When I say posh, think posh as in Caddyshack or even the private sporting club in the Eddie Murphy/Dan Ackroyd triumph, Trading Places.
Here's a couple of sneaky shots of the massive gentlemen's changing rooms.
It's okay to look. I didn't shoot any sagging old club members.
Noice! Everything Mr Yeoh, Mr Cheung and Mr Walls (yes, printed names on lockers) could need after a ball chafing round of 18 including, fresh warm towels, complimentary sunscreen and Old Spice on tap.
And paintings of all the old golfing greats (except Harry Vardon. We'd be nowhere without the Vardon grip!) on the shitter walls.
To address Heritage's thoughtless oversight, here's a picture of Harry.
I thought of Harry when I hit this second shot onto a 310 metre par 4 green.
So excited about almost getting my second ever eagle I drove the motorized golf buggy somewhat erratically.
They weren't the only skidmarks experienced as Brett, my golfing partner had to change into a pair of the Country Club's complimentary underpants after I spun and almost flipped the buggy on the 17th fairway.
Fangin.
Lucky we were well endowed because we lost many balls in the rough during the round.
Here's me fishing one out of one of the course's many Jamie "Every Hole Shalt Have A Water Feature" Durie inspired pond/lake/swamp/creek things.
Brett took the photo on my camera=phone because he wanted to be there if I fell in.
I love the faith my mates have in me.
But I came through with the goods.
By shuffling the club out to....
As far....
As I could reach....
To...
Fish out....
With great....
Skill....
And....
With the perseverance....
And audacity....
That has made me....
A serviceable golfer...
I manage...
To...
Fish out...
A DUCK EGG!
Yes, I thought it was a ball until the very last second and no, I didn't put the egg on a tee and Happy Gilmore it to oblivion.
I would have been reduced to tears if I had to wipe duckling embryo remains off my five iron.
Fore!
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