fairways) but a prolonged bout of shanking (over 12.3 weeks) always leads to deep depression and suicide. ittedly, my research is a little out of date and the pace of life has increased so you may find the onset of depression is quicker now. * * * When taking up golf, the first purchase all beginners should make is my book, "The Universal Volume of Golf Terminology". The 'Railway Method' Of Aligning Is Great, But Isn't It Dangerous would have saved herself many anxious moments (and her right foot) if she had referred to it. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I recently came across an article in a magazine about how to align your feet and shoulders correctly to the target by using the 'railway method'. My alignment is dreadful, so I turned to the article straight away. Unfortunately, I'd only read the first paragraph when my pet tiger slashed the magazine out of my hand and ate it (the magazine, not my hand). I waited 24 hours until he'd digested the article and then searched through his, um, ah, well, you know what, but I'm not sure the bits of paper I found were from that article. I could make out the words 'non-slip shoes', which sounded handy for railway lines so I purchased a pair and went to the local track to see if I could figure it out myself. I lined up my feet inside the far rail and then aligned my shoulders with the sign opposite. Eureka! Each of the dozen shots I hit was dead straight! I've never hit the ball so

well in my life. Unfortunately, when I experimented with a high shot, the ball rebounded off a bridge and knocked me out. The next thing I knew, I woke up in hospital minus my right foot, which a train had run over. I was also minus my favourite 5-iron, which was completely pulverised. Ms Kallas-Way, I know this method works so, is it possible to make it safe, or is it the chance of death that makes it so effective? Dear RAILWAY As I've mentioned before, when practicing you have to have an incentive to focus your mind on the shots so you don't just whack balls aimlessly. While practicing on a railway line would certainly provide the necessary incentive to improve, as you've discovered, it can also lead to tragedy, i.e. losing your 5-iron. Send me a cheque for $50.00 (includes P&P) and I'll send you a copy of the volume of golf terminology mentioned above. This will save you more confusion in case your tiger eats another article which might cover the 'broken wrists in plaster' method of chipping practice. * * * In this overpopulated world, many countries find it increasingly difficult to justify using a large tract of land for a golf course. Some get around the problem by sharing, but Hunters Not Keep Their Side Of Bargain shows that this can throw up a new set of issues. But perseverance is the order of the day; even these new issues are covered by the Rules of Golf. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Here in Transylvania, no golf course. If we want golf, we must share with other sport. Only one with enough land is hunting club but we only fit 18th hole by use of next door cemetery. Okay we make 18th short par three but still we have problem. Especially when we play Fridays after hunting club get murderers from local jail to hunt on

Thursday. Hunters good at hunting...but no good at digging and worse at burying. "Chase is everything," they say. "Ygor swing ugly...tell him to aim at grave and divots fill it." So we try this and it work. We place flag on green always behind new grave. But Ygor, he sick of playing 18th hole 37 times before golf start. How we make hunters do it good? Dear BARGAIN As usual with my enquirers, you're approaching the problem from the wrong end. The unfilled graves are not your problem, the hunters are. First, find a couple of murderers whom you can trust. Next, get them to sign an agreement that they'll take over grave digging/burying duties in return for their freedom and a free golf sub. Finally, bribe the jailer to release the murderers on a Wednesday. Give them an AK47 each, with a limited amount of ammunition, i.e. enough to take care of each hunter. The squeamish may try to argue against this solution but, believe me, this decision is completely in accordance with equity (Rule 1-4). It is also in accordance with the hunters' rules of 'survival of the fittest'. And, not only that, but you'll be proving how criminals can be rehabilitated through golf. * * * I realise that in these straitened times, golfers must tighten their belts if they insist that trivialities such as food, electricity and health care are more important than The Great Game. But Should I Cancel My Insurance And Buy Right Handed Clubs may have to alter his plans a little. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I've read lots of studies on longevity and am convinced by the one which says right handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left handed. (Consider the difficulty left handed people have with right handed equipment such as scissors and chainsaws.) I'm a 61 year old 'lefty' and have decided to take up golf because I'm overweight

