Best Laid Plans...

Writing comedy is easier if the writer is an idiot

BEST LAID PLANS

Many moons ago, I was invited to play in a celebrity golf day at the prestigious London Club in Kent. I was moderately famous at the time, but I still felt a little self-conscious meeting my fellow players and sensing their disappointment. To be fair, I ranked in the middle-to-low range on the table of available celebrities.

A league headed up by Hugh Grant, no less, and then came the late Ronnie Corbett, plus an array of sports stars from the world of rugby and football. Usually, there are not enough celebrities to go around, but on this day, there was a surfeit, and so my four-ball contained two ‘celebrities’ and two paying punters.

Myself (comedian, author, but these days, mainly blogger) and Jonathan Whalley, the actor. I know, me neither. I am delighted to be paired with Jonathan (known as Johnny, albeit still not better known. Instantly, we form an obscurity bond and could share our playing partners' celebrity disappointment.

I arrive at the course in good time and park my turquoise Fiat Multipla (3 seats in the front), which looks conspicuous amidst the mainly German cars, mostly two-seaters and with excessively large exhaust pipes. With me are my golf clubs and what I am wearing, a waterproof jacket (just in case) and nothing else. No umbrella. And no change of clothes for the inevitable dinner/prize giving afterwards. Not a jacket, let alone a shirt and tie. But I am fighting fit, and just like Prince Andrew, I hardly sweat, so my golf attire will be pristine and suitable for the meal.

And it’s June, so what chance of rain?

Let’s play golf.

By the ninth hole, the rain is coming in harder than golf balls. Almost horizontal. And the temperature has plummeted. Johnny and I are both soaked to the bone and freezing cold. My waterproof has given up entirely. It is not possible for me to be anymore wet. Johnny is older than me and visibly suffering. I notice that his fingers have turned blue, and I start to panic that he is about to have a heart attack, or this being a golf course, his final ever stroke.

Suddenly, off in the distance a hooter sounds.

The golf is abandoned due to unplayable conditions, and not before time.

I drive the buggy home fast. Foot to the floor, but Johnny is a heavy man, and we are both sodden. I need to get him warm and dry, and I wonder if there is a doctor amongst our party.

The clubhouse is mobbed with wet and freezing golfers.

Into the dressing rooms, Johnny jumps in a hot shower to revive his temperature, and only then does my predicament dawn on me.

All around me, men are stripping off their wet clothes. Next to them are suit bags with jackets and ironed shirts. Holdalls containing clean underwear and socks. Some even have toiletry bags. One guy is shaving. Another is blow-drying his hair.

Johnny is towelling down already and is clearly not going to die, which is a relief. I have saved his life, but now it is I who needs rescuing.

What the hell am I going to do?

In the shower, I am no more wet than I was on the course, but at least I am warm. But for my cold thoughts, the only things waiting for me are my soaking wet clothes. The only sensible thing to do is to make my apologies and leave because obviously, I can’t attend the dinner.

Damn it. What was I thinking? How could I arrive so unprepared? But it is rude not to attend the dinner and the charity fundraising auction. It is the reason why these days are organised.

Men are dried and dressed now. Warm and comfortable. Meanwhile, I have a plan: to blow-dry my clothes, but I worry about whether I can do this without drawing unusual looks.

Instead, I opt to iron my clothes dry.

Brilliant.

Wrapped in a towel, I find an employee and request an ironing board. Duly, it arrives, and I begin, ignoring any incredulous looks as I start to iron a sock. If anyone asks, I will explain that I just have very high standards. I set the iron to linen, put my steaming sock aside, and move on to my more important collared T-shirt.

Reluctantly, I decide that my underpants and socks are so wet they are beyond saving. Wearing no socks is a look now, of course, albeit a dubious one, but back then it certainly wasn’t, and yet I had no option. But showing my ankles would be the least of my problems.

After more frantic ironing, I pulled on my wet shirt and then pulled up my damp trousers. And with as much dignity as I could muster, I made my way into the bar and the throng. Wet clothes and no socks. The classic sports casual look, completed with my chin held high.

Immediately, I notice unusual looks in my direction. What are people staring at? Not at my celebrity, surely. Not when Hugh Grant is in the room.

One guy approaches me.

“What is that on your chest?”

I look down, but I can’t see anything untoward. I brush the fabric, and it feels different.

BACK IN THE locker room, I stare in a mirror with horror. On my chest is a burn mark in the shape of an iron. I now have three options.

1. To pretend it’s a design thing by burning the other side of the T-shirt in exactly the same way.

2. To dispense with ‘sports casual’ and dine topless.

3. To burst into tears.

But then something beautiful happens. Johnny Whalley comes to my rescue. He has a spare shirt which he is happy to lend me. This is good news, but with some obvious downsides. Johnny is a big man. Is it rude to suggest that he has grown into his surname? Six feet tall and at least sixteen stone. His white shirt drowns me. It’s more cassock than shirt. I look like an altar boy and the lack of socks only adds to my celestial look.

Ronnie Corbett would have been a better match-up, but I would never have asked one of my comedy heroes if he had a spare outfit.

Back in the bar, it is busy. Packed with ruddy-faced men determined to add to their colour with more beer and red wine. By some distance, I am the least comfortable person in the bar. I suspect that I am the only man who is commando. And my voluminous shirt looks like I am suffering with a horrendous wasting disease.

The London club is an American-style golf club. A large open-plan clubhouse with lots of different levels, all interconnected by small flights of stairs, and not ideal for a man with his ankles on show.

And now for an admission to add to this debacle…

I had been quite excited at the prospect of meeting Hugh Grant. You see, at this time in my life, I had written two films (screenplays) at varying stages of not being made, though I didn’t know it at the time. And the prospect of meeting and getting to know a genuine movie star was very exciting and could be profitable for both of us.

Who one knows and all that…

But during one of my frequent visits to the locker room throughout the meal, I decided that introducing myself to Mr Grant in such circumstances would be counterproductive.

I had duly bought my raffle tickets, but I didn’t wait for the draw. Knowing my luck, I would break a habit of a lifetime, and my numbers would be drawn. But then, in my oversized outfit, I would have to walk to the front of the room to collect my prize. A new top perhaps and some socks? At the earliest possible opportunity and without being rude, I headed home, leaving behind my underpants, socks and my T-shirt.

I laundered Johnny’s shirt and duly sent it to him with a letter of thanks.

I never did meet Mr Grant, and I never did get those films made. And even though, since then, I have endured many rounds of abject golf, I have never felt so vanquished and humiliated by the game as I did on this day.

And yet, somehow, it remains the game that I love.

For more comic reads of my chaotic life, click HERE for my TAKES ON LIFE .