ARCHIVED GOLFHUMOUR

Definitely a shanker, I thought. Shanking's the cause of more golf suicides than any other fault. Closely followed by the yips, which would be number one except suicidal yippers keep jerking their hands away.

I nudged over my bucket of balls and told the guy to grab his 7-iron, so we could do some chipping. He backed away, hands shaking.

"N-n-n-no. Not that one. Don't make me pick up that one." Tears rolled down his cheek.

"Wow," I said, "you've got the shanks real bad, haven't you?"

"Eh?" He frowned at me. "I've never shanked in my life."

"Oh come on," I said, "everyone has shanked at some time. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

He inclined his head and stared at me. "It's EVP and ITC that are troubling my golf, not my swing. You were recommended on the Internet."

Oh no, I thought, not another nutter whose clubs are communicating with him.

"Look, mate. You probably haven't renewed your grips in years and they're squeaky and you think it's a voice but it actually isn't. Go and renew your grips." I turned away.

He sidled back around in front of me. "Please," he said, "just hear me out and listen to my clubs. Give me five minutes and if you reckon I'm imagining it, I'll go away and you'll never see me again."

I sighed. "Okay, fine. But I do not believe in Electronic Voice Phenomena or Instrumental TransCommunication."

He kept darting nervous glances at his clubs. "Wonder which one I should start with," he muttered. "Not the driver—the language's too foul. Not the putter—I'm not ready for shrieking. Definitely not the diabolic 7-iron..."

I strode over to his bag and electric trundler and seized the 3-iron. "We'll start with this."

The guy shut his eyes and put his fingers in his ears. I jabbed his chest with the 3-iron, hard enough so that he almost fell over and had to open his eyes ... and ears.

"Don't hold her so tight," he whispered, "you're strangling her."

He winced as I put the club in front of his face and squeezed harder. "In which case she'll shut up," I said.

He took my hand and lowered the club behind my back, cupping his hand beside his mouth so the rest of the clubs couldn't hear. "I've had 14 wives, who've all died in tragic circumstances, and each one has taken over a club."

I loosened my grip on the 3-iron. "Right, so you're a victim of ITC. Y'know, the average golfer would score better if they played with just a 3-iron. That'll reduce your problem by 13/14s. Go try it."

As I pulled the club from behind my back, he shrank away from me. "Did you hear that? Did you hear what the 3-iron accused me of?"

I cupped my ear. "It said you weren't a shanker, just a word that rhymes with it." I stared at his hands. "Which explains your terror of a tight grip. Let me see you swing."

He forced his hands deep into his pockets, somewhat alarming me, until I realised they were clenched into fists.

He fell against me, sobbing. Well, he would have, if I hadn't stepped aside. And he probably wouldn't have broken his nose, if he'd been able to get his hands out of his pockets.

"See that!" he screamed, blood streaming down his chin. "See what she did to me? They won't be happy till they get me to join them on the other side. PLEASE," he begged, "please make them stop. I've bought 10 sets of clubs but they keep shifting into the new ones."

"A blood sacrifice," I murmured, "I wonder..." I handed him the 3-iron. "I reckon you'll be alright now. Have a swing."

The guy tentatively hit a ball, a fat shot, but he looked rapt. He played another dozen shots, with each club, improving each time. "You're amazing," he said, "but do I have to give myself a blood nose before each game?"

"No," I said. "Just donate blood every month and I'm sure your wives will leave you alone."

He handed over a 100-dollar bill and pumped my hand. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he said, switching on his electric trundler.

After three steps an ethereal voice squeaked, "You won't get past your mum that easily."

"By the way," I shouted, "start carrying your clubs."