and I reckon golf will help me shed those extra pounds and extend my life. I figure that if I switch sides and play right handed, not only will the exercise give me more years, but the fact that I've changed hands will give me another nine years, on top of that! Unfortunately, my wife isn't happy that I want to cancel my health insurance so that I can purchase the best set of clubs. I'm sure that with all these extra years ahead of me, health insurance is a waste of time, and I'll definitely outlive her so it's not as if she'll be missing out on a big payday. However, my wife is adamant that she'll outlive me and she quotes those statistics that say women outlive men. So, I just need to know one thing. Can I be accused of attempted murder if I start buying my right handed wife left handed equipment? Dear CANCEL Before answering your question, I need to point out something which seems to have ed you by. If you switch to being right handed, you will not become right handed in orientation, you will become ambidextrous. And it's a welldocumented fact that the ambidextrous live an average of eighteen years less than everyone else. (Consider the dithering when faced with scissors or a chainsaw. Uncertainty is a proven killer when faced with on/off switches.) Therefore, by switching to right handed clubs, you will be cancelling out the right handed benefit and will actually decrease your life span by nine years. However, you will be better off through the exercise which you receive while golfing, so may live longer due to this. As for your murder question, that depends on the state and nature of the equipment. * * * When we reach a certain age, we start thinking about that final hole-out and how we'd like to make it. I Want To Be Buried In A Large Tartan Golf Bag has given the trip down the final fairway much consideration but finds his last wishes thwarted by non-golfing undertakers. Dear Ms Kallas-Way

Now that I've turned 90, I find that my tee shots are getting shorter, the holes are getting longer, and the 19th is the hole I play best. What I perceived in the distance to be an overcoated anorexic with an ancient iron and a flat swing has turned out to be a vision of the Grim Reaper. He's been haunting me ever since I collapsed with a mild heart attack two months ago, which was brought on by a chip-in to win a match at the 18th. I still go to the course every day, and I've noticed that the Reaper (who used to be four fairways behind) gets closer every time I play. He is now on the 18th tee when I'm on the last green, so I figure it's only a matter of four to five days (his swing is unorthodox, but I doubt he'll take more than five shots on this short, wide-open par 4) before I finally make that hole-in-one. I had considered giving up golf, so that he wouldn't catch up, but I intuitively know that he'll follow me off-course if he has to. And I've been saying for years, "There'd be no better place to die than on the golf course" so I guess it's ordained. Consequently, I visited our local funeral parlour two days ago to purchase my coffin. I had drawn a diagram of a large red and yellow tartan golf bag (the colours of golf flags), my ideal choice for my final shot. But they say they can't possibly bury me in a golf bag, as it doesn't have enough handles for the bearers. I pointed out that I'd designed the shoulder strap long and wide enough for six people to carry me and if that wasn't suitable, I'd be happy if they used a trundler. No way, they said, that's not allowed under the New Zealand Burial code of ethics. "Alright," I said, "Use a damn golf cart then. I think they're an abomination but I guess as it's my final fairway, I can make an exception." They threw me out! They're obviously non-golfers, and possess not one gram of empathy. Ms Kallas-Way, I have my heart set on a golf bag coffin. How can I put off the Grim Reaper until I've found an undertaker sympathetic to my cause? Dear BURIED Are you sure that it was the golf bag coffin that they objected to and not just the

