Joe Slice 'The Scottish Play'

'The Scottish Play'

A Joe Slice story by Andy Hallam

Copyright Andy Hallam 2016

Dedication

To all golfers who may have had one too many malts after supper.

Card of the Course

THE SCOTTISH PLAY

Dedication

Card of the Course

Hole 1 'The Auld Curse'

Hole 2 'The Queen'

Hole 3 'The King'

Hole 4 'The Seashell Girl'

Hole 5 'Fidgety Burn'

Hole 6 'The Good Knight'

Hole 7 'The Witch'

Hole 8 'The Huntress'

Hole 9 'Auld Baggage'

Hole10 'The Dealer'

Hole11 'Salty Seadog'

Hole12 'The House of Sin'

Hole13 'Jail Birds'

Hole14 'Granite City'

Hole15 'Dead Pan'

Hole16 'Dutch Courage'

Hole17 'The Dead End'

Hole 18 'Amstelhammered'

Clubhouse 'Prologue'

Acknowledgement

Hole 1 'The Auld Curse'

The all too familiar opening notes of 'Moonraker' rose out from the ipod to break the dull silence. Joe roused himself just enough to reach bleary eyed for his old Rolex Oyster Date resting an arms length away on the dark mahogany bedside table, his strong calloused fingers fumbled across the polished wood surface until he felt the impact of his hand against a tall glass tumbler which in turn fell at first silently then noisily onto the cracked and yellowing lino covered bedroom floor shattering into numerous sharp and dangerous pieces...

Damn...!

Joe spluttered out a curse at his bleary misfortune and stupidity. His head throbbed like a evil toad, something from the underworld of alcoholic demons...

Why the hell don't I ever learn...?

There was just enough light from a chink in the brown velvet curtains to make out the sorry miserable room that surrounded him. A brown, dark, dingy, shit hole of a bedroom, en-suite yes but definitely not 'ahh... sweet', just sad and tired and tawdry and seventy quids worth to boot, a bargain, not. Perhaps, he thought as he found his watch and glanced down at the time, five past seven, the breakfast might make up for it, if he could keep it down that was. The soon to be thirty-eight year old golfer, ( could that really be true..?) heaved himself up to sit naked apart from his worn powder blue boxers on the edge of the sagging king sized bed. There was just enough time for a quick shower before lurching down to the dining room and a bite to eat before he'd have to get out to the range. Practice was the last thing Joe wanted to do but he was three over and in need of some inspiration. A three over par seventy- four after his inauspicious first round and in truth he was playing like an over-ripe turd.

Slipping out of his shorts he walked into the bathroom and used his flat palm to press on the wall switch. His bloodshot eyes squinted as the neon flickered on to fill the green painted and tiled room with an unearthly sickly light...

Good grief..

Joe glanced at his reflection in the dirty chipped mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight and he felt the immediate urge to vomit, not so much from the vision of his jaded unshaven features but from the residual smell in the basin, a mixture of last nights kebab and the seven or so pints of lager that he had released to freedom in the early hours, only some five hours to be precise before.

Ughhh God... Joe you mucky bastard...

Often on such occasions it had fallen to his trusty aide Billy to clear up after such unfortunate mishaps but last night his faithful caddie and sometime drinking partner had sensibly retired early. A hard days slog round the brutally unforgiving Carnoustie old links had seen him reduced to a hot bath and an early night. The canny Glaswegian's back was troubling him somewhat and there were times when even the self centred Joseph Slice had felt a slight twinge of sympathy for his old pal. A pro golf bag is some fifty pounds of pain to heave round a five mile obstacle course of greens and fairways and hills and rough, of waiting, standing round, picking up and putting down, cleaning and polishing and that was without all the encouraging and pampering to those sensitive professional players egos . To be honest Joe had hated caddying when he'd done his fair share as a boy, down at Royal Cinque Ports and Deal in Kent but he was glad the day came when his talent meant someone else would do the lugging around and he could just play the golf and enjoy the glory. Joe smiled a little grin in the mirror as he pictured poor old Bill stretching his back after yesterdays round.

Poor old Billy boy..ha ha..yes ...yer an old man now..!

Joe's face broke into a little chuckle. Yes Joe might be worrying about that ever nearer 'Fortieth' that was looming but his friend was already way past that milestone and the Scotsman's decrepitude gave the golfer some twisted comfort. He shook his head and turned the tap to pour some water into his open palms. Splashing his face he felt the cool refreshing liquid bring some relief from his hungover demeanour. He pulled his fingers back through his lank curly brown hair and down from the crown of his head, massaging the base of his neck as he attempted to release the knotted muscles that seamed to defiantly bent on stopping his head from sitting properly on his shoulders.

