Teed off

There are those of us who, asked if we play golf, reply: ‘No, I like women.’ A relaxing game in pleasant surroundings it may be.

There are those of us who, asked if we play golf, reply: ‘No, I like women.’ A relaxing game in pleasant surroundings it may be. But that disappears under a landslide of regulations about shirt collars and footwear, penned by men who boast of ‘values’ yet are happy only when everyone in sight is Exactly Like Them, and not just in terms of gender. Maurice Flitcroft loved the game with a passion. Regulations less so.

A crane driver at Vickers shipyard in Barrow, Flitcroft reached his forties before discovering golf. He could afford neither the time nor the money to play at a club, so practised on waste ground, and occasionally the arm of his crane, from where he drove old balls into the North Sea. Determined beyond belief (as a child he conquered his fear of water by holding his head down in the bath), Flitcroft made the mistake of judging the Open by its name, and entered, qualifying for the 1976 Championship. It was his first ever full round. At 121 shots, it was the worst in Open history.

In any other sport that would have been the end of it. But among the many things forbidden in golf is a sense of humour, and the head of the Royal and Ancient, Keith Mackenzie, (‘50 per cent flesh, 30 per cent blazer and 20 per cent gin’) banned Flitcroft for life, not just from the Open but from every club in the land. Outraged, the would-be champion entered tournament after tournament, getting under the radar (not to mention Mackenzie’s skin) by using false names and disguises, the latter including deerstalker hats and Zapata moustaches dyed with food-colouring.