fact that it was tartan? But I suppose you would have mentioned that in your letter. So, how do you put off the Grim Reaper? Well, playing at another club won't work because he'll just appear at the reciprocal spot on that course. Fortunately, there is one thing which will make him avoid you for weeks, maybe months and possibly even years. Shanking. The studies I've undertaken (pun intended) show that before the Grim Reaper took up golf, he was actually the Happy Reaper. It was only a prolonged bout of shanking that turned him Grim. His aversion to shankers is well-documented. Bob Hope was due to be harvested when he was only 87 years, two months and three days old but because Bob started shanking the day before, it took the Reaper another 13 years to summon the courage to collect him. (Shanking is as contagious as the Ebola virus.) Take it from me, start shanking and you'll have ample time to find your coffin and undertakers willing to bury you in it. * * * The worldwide obsession with the Guinness Book of Records puzzles me, especially the records risking death. Why would you want to have the longest fingernails in the world, or the record for pogo stick jumping around cemeteries in Haiti at midnight? Surely My Claim For Achieving The World's Longest Hole In One Is Valid, In Spite Of The Tornado exhibits all the tendencies of someone who needs to 'get a life'. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I have been trying to get into the Guinness Book of Records for 12 years now. My dad and his dad have both been in it (the first for the greatest number of windows washed with a handkerchief in 12 hours and the second for the largest number of intact goldfish vomited up after dining on them for quarter of an hour). They're tough examples to live up to and I've struggled with my self esteem over

the years because I haven't been able to do as well. Then finally, when I wasn't even trying, I managed a world record! I was playing golf at my local course when the hooter went to warn of an approaching storm. We were at the 13th, a 139 yard par 3, and the other three guys had teed off. We had a bet for the closest to the pin on this hole so I went ahead and teed off too. But, just as club hit ball, a tornado swept around the hill and carried my ball away. As it was my last brand new ball, I leapt into the golf cart and followed. My golf partner wasn't too happy about this, but he has a wooden leg so couldn't jump out. We managed to keep the tornado in sight for 15 miles and were right on the spot when it collapsed. You guessed it, on the next county's golf course which also has a par three thirteenth hole. We searched everywhere for my ball and finally concluded we'd have to shove aside the dead bodies and mangled cattle on the green and see if it was underneath one. Sure enough, you guessed it, we found my ball (with my distinguishing mark of a dead 4-legged ant) underneath the last little old lady we shoved off the hole. Well, actually, prised would be a better word because she was skewered by the flagstick. I was almost overcome with happiness because I knew it'd be a certainty for the Guinness Book of Records for the longest ever hole in one. But my buddy refused to sign my card because when we removed the flagstick (and the little old lady) my ball came out of the hole because a bit of her dress had been underneath it. He declared that it hadn't been a hole in one because it never touched the bottom of the hole. I know if the ball is stuck between the flagstick and the hole, you have to tilt the flagstick so the ball falls in, or it doesn't count as a hole in one. But surely, it has nothing to do with how deep the ball goes? Dear SURELY You're right that depth has nothing to do with the legitimacy of a hole in one, but, are you sure the ball was in the hole?

I have prised aside many dead bodies from golf holes and so I know what a deadweight they are, regardless of size. Unless you were specifically watching the hole, you'd have no idea where your ball was. Think back carefully. Are you absolutely sure the ball came out of the hole and wasn't just tangled in clothing beside it? As a golfer, I'm sure you're a person of integrity and would be loathe to take the record off the current holder, if there was any doubt at all as to the ball's final resting place. Why don't you apply for the 'quickest unskewering of a body from a flagstick' record instead? * * * One of the biggest problems for people when they take up golf is that everything else in life suddenly seems so mundane. Having Golfed, I Now Find That Lion Taming Is Boring is one of the many who has had to change jobs for this very reason. Then they face the dreadful realisation that their particular skills aren't very transferrable. Dear Ms Kallas-Way I was born between the cages of the tigers and lions in our family circus 43 years ago and my destiny was set. From the age of 12, when my dad (the tiger trainer) and my mom (the lion trainer) ed away (Well, sort of ed through, really. While making love in the tigers' cage they were eaten by the occupants) my destiny was clear. Surely, I was meant to be a sex counsellor. Unfortunately, I had to earn my keep so took over the training of the big cats instead. I had been in the job for 30 years when I felt there was something missing in my life (apart from my right foot, which went the way of my parents when I nudged a lion to see if he was asleep or dead). My boyfriend bought me a set of golf clubs and suggested I take up golf. Which I did, hating it at first but then loving it as my scores started to come down. The problem is, now that I've played golf, the old adrenalin rush from training lions and tigers has gone. It's just so boring that I'm scared I'll get complacent