Oy vey..!

Today was going to be a struggle and Joe knew it. He gingerly stepped into the slippery shower cubicle with it's dank musky smell of old sweat and cheap soap and turned the cracked whitish plastic dial onto full.

-----------

In the flickering tube lit breakfast room Billy was seated alone at a table by the window overlooking Tayside Street. Between the assorted bungalows and seaside residences he could just glimpse the greyish steel glint of the North Sea. It was how you might say in these parts A wee bit dreich.. meaning wet and miserable. Billy had enjoyed a pair of delicious Arbroath Smokies for his breakfast and was now happily munching his way through several rounds of white toast with Dundee marmalade, washed down with his third cup of strong sweet milky tea. He noticed his pal entering the room in the corner of his eye..

Well well well... Jus look at wah the cats dragged in..

Morning Bill..

Joe did his best to ignore his still throbbing head...

Looks like a lovely day out there...can't wait !.

Joe's bluster was betrayed by his blood shot eyes...

I wont ask when ye made it ta ya bed..

Billy shook his head and made one of his gruff sarcastic laughs..

Deary deary me, when will ya ever learn Joe..not anytime time soon I knows that...

The golfer glanced down at the remains of fish bones and skin on Billy's plate and gulped down a sickly feeling in the back of his throat.

What the hell was that Bill.. a fuckin marlin ?

Nay laddie..Arbroath Smokies.. nothin like it...shall I get the lassie ta bring yas sum..

Joe put his hand up to his mouth to stop Billy in his tracks...

No... er no thanks... I'll just have some cereal I think....

A petite young waitress skipped over to their table adjusting her dark wavy hair slightly with her left hand as she approached the two men.

And wat can I get yas Sir..

She addressed Joe directly with a slight colour coming to her cheeks.

"I'll have some Orange juice please and a bowl of … um… Weetabix or something..?'

"Okays Sir...anythin else ?...'

No … no thanks that'll be fine...

The girl scampered off toward the kitchen as Joe gave her backside only a cursory ho hum sort of a glance. Quite cute but not really his type any more. He'd kind of grown out of such, innocent, shall we say girlie types. Anyway she was way too young, the last couple of years Joe had begun to feel somewhat uncomfortable with chasing anyone under twenty-five or so. It wasn't a set rule and of course rules are made to be broken aren't they but for the moment at least that was kind of where he'd drawn the line. It was he guessed as all or most men do, indeed have to, as they get older. Being a relatively famous sportsman had of course given him ample opportunity to bend such guidelines of personal morality from time to time but he was ..shall we say ...maturing in his tastes.

Pretty wee burd...

Billy chipped in as he saw his friend remove his gaze from the waitress...

Now now Billy you old git ...eyes front...!

The Scotsman shrugged and gazed back out to the sea. The cereal came and went and it was soon time to make the short drive to the course. The old Masarati spluttered into life, there was definitely a problem with one of the cylinders, it had been playing up for a couple of months now, ever since Biaritz to be precise. Joe had meant to get it done but with this and that going on he hadn't got round to taking it down to the garage back in Englefield Green. He knew full well that if it wasn't sorted soon it would be curtains for the mighty black beast. That made him sad, so many miles, so many adventures here and there but age was now taking its toll on the old classic. They sped up Tayside Street and onto Links Road past the ugly leisure centre building to turn left onto an area called 'The Black Slab' which was surrounded by some public car parking and various media tents and such like. A security man waved Joe through after glancing briefly at his pass, Joe aimed for a space next to a bright yellow Ferrari he recognised as being owned by one Dave Trade, an Australian pro ranked ninth in the world last time he'd looked at the table. Joe liked Dave, he was cheery soul and enjoyed his success with the modesty of a man free of arrogance and any chips on the shoulder. A rare quality in these days of corporate correctness and marketing strategies, where golfers tend to more interested in racking in the cash than enjoying the fact that they are just playing a stupid game for a living. Joe felt most of the guys out there were miserable bastards at best and cherished the friendship of the few 'true players' of the game.

Billy heaved the big tour bag out of the car. It no longer had any sponsors logos prominently displayed, It was just big and blueish and had 'Joe Slice' written in gold italics on the front, there was also a rather sad little Union Jack below said name which had somehow got part torn off, probably on its journey through some airport luggage handling system. The pair made their way down the path that led to the practice area and past the construction work of the new visitor centre / clubhouse which was due to open in a year or so. Joe had seen the plans in the main hotel, it was going to look a bit like a semi modernist Mormon church or similar. Joe didn't know what was wrong with the old one, having little interest in the concept of golf becoming part of the tourist economy and meeting the needs of the wider golfing community and corporate growth within the Scottish tourism sector.

