Form Favours the Foolhardy

Form is temporary. Form is fickle. Form is, well, gone. The headline news is no returns this week. I have successfully withdrawn £00.00 from my accounts and find myself financially and emotionally destitute. 

On Sunday I went to the most amazing intimate gig in the world. S Club 7 (now S Club 2) were performing at a local venue, accompanied by a foam party. Oh what fun! Committing to this event was difficult, given that it was planned for a Sunday evening , and that's when the golf finished. However, I was able to act cleverly, and not make my chums think I like golf more than I like them. It was fairly swiftly on Friday that I was able to surmise that the golf would not finish on time, no matter what. It was my ace in the hole. "I'll be there," I said, "Tell people I'm going," which was wishful thinking. Still, come the evening on Sunday, I knew I'd played my trump card, with the golf set for a Monday finish, and my chaps in reasonable positions, I was able to enjoy myself. The wine (coughrosècough) was flowing hard and we bumped in to a couple of fine chaps from Sheffield. This, I decided,  was a good omen. "Danny Willett is from Sheffield," I was thinking to myself, "Perhaps they know him"
"Do you know Danny Willett?" I asked. 
"No."
"Oh."
Then I decided to shut up and use my brain. "What’s the population of Sheffield?" I wondered. I reasoned that the Crucible could probably house a few thousand, but it wouldn't be busy all the time. I pondered how many former steel mills might have been converted in to luxury accommodation and decided that the population was probably about forty or fifty people. It therefore seemed unreasonable that these two chaps wouldn't know Danny, but I couldn't ask again. In the end, I decided to just spill my friend's drink.

At around this point I received a text from Mumsy telling me that would be required to help cut a tree down the next day, and requesting that I not drink too much. Showing my friends the text we all fell about laughing, so I responded with a hearty "Hahahahaha" for show. As an addendum I confirmed to Mother that I would be able to help, as I am a good boy really. 

As the night intensified, my memory hazes. Two for one cocktails sounds like a stunning idea, especially when you buy by the pitcher, but goodness does it demolish brain cells. Long Island Iced Tea is incredibly inappropriately named and should be called Long Island Iced Death given its innate ability to kill me.

All of a sudden, I found myself face to face with Bradley and Jo from S Club. They didn't appear quite as I remember them...but it was them. Instantly I was transported to my youth, of dancing around to S Club in my living room, and anywhere else I happened to hear them. Reach for the Stars was always my favourite, and this night it would prove to be no different. I went absolutely loopy when it came on, and in my inebriated state probably looked a little like a stroke victim being stuck with a cattle prod. Little did I care though as I realised what this was to mean. It was an omen, obviously, that Thomas Aiken was going to win the golfery and make me bundles of cash, probably enough to build a rocket to the stars. This moment of clarity was immediately celebrated by much more drinking. 

Before I knew it the night was over. Compulsory kebab shop carnage ensued and I was beside myself with glee watching the fighting, and just before I could open a book on the action some kind of action squad came in and got everyone arrested. Boring. 

Unfortunately the next day it was clear that the prophetic crooning meant something different entirely, and I was not going to be fortunate enough to build a rocket ship set for the stars. My previously well placed golfists were obviously hampered by the news that the tournament would be set to finish after just 54 holes.

In my last post I spoke of the hope I had. Hoffman was creaming through the field on a 3rd and now final round high and I started thinking about how I could spend my money, probably starting by paying for the Sunday night out. Aiken was also making headway up the leader board, before another delay. I have benefited before from having a weather delay, as it gave one of my players who was close to crashing out of the tournament a chance to get his head together and play better. But the last thing I wanted to happen was have my players who were on a hot streak forced in to the club house and cooling off.

And that is exactly what happened, Hoffers and Aikers cooled off and failed to place.

My European Tour fancies also failed to make any traction, and I am left penniless. Destitute and hopeless I wonder why I even bother.

But not for long, bad streaks end, and mine will end with a hammer blow to the bookies bank balances.