and end up being eaten by the cats. My brothers (who now manage the circus) insist that I'd be incapable of making a living away from the circus and I fear they're right. Do you know of any jobs which an ex-lion tamer could take on? Dear GOLFED For those incapable of thinking outside the square (one of the biggest handicaps to getting your handicap down), it would seem that the skills of a lion tamer were of limited transference. Which is completely wrong. Your job has set you up to tackle many occupations. Apart from the obvious choices of an ice hockey coach or baseball umpire, you could also run a pre-school facility. But precision with a stock whip also means you'd make an ideal gardener. There's nothing better for dead heading flowers than a whip. Especially roses, because you can whip those heads off from a distance, thereby avoiding any chance of being pierced by thorns. (Indeed, the Occupational Safety and Health Department is about to bring in a law insisting on whips instead of pruning shears.) I'd recommend the gardening job because it'll also improve your golf (no one's going to play slowly in front of anyone who's an expert with a whip). * * * Is the world we live in really as doomed as people claim? Considering there have been seven periods of extinction before humanity evolved, we could be living in 'the best of times'. How Can I Improve My Golf When The Hole In The Ozone Layer Is Increasing needs to develop a sense of perspective. Dear Ms Kallas-Way Here in New Zealand, we are constantly reminded of the hole in the ozone layer and its potentially devastating effect upon golfers, i.e. death. I find that every time I venture on to the fairways, I can concentrate on my game only for 9 holes and then I start to consider the depleted ozone layer and my game goes to hell.

I'm sure I can feel the sun's rays microwaving each of my seven layers of skin, in spite of my visor and oodles of sunblock. I really care deeply about the environment How can I overcome my concern for our local environment long enough to improve my score? Dear IMPROVE You're quite right about death having a detrimental effect on your standard of golf (unless you're a shanker or a yipper, in which case it improves your game). However, your concern is channelled in the wrong direction. Extinction is a natural part of life on Earth, whether caused by a stray asteroid, excessive volcanic activity, the sun running out of gas, or aliens tired of playing their galactic version of 'The Sims'. I detect that you are one of those people who is only happy when they have something to worry about, so you will never overcome your concern. Give up the long version of the game and the 9-hole golfers. * * * Conspiracy theorists; the world would be a duller place without them. And, naturally, the golfing world abounds with these unorthodox characters. This old story is doing the rounds again but, in case you're not familiar with it, I'll let The Real Truth About The Grassy Knoll, tell it again. Dear Ms Kallas-Way It's been nearly 50 years since Kennedy was assassinated and I can hold back the truth no longer. Yes, I must come clean, it was ME who killed Kennedy in Dallas all those years ago. But I didn't mean to! Honest! It was a complete accident and really the fault of the idiot pro I'd been seeing who told me to change my stance. There I was, practicing my pitching on top of the grassy knoll, waiting for the president. I'd just started my downswing when he came into sight. I leaned forward a bit, the

hozzle hit the ball (a Biffo 4) and bang! One dead president and one lost golf ball. Of course the golf gear manufacturers had it hushed up as sales were starting to take off and the FBI went along with them because they didn't want to look stupid, again. But I certainly didn't get off scot-free, I've been afflicted with shanking ever since! I think the only hope is if I get that ball back and lay the ghosts to rest. Could you intervene for me? Dear TRUTH I'm afraid I've had to fix so many of the FBI's bungles that they won't let me near the place any more. (I'm a living reminder, a walking library of their past mistakes.) Anyway, having been sent photos of Kennedy's injuries shortly after the attack, I can confidently tell you (as I told the FBI) that Kennedy was not killed with a Biffo 4. The dimple pattern was all wrong. You are innocent. And there's a simple way to fix your shanking. Hit the greens. ###

About The Author

Kay Wall won the inaugural Mona Schreiber Prize for Humorous Fiction and Non-Fiction (in which uniqueness is suggested, weirdness encouraged) in 2000.

Kay plays golf off single-figures and in 1996 won the Fiji Ladies Open Golf Championship.