Day 4: The New Course at St. Andrews (Wednesday, July 1, 2009)

After leaving our testicles behind at Royal Aberdeen (I forgot to mention in my last post that the women who we let play through on No. 10 had already finished the Back Nine and lunch by the time we ended our rounds), and drinking our asses off at the Marcliffe, it was finally time to head Home – to the proverbial Home of every golfer, that is, St. Andrews.

So, we piled into the van and started our roughly 90-minuted drive to St. Andrews.

(As an aside, I’d like to note here that by this point in the trip, Dean had gotten comfortable enough with us to start saying, “Hey, you fucking douche bags!” pretty much every time he saw us. Whether we were loading our clubs or luggage onto the coach, finishing up a round, or we if just bumped into him walking around town – he’s a resident of my new favorite city on the planet – his inevitable greeting to us was “Hey, you fucking douche bags!” I’m not sure if it was just the phrase or the way he said it in his Scottish accent, but we’d all start cracking up whenever he said it – which was quite often by the end of the trip. If I haven’t already noted it, I should say here that Dean was pretty hilarious and fit in perfectly with the group.)

Anyway, on the drive to St. Andrews, Jake filled us in with his plans for his future sons, which was something along the lines of having them grow up on the West Side of Cincinnati, followed by them becoming football stars at Elder (despite the fact that he never bothered to do so himself) and so on and so forth.

Uncle Steve’s response to Jake’s vehement assertion on his future sons: “Jake is the type of person that East Siders look at and say, ‘What the fuck?’”

At long last, we rolled into St. Andrews at about 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, all of the bull shit travel issues that we had been through to get there long since forgotten.

Al I can say about my first impressions of the place (which were confirmed with every passing minute we spent there) is that if there is in fact a heaven, I’d have to imagine it’s something like St. Andrews.

With seven different golf courses, 13,000 residents (all of whom are among the nicest people you’ll ever meet) and at least one pub within a stone’s throw in any direction, St. Andrews is to golfers what Vatican City is to Catholics; what Mecca is to Muslims; what Jerusalem is to Jews (at least I think those last two are right; as an attendee of Catholic schools for 12 years, I barely even knew there were other religions — let alone where the followers of those other religions might worship. But I digress.) From the moment we pulled into town until the second we left, we were worshipping at the Church of Old Tom Morris, and those who came before him. (For those of you who don’t know who Old Tom Morris is, go do your own damn research! Just kidding. The Cliff’s Notes version is he’s one of the greatest and most famous golfers — and course designers — to ever play the game, which he did so at the Old Course. He’s also buried at the St. Andrews cathedral grounds. I could go on, but I’ll spare you.)

In other words, St. Andrews was indescribable. (I take that back – it was the most glorious/magnificent/wonderful/splendid fucking place I’ve ever been.)

After pulling up and seeing it for the first time in person, I can understand why I’ve heard stories of grown men weeping as the prepare to tee off on No. 1 of the Old Course. Those of you who know me well know that I don’t ever get too excited about much of anything. But at St. Andrews, I felt like a little kid again. The ear-to-ear grins on everyone’s faces (even Chris, who’s probably even less-excitable than me) pretty much told the same story as well.

You couldn't get rid of the smile on any of these faces when we first arrived in St. Andrews. That wasn't necessarily the same story for all of us once we teed it up (specifically, me).

The New Course

Unfortunately, the wonderment of arriving at St. Andrews didn’t necessarily translate into terribly good play on the New Course – at least for me. Despite the struggles I had score-wise, the course was an absolute joy to play. Difficult, yet fair, the New Course was a good test of golf, but one that could yield a