It'll be well nice when it's finished I'm sure..

Billy chipped in with his own opinion on the emerging concrete and steel monstrosity as Joe stepped carefully over some plywood sheeting which had been laid to cover some cabling in a shallow ditch. Billy nodded as he glanced sideways at the scaffolding and various men wearing yellow hats talking to each other about plans and sewerage etc. They seemed oblivious to the assorted golfing personages making there way to and fro the practice area and media village. They had of course 'real' work to get on with and the nuisance of an international golf tournament was no more than an awkward inconvenience to their construction work. On the other hand the new construction gave a slightly surreal background to the ongoing competition. It was bad enough to have all the usual tournament caravan packed in to every available spare acre but this made it even worse. These old courses weren't really designed to take all the associated circus of a modern day golf tournament, catering, spectators, hospitality, media and so on and so on. This wasn't as big as an 'Open', it was just a tale end Charlie of an event, the main tour was off in Florida or Singapore or somewhere, Joe didn't really know or care. He was here in a chilly late autumn Scotland with the North Sea as a background for a few days of clenched buttock attrition round one of the toughest old tracks in the world of golf. The championship course at Carnoustie is renowned the world over as a brutal test even in the warmest days of summer when it has shared its days in the sun as one of the true classic Open tests. For many years it was ignored as not quite up to the mark as an modern championship venue, too tricky, not enough room for the spectators, poor facilities etc. but the new hotel had changed all that and put the course more on a par with its rivals, the soon to be constructed clubhouse would further enhance all this. Joe had rather liked the place as it was, somehow trapped in another time. He quite fancied himself as one of the 'old guys' working their way between the many bunkers with hickory and guile. It gave him a kick to think of all those bearded and tweed suited men who stare out at you from old photographs playing the very same turf that he was walking. Putting on the same old greens and no doubt cursing the same rough that they found themselves thrashing through with nibliks and brassies.

Joe and Billy entered the practice ground. His pal Dave was there as expected wearing his usual flamboyant mix of canary yellows and greens. The Australian tended never to be understated in his dress sense. He was sporting a newly grown moustache and this combined with his unruly sward of wavy sun streaked brown hair albeit with a few lines of grey which made him look like some reject from a seventies gay dance troupe.

Gadday mate..

Gooday to you Sir...!

Joe grinned as he watched his Australasian compatriot smash a high drive some two-eighty through the air to land near the back of the mown area of the practice fairway.

Nice shot...hitting the ball well me old matey.....

Yeah none too shabby Joe...hows about you.....

Joe didn't reply instantly but just proceeded to pull on a worn white cabretta glove that Billy had handed to him. After sighing slightly he made one of his pained expressions...

Ah well ..not so great ...not great at all I'm affraid...

Dave looked at the start list...

Yer just three over mate...you can get back from that...no probs...

The Aussie lined up a Titleist and bashed another long straight drive down the range.

Yes.. I guess so Dave but it's just not quite there this week... you know how it is..

Nothin to do with ladies is it...?

The Australian knew all to well how his colleague found it difficult to concentrate when there was a woman in his sights.

Joe popped a ball onto a long white tee peg and after making a few cursory practice swings and a little stretch of his back he lined up his Ping driver at the back of the ball...

Jeesssh..!

Dave watched casually as Joe's shot made a weird dull ringing sound as it came off the edge of the clubface and flew no more knee high before skidding to premature halt on the tightly mown grass about two hundred yards away.

See what I mean...!

Joe was wringing his hands as the pain of his miss hit flared through his fingers …

"Owwch mate..that's a brown-eyed mullet..!'

The Aussies simplistic turn of phrase summed up Joe's feelings exactly.

Maybes hit a few wedges first Joe..before unleashing the big chappie..Ayy ..?.....

Billy chipped in with a few words of wisdom which as usual fell on deaf ears as Joe lined up another drive.

Your too tense Joe... ya yanking the thing like you want ta strangle it...relax...!

The Australian turned to the canny Scot...

Alright Billy my old cobber...?..

