Bank Account, check
Accommodation, check
Golf Clubs, check
Shoreditch lid. What?? Yes, obviously i've been hanging out in the wrong part of town with all the cool kids, with some camp hipster massaging texturising cream into my scalp convincing me it was a good idea to get an "asymmetrical disconnected look". This way I have the option of a quaiffe, waving it back or sweeping it to the side. After he'd towel dried my hair I look at my reflection, my cheek bones are flushed and bulging and inexplicably starting to almost merge into my nose; i'm permanently holding my stomach in as my belt buckle keeps digging into my overhanging belly flab and it hurts too much to breathe normally. It's started, i'm turning into an Aussie version of Joey, the type of guy who lives off a weekly KFC bargain bucket and eats the skin first. I need to give myself a hard look in the mirror but all i'm reminded of is a cross between Michael Macintyre and Robert Smith from The Cure.
Otherwise life progresses as normal. This lady "associate" member of Royal Adelaide was so taken by my golf she mentioned me to the Captain who promptly signed me up for a Saturday morning. I arrive only to find out that its a memorial medal on that day. I'd like to option not to partake but since every other member on the tee that morning has signed up I thought it would be poor show and against my better judgement I promptly hand over my $8 fee. Michael Jay, the Captain, is a marvellously charming, well heeled loquacious elderly man. He said he remembered playing in Adelaide in the 50s then studied in London in the 60s. Rather tall with a fluid left handed action, I hit a half decent drive off the shortish first before he crunched a low one with ran long into misfortunately-placed bunker. I caught my second a tad clean which ran over the back and recovered with a flukey long two-putt. Second hole is a long par 5, boomed two big hits to just short of the green and almost holed the chip for an eagle. I was playing beautifully, hitting the greens, chipping it close and holing the putts and somehow I was 2 under through 8. In true royal fashion we stopped at the hut for a sausage where I heard some guy off +3 was 3 under after 9 and that totally put me off and wanged my next drive into a bush on a short par 4 in an attempt to drive the green. I managed to get it back in the house in 73 shots which was impressive enough for the captain to buy me lunch.
In other golf news I also managed to play a charming municipal course in North Adelaide which for a public track was in decent nick. There was a junior comp on that day and it was heartening to observe the style and quality of the event. Boys playing with girls and 10 year olds with huge tour bags on trolleys with complimenting orange shorts and Rickie Fowler snap-backs. There were these jaggedy trees with multiple trunks and flat canopies like the ones you get i California, for a second I could have been on the Monterey Peninsula!
Alas I had to depart Adelaide for the bright lights of Melbourne and thought I'd take the scenic route along the great ocean road. First stop was Medindie, one of those small towns that's existence seems to have no reasoning, a one bit town a bit like Dornoch but without all the nice parts like a church or hotel, just a bowling club, bakery, second hand clothes shop and a huge 2nd-tier supermarket. As i started to exist town in awe of all the derelict rusty old farm equipment laid strewn in the fields aside the highway there was a huge sign "Lake Albert FC, School and Golf course. I do not recall why I decided to stop, maybe because the car was travelling conveniently slowly to make a turn and that my head was filled with pragmatic thoughts such as "well I may never get the opportunity to pass through these parts again ... " sort of thing. What greeted me was an outstanding golfing experience like none other.
Drove up a gravel path past a Footy Oval into skinny car park with the typical Secretary, captain, pro signs but very atypically with no other car in site. The clubhouse was this horrid small square concrete shack, all locked up with a tin sign on the outside saying "Put green fee money here"with an arrow pointing to a gap in the brickwork. I looked down the first hole, an OB wire fence down the right cordoning off the football field with a large oak tree on the left and the fairway gently swooping up to a slightly raised green with run offs on two sides. I thought "its a beautiful day, I've got time for a few free holes of golf". What followed was an absolute orgasm of golf. Second hole, par 5 demanding a fade down a fairway lined with trees, second shot encouraging you to lay up between these two short trees and then a wedge shot down the hill to a green with a background of rolling wheat fields. 3rd hole middling par 3 steeply up hill to a green surrounded by trees. 4th hole sharp dogleg where you drive down into a valley then play up to a green with a pin hidden up top on a back shelf with steep banking long of the green. A couple of par threes follow with play long and straight from elevated tees through a corridor of trees. It also featured two exceptional 3 shotters with double dog legs where you have to shape your shots, one with a lake down the right and one with OB long. A definite feature was little greens sloping from back to front perched up high where you are constantly chipping back off slanty lies. But the pierce de resistance was the 17th; it felt like you were playing in the masters. Playing all uphill, a rolling fairway all humpy bumpy like the 18th at St Andrews, a slight left kink with a big eisenhower esque tree. There were pinetrees all down the right complete with pin needles. You favour the right half of the fairway with your drive which pitches into some mounds facing towards. A challenging short approach to a green with a false front which runs into a linksy swales short of the green. Long left is a bunker, right the ball kicks down steeply into a trees and then half a dozen tall skinny trees frame the green long, sheltering the 18th tee.
