I have always thought that I *should* play golf. I drink large gins with tonic, drive a Jaguar, read the Daily Telegraph, I can happily bore the back leg off any donkey with my views on why the world is going to hell in a handcart - and I wear wanky red trousers by choice. An ideal candidate!
The only thing that stops me is the thought of mixing with other golfers. OK, there are exceptions (including many who were there today) but good gracious me, they can moan! "The course was too short", "the veg was overcooked" "the wind was blowing in the wrong direction", "the plates weren't warmed", "I had brought the wrong coloured raffle tickets", "the pastry on the beef pie was soggy", "the custard served with the sponge pudding was too watery", "why wasn't wine included with the meal price", the coat hanger provided in the changing room was too narrow", "the red wine was thin and the white wine too cold".
When I announced that Sir John Stanley was coming to present the winning team captain with his prize, they started moaning about that, too. Apparently they had been promised Tracey Crouch and "she has better legs than Sir John Stanley". Never having seen Sir John's legs I was unable to comment (though I found it hard to argue).
Regardless of what non-golfers might think, I came away convinced that golf was a perfect example of Socialism. I have never quite witnessed such an "equal sharing of misery".
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