Dave belatedly acknowledged the caddies presence. It was one of those strange things in golfing circles that even today there remains this unspoken distance between many golfers and their caddies. Almost a sort of master come servant or Wooster / Jeeves kind of vibe. The caddies were there sure enough, they weren't completely invisible but then again still very much on the sidelines and this tended to remain even in a more relaxed environment like here on the practice range. Billy had got used to it over the years, in this instance even though he'd known Dave for ages he still had to wait for the slightest nod to acknowledge his being present, even the Australians burly caddie Bob Hawk had only given him a begrudging 'aulwright' as they arrived on the ground but that was more down to Bob being a miserable old fart than any intentional snub. In truth the Pros lived in their own little bubble where they were really only interested in their own backswings and follow throughs, the caddies were there to carry their bags and take the shit and suffer in silence. There was no need for them to be seen as, let us say it, equals. As close as Billy and Joe had become off the course when back in the swing of it they kind of reverted to type and the conventional rules of etiquette, or lack of it, it was just the norm. Billy wasn't really bothered. In fact he couldn't give a monkeys most of the time but sometimes on these long grey days immersed in the efforts of getting the best out of 'Yer mans' game his mind did quite often wander of and he wished he was somewhere else. Somewhere where he was seen as a man and not as a bloody workhorse wearing a yellow bib with Joe fucking Slice written on his back.

Shite..shite...shite..!

Joe made another ugly swing and this time carved his ball off to the right. Billy tried to think of something to say but decided to just rest his elbow on the Blue and white Nike bag and remain silent.

Perhaps yer letting yer elbow come away a bit mate...?

The Australian chipped in with some more words of unwelcome Antipodean 'wisdom'.

You know, maybes try an rotate abit, keep it tighter...in the old elbow department..

Joe didn't respond, it wasn't the norm, the done thing, to comment on another's swing just before the start of a round, unless of course , the advice was asked for. Joe bit his lip, he was an Australian for Pete's sake, you had to make allowances for such...

I'll take that wedge now Bill..

Joe handed over his driver and Billy held out the vintage MacGregor Tourney classic.

Still using that old piece of shite mate...strewth..

Quality Mister Trade...Quality...you can keep your bloody cavity backs.....

At heart Joe was quite a traditionalist, he loved his old wedges, re-shafted of course with modern steel and tweeked and polished, but you just couldn't beat the feel from those old forged heads. He took his stance and made a good three-quarter backswing smoothly finessing a nice half punched wedge some one hundred yards or so, the ball biting into the turf and pulling up almost dead.

That's more like like it matey..at least you've still got it at the business end......

The business end being the short approach shots that Joe had always excelled in, pitching, chipping, no problemo. It was the big stick that was his Achilles heel. Joe had tried a thousand drivers over the years but just as he felt he'd found 'the one' he would fall out of love with it just as quickly. It was like that with his women, he'd feel so good early on, so full of passion and desire for the goddess he'd just bedded but then inevitably he'd start to see the little flaws, the patch of skin where the wax hadn't quite worked and left a some stubble, the annoying little phrase that made him squirm when in company, the silly small talk that girls always make when chatting. It would all begin to grate, to make him glance away dreaming of new fields and new adventures. It was him looking for an excuse, a way out of any real commitment. Of him not being prepared to settle down, of taking the rough with the smooth, of accepting that perfection is just an impossible dream and so it was with the big stick. He'd think this was it, the one to stay with, the Ping, the Calloway, the Nike, the latest, best and the mostist. The longest and the straightest but no, it would just never be, they would let him down just when he'd trusted them and when he'd needed them most and instead of that solid two-ninety down the middle they would go off the rails and find the rough or out of bounds or go off with that slimy smart suited arsehole at the party, never to be trusted again. Of course what Joe would never admit to, was that just as often as not he could be one of those arseholes, he could be the wise guy, one of those game players, a predator. In truth it was people like him that he didn't trust, why would you and he didn't really trust any women who fancied him. He knew exactly what they wanted from him, the fame, the nice life, the people being envious of their lifestyle, having an international sportsman for a boyfriend, 'Wow' what a catch.. but the real catch today was just as he didn't trust himself to hit a straight drive when he needed it, he equally didn't trust himself to fall properly in love with someone, not with someone as fickle as most of the women he slept with.

Joe had warmed up enough and after a couple of reasonably hit three irons he said his good lucks to Dave and nodded to a couple of the other guys still out practising as he and Billy made their way to the starters tent. Billy was all the while checking the clubs and making sure the bag was well supplied with balls and tees and assorted drinks and energy bars. He didn't want to have any slip ups today because he knew Joe was going to be walking on eggshells for most if not all of the round. It was going to be tough to make up the two or three shots they needed to make the cut. Joe was very quiet, much more so than usual and Billy could feel the building tension in his friends demeanour. Standing next to the starters little white tent were their playing partners for the day. Tom Barlett from LA, with his caddie Stian a tall Norwegian and Micky Tropp from Sussex and his bag man the ancient Eric Poole, a cockney geezer ' ann proud ov it...awlright..! '. Billy and Joe had played with and against them several times over the years. Yesterday had been convivial, if a bit stressed but at least they were