I didn't bother changing before my round, partly cos there were no facilities so I was walking round in a skinny tee shirt emblazoned "University of Manchester" with a pair of seersucker trousers rolled-up to calf length, but I was the only person in the whole vicinity apart from a volunteer greenkeeper who'd driven his 60's Ford pickup onto the course to unload his tractor-cum-mower. The only thing I could think about on the way round was "if you just extend the green here, add a run off there, move these tree back 20 yards, add a second fairyway off the tee here, new championship tee pushed back 30 yards into the trees" it would be a bloody amazing course. It was still in pretty good shape considering this course didnt have any permanent staff and one hick of a local mowing the fairways with a domestic grass cutter. Along the coastal drive the landscape is stunning, full of sandhills, fields of thick forest with high trees, tussocky dunes, absolutely ripe for golf development. That been said - does anyone know how much it costs to buy and build a golf resort?!?
The only thing more outstanding piece of news is the guy who I stayed with that night. Staying in the fashionable getaway of Robe I found this guy's ricketty little house on Airbnb where he was hosting commercial fisherman staying over for the season. Typically one of them was English, obviously. From the moment I pulled into the driveway he literally didn't take a breath for about half an hour talking about his life and love of golf! And then he cooked me dinner. He made his money selling stuff on ebay that he imported from china whilst also being a part-time stand up comedian whilst also being an amateur golf journalists. His collection of useless golfing journals eclipsed even mine, comprised of old magazines, books and instruction manuals including one he'd even written himself titled "How to break 90". What a legend, if he can write that surely i've got a burgeoning career as the author of "Golf My Way: How to break 100". He just loved the game so much, just the way that I did as a child, he couldn't stop talking about I daren't tell him I went to St Andrews. The next morning at the crack of dawn we played a quick nine holes at Robe GC which was conveniently on the same road as where he lived. He showed me these new irons he was using imported from Japan which had been "nitrogen injected" to help make the face even more trampoline like. On a course less than 5000 metres with a swing like snake killer possibly the worst investment of all time. We played amongst the hills overlooking the sea to greens which were slick, firm and true, I just couldnt believe the quality of this course for $15, again put through a hole in the wall. However the second nine was absolute dross resembling a car park/ or Wimbledon Park but who was I to complain.
Back on the road I arrived at the signature feature of the Great Ocean road, the 12 Apostles. Don't bother, I mean seriously, its an example of how if you can make sometime out of nothing if you throw enough promotion at it. First of all, there's only 7 left. There's a huge Tesco esque car park and tourist centre, filled to the brim with dozens of tour buses and 100s of overdressed chinese tourists from young to old with identical poses for their family album. There are designed walkways and footbridges constructed from concentrete and steel so you can't even get that close to the cliffside. And then I had a social epiphany to explain all of this. The same for plagues, world wars, famine - overpopulation. How else could you spend days and hundreds of dollars travelling to a remote southern most tip of a huge country where you're greeted by hundreds of other non-locals.
Arriving in Melbourne at 5 o'clock is a scant reality check. Melbourne isnt a quaint romantic little surfing village, its quite an ugly grey looking monstrosity, and one of the fastest growing metropolises in the developed world and one of the largest cities east of Tokyo. Furthermore, everyone in the world complains their rush hour traffic is the worst but the queues in Melbourne are pretty bad. Then add in idea of having to get in the left lane to turn right and the swarms of city-workers and hipsters alike in single-file petalons wizzing passed your window.
