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Dear Ms Kallas-Way
It's obvious that something's holding the average golfer back from achieving their full potential. And I've discovered that that 'something' is the average golfer's limited use of teachers.
Limited, as in using only living teachers, rather than calling on the accumulated knowledge of those who have passed over.
While most mediums channel Indian chiefs, Egyptian princesses or religious leaders, I specialise in channelling dead golfers. Specifically, dead pros.
I get the living golfer to swing the club they're having trouble with and channel the dead golfer through that club.
For instance, I've fixed a woman's slice with advice from Babe Zaharias, a man's hook with pointers from Ben Hogan and a child's poor putting was helped by Bobby Jones.
My problem is that recently, for every golfer who's sought my help, I've only been able to channel Bob Hope, who does nothing but make jokes.
How can I block Bob and open my channels of communication to real golfers?
Dear CHANNELLING
Why do you want to get rid of Bob? He lived to 100, played golf for 70 years and got his handicap as low as 4. He played more than 2,000 courses worldwide and took lessons from the local pro at most of them, so sounds an ideal person to 'channel'.
A sense of humour is a must for a golfer. If you can't join in with others' laughter at your game, you're doomed to haunt that solace of the solitary golfer, the driving range.
Bob produced some great golf quotes. "On one hole, I hit an alligator so hard that he's now my golf bag."
President Ford, "the man who made golf a contact sport" with his frequent errant shots into the gallery, was the target of many Hope zingers:
"Ford is easy to spot on the golf course. He drives the cart with the red cross painted on top."
"Whenever I play with him, I usually try to make a foursome—the president, myself, a paramedic and a faith healer."
You'll find that Bob's advice is as effective as any other dead golfer's.
Dear Ms Kallas-Way
I have no trouble at all, believing that we're descended from fish whose fins turned into limbs. My whole family has very stubby arms and legs and they drink like the proverbial.
And the reason they drink like the proverbial, is because we're golf fanatics but we're absolutely hopeless at it. Ponds, lakes, even dried out ditches ... as soon as they appear in sight, that's where our balls go.
We figured we'd beat this 'curse' by only playing courses which don't have water hazards but, alas, all golfers take a drink at some time during their rounds and, you guessed it, our balls make a beeline for them.
I'm a believer in reincarnation and figure that in the distant past, our family must have been really evil to now be so hopeless at the sport we live for. How can we overcome this major obstacle to family happiness?
Dear DESCENDED
It all comes back to which of three fish crawled out of the sea to conquer the land 400 million years ago, and the distinctive traits they left in the line of humanity they spawned.
Was it the lungfish, the coelacanth or the rhipidistia?
Having applied golf wisdom to the quandary (strangely, I seem to be the only person who's taken this obvious lead), I'm sure that all three left the sea. I've observed several families, exactly like yours, and can categorically state that your line descended from the lungfish—a fish that lacks the genetic 'courage' to finally let go of its watery habitat.
Unlike the lungfish, the rhipidistia became extinct and the line of humanity it spawned turned into baseball players—a game which has so many stoppages that all interest is extinct well before the last innings.
Whereas the coelacanth, which continually exudes an oil which is a laxative, left a line of non-sporting people who became virus-writers and spammers.
To overcome your fishy heritage, you must, in effect, take that extra step that the lungfish resisted. You must give up water—both imbibing and bathing. As everyone in your family is an alcoholic, this step shouldn't be too difficult.
Dear Ms Kallas-Way
I've been doing a bit of research into the family history and I've turned up some startling facts from 160 years ago.
You see, 160 years ago was when my family set up their golf-goods importing business in Ireland. But golf balls were really expensive and we couldn't afford to buy many, so we discovered that potatoes, four weeks before being ready for harvest, worked just as well as golf balls.
Naturally, we thought it would take several decades for the popularity of golf to spread throughout Ireland so there'd be enough spuds for golf and for eating but, you know the Irish. Once they get keen on something, there's no stopping them.
And the result, thanks to my ancestors, was starvation on a huge scale and the scattering of the Irish, all over the globe.
Although the family's managed to keep this info under wraps for one and a half centuries, it's bound to emerge eventually.
Should I come clean now, and throw myself on the world's mercy, or should I just accept the inevitable condemnation and take up a permanent position at Scott Base, in Antarctica?
Dear GUILT
Fear not condemnation as I have looked into your family history and discovered further facts.
Yes, your family used potatoes for golf balls but ... this could have helped, rather than caused the famine, by making the potatoes go further.
Purely because, by developing that well-known club, the 'mashie', your family invented mashed potato. Your great, great, great, great, great grandmother noticed that deep, square grooves not only gave the potato more distance but mashed it very effectively as well.
Unfortunately, the arrival of the potato blight meant that the potatoes mashed after just one shot so it was potato blight which led to your family's business going bankrupt and mass starvation.
© Kay Wall 2006