DSC00129Having resolved to play in the medal on Saturday morning, it was with some trepidation that I opened the curtains at the crack of 07.30 hours and surveyed the meteorological circumstances. Few words were required to summarise the scene. Wet, overcast, windy and downright grim.

I should point out at this stage that my antipathy towards rain and wind and my preference for warm, calm conditions earned me the nickname of "Sun King" a few years ago. I feel it's only right that I at least try and live up to this by reserving my best performances for occasions when short sleeves and sun-screen are the order of the day.

As excuses go, however, heavy drizzle and a breeze off the North Sea are unlikely to cut the mustard in serious golfing circles, so I turned up at the clubhouse at 8.30am, clad in a variety of weatherproof gear and submitted to my fate. I was joined by a group of similarly bedecked members, each muttering darkly about the conditions and anticipating a lost opportunity for decent scoring and handicap reductions.

I was drawn out of the hat to play with a chap called Mike (real name withheld to protect the innocent). Mike played off 9 and was, in fact, a pretty decent golfer, but he was afflicted with a trait common to many golfers who have developed unrealistically high expectations of themselves. He seemed constantly disappointed with his game and seldom happy with any shot he played. He verbally abused himself regularly throughout the 18 holes and, by the end of the round, had convinced himself that he was a complete dud. These outbursts of golfing Tourette's would have been more understandable if he had indeed been truly awful, but he wasn't and he was playing with me - a genuine dud. He finished with a nett 80 which was pretty good in the conditions. He was actually a nice bloke and I hope he gets a few laughs elsewhere in his life. Golf is meant to be fun for God's sake.

Yours truly had an infuriating round, but at least I know why.

I played 18 holes with two chums last Thursday and, during my round, noticed that my driver was making an unusually strange sound on contact with the ball. It always did made a strange sound, but this sound was quite peculiar - like someone hitting an empty Coke can with a cheap biro pen. Closer examination revealed that it was well and truly bust. And to think that I paid £50 for it only two years ago! Outrageous!

I did manage to complete my round, but was compelled to consult a retail outlet during the week in search of a suitable replacement. While listening to a bewildering array of technical information about loft, shaft, weight and aerodynamics, I was near to glazing over. Realising that my earnest expression and sage nodding was giving the salesman the misleading and dangerous impression that I might be prepared to spend £400 on a single club, I decided to cut to the chase and reveal my maximum budget. I was directed towards a more modestly priced collection from which I made my choice. A Wilson Staff graphite shafted driver with a 10 degree loft if you must know. It looked and felt great, which were really my only two criteria.

So my erratic performance at the weekend was largely due to the fact that this was my new driver's first outing. I was all over the place and more sessions at the practice range are a must. My short game was pretty awful too with some of my putts bearing more than a passing resemblance to the work of an opening batsman. I've only myself to blame, of course, since I didn't take those lessons I had promised myself. The result was a 100+ card and a handicap which remains stubbornly at 23. Even with the mitigating circumstances, this was a poor performance from a man who has shown steady improvement for the past two seasons.

Further opportunities for golfing glory will present themselves in the next week or so. I can but hope that the weather will be more suited to the return of the Sun King.