Having spent a few days in the city the initial holiday novelty of being overseas away from home starts to wear off, and dawned upon me was the unalluring reality that this was my new life, my home and the sole responsibility of what to do with it was mine. Instant noodles were three times the price, I wasn't living in my own place and there was no FT weekend sections lying about with lounging furniture and plentiful coffee. For the first time since my arrival I really pondered today about UK life and what I'd be doing. Not with sadness more with curiosity and yet have no plans or thoughts of when I'd like to be back. One of the great comforts being in Melbourne is food! As I dropped off the rental car in town the first thing that greeted me was a whole plethora of asian food stalls; malaysian, singaporean, chinese but one above all others memorised me the most; with no indoor space to sit in there was this Korean "Large fried chicken shop", in neon hanging above a countertop. Below that there was an A4 printout of another sign "proud to sponsor MoMUSS, Malaysians of Melbourne University Student Society". How jealous was I. Next to the neon was another picture illuminated of a 30cm rule with a piece of fried chicken next to it and in small letters underneath that [ real sizes may vary]. What a warning to always read the small print. Anyway, I've had phenomenal taiwanese deep fried chicken and the extra crispy batter in american KFC is pretty special but what followed was another level of taste sensation. So it was a bit like schnitzel but way more unhealthyy as it was humungous, at least a quarter of a chicken, covered in a special korean spice rub, battered and then deep fried. And served with a can of full fat coke.
Having embraced my inner hipster I thought I had to complete the look with a set of vintage wheels, and by that I mean an old school 80s steel framed raleigh racer with racing handle bars, a snip at $150. My smugness bulged my skater helmet as I rode out of the bike recycle shop up the hill back to home. Unfortunately a mere 45 minutes later I realised I was not cool enough. My romantic preconception of riding a vintage had been conjured by watching light ladies in wayfarers, matching helmet, skinny jeans carrying messenger bags as if they riding straight out the pages of a glossy magazine, my portly framed and squat legs sat on the saddle like an elephant, the pants-seat was aching and I was sweating like a Pavarotti after eating too many Jalapenos. So naturally I solved this conundrum by throwing money at it and traded up to a proper lightweight aluminium road racer and I've been sitting in urban pelatons ever since. Only parallel with city living back home, cycling's still the best mode of transport.
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| Children playing beach cricket by sunset at Warringie Beach |
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| Drive up the 7th at Glenelg GC |
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| Looking down the 9th Green at Lake Albert GC |
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| 4th green at Robe Links |
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| End of the course at Port Fairy Golf Links |
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| View from the 2nd tee at Peterborough 9 hole course |
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| Long par 3 over coastline with adjacent golf ball |
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| Chinese tourists at 12 Apostles visitor stop |
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| Competitors at Rip Curl Pro-am, Bells Beach |
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| 13th Beach Golf Links, Barwon Heads |
But the part about living in Australia that is the undoubted discovery of the trip is spray-on "pants", I mean not to wear myself but to look at on members of the fairer sex. As tight as you can get with either the finished look of wearing a couple of pairs of extra thick tights or sheeny PVC, which can be just front half or full compliment, or a mixture of the two. In salsa the other day I saw a girl wearing a turquoise pair and its motivated me to return as the Chinese-Cuban king of the dancefloor. It's funny who you can meet on the 'floor like a graphic designer from Morpeth with one friend in common. She's also motivated me to work on my moves .....
There are dangerous activities that humans find weirdly entertaining; jumping out of aeroplanes, mountain climbing, motor-racing. But for me standing a few feet away from a man wielding 3 foot of willow wasn't one of them. Coming from England to Australia I thought I could fulfil a stereotype and act like I knew about cricket. I actually wanted to sign up for mixed netball but it was oddly over-subscribed, next down the list was indoor cricket. I liked the idea of this, no expansive running, rain or lead balls taped with leather. Or so I thought. So whenever one wants to discover a new adventure or needs to contact a new person I naturally turned to facebook. "Indoor cricket north melbourne" returned "Northcote indoor arena, home of cricket champions the knights". I posted "just moved to Australia from England and really keen to play some nets. Can bat and bowl a bit but don't expect Jacques Kallis". Almost instanteous reply "one short for tonight against wet ***** late cut, as long as you can bat like Ellyse Perry, lol".
In my smugness whilst cycling through the rain I smuggly thought to myself "mate, life is too easy" and like any momentarily period of heigthened selfness I was quickly returned to earth. If you think T20 is a crude and basterdised abbreviation of the game you havent seen anything quite like indoor. Shortened wicket inside a normal gymnasium but divided in two by netting, you only run halves, and your runs are multiplied by how far away the quadrant of netting you hit is. Teams comprised of 6, and each pair of batmen have 4 overs before switching over, only minus 5 runs for catches, bowled and stumpings. There were 6 divisions and I was put in Div 1. The barman asked "Are you Michael?". "Yep, Hi nice to meet you. By the way, is Division 1 the worst?". "No" he retorted, "its the best. And against guys with Victoria State stash on playing no-outs cricket on a shortened wicket with walls. Times like this you wish you had your second thoughts first.
I joined a team called "AJ's Superstars", and super we certainly weren't, a raggedy bunch of suburban misfits, as far away from public school gentlemen in linen jackets, trilbies and matching carrot coloured ties as you could get. More like a caricature's impression of the A-team crossed with the Big Bang theory. The captain Mick was a short bald middle-aged guy with a pot belly, who also played with his 16 year old daughter's boyfriend, his skinny mate from school, one guy who looked the spits of Louis Theroux and another old guy with a pony tale, glasses and smoked rollies. And then me of course, the guy who looks like PSY but sounds like Boris Johnson. I told them I used to be an opener so when we were put into bat, open the batting I did. Well stood in at No. 2 and promptly ran my partner out first bowl attempting a heroic baseball style one base steal. "Don't worry about it". Thanks for the advice. "He bowls quite quick, and swings quite a lot through the air" my partner murmured. No shit does it move, imagine a wet day in southern australia in a big room full of 60 heaving alpha males, less cricket think I really inflated dangerous form of table tennis. However sometimes the bowler just puts it in your slot at the right height. My first ball I on-drove straight passed the bowler. Second ball was quite a full inswinger, sneaky, so blocked it out like a good opener. Third ball off the hip ably guided down to third man. Fourth ball was pitched up a bit so swung hard, over the bowlers head but unfortunately caught out the back. But no dramas, still a reasonable effort for no protective gear or training for the last 18 years. Then obviously complacency swiftly followed by a bout of nerves set in and didn't even touch the ball for the next 11 balls, just sything the air manically like a possessed tree surgeon. A bit of a failure considering you have to run at least every 3rd ball.
Oh yeah and everyone bowls, which I only discovered seconds before my captain asked "You played indoor before?". "Oh yeah, used to play at school" i said. When I say at school I mean Rokeby primary sports camp summer of '95. At 12 years of age there's not much variation between heights and in terms of pre-pubescent cricket I used to put down absolute bombs. "What do you put down??" he followed, "Oh yeah, off the seam, I mean medium to slow, but not spin". "You're up". Shit. But to my delight I was actually almost competent, no double bounces or early releases straight at head height either. I thought I could limit the run race by trying to pitch around the ankle area, which I did with mild success. Then I got cocky and thought i could get it bouncing up a bit around the helmet, you know just to let the batting team who they're up against. However the indoor balls are still hard but a lot lighter and I was actually getting the ball to dip again before reaching the bat which the batsman send back straight passed my head with me making faux attempts to get my hands in the way of. Anyway by some freak of nature I managed a double run out (only in indoor cricket) and the huge teleprompt hanging over the courts let it be known [michael Chuung, 2/15]. My old PE teacher always did say "dream big enough and one day you'll have your name in lights".
Never really been one for fielding though, seriously like there's adrenalin fuelled adventurous physical sports where you might wake up with a sore back and a headache, and then there's standing at a short catching position; miscalculate your spatial awareness and you could wake up in hospital or forgo your ability to procreate. There's a reason its called silly point, what other athlete would think, oh yeah, stand 4 yards away from a metal ball travelling 100mph, that sounds like a fun recreational activity. The golf equivalent would be standing 10 foot infront of Bubba Watson downwind on a par 5. When it came to our turn my captain said "see that red line, little bit inside that, and be ready". Sage advice however I couldn't have been further from ready. I remember once at preseason with Sale FC I had to guard the inside channel whilst playing against an ex-Salford rugby league prop; everytime he got the ball my pants would get a little bit heavier. But this was a challenge higher, at least I knew how to play rugby. My heart rate was going circa 200 beats a minute, and everytime the batsman made contact I'd perform an aerial pirouette and meditate about what cricket with a soft ball in heaven would be like. Anyway I lived to tell the tale and been invited back next week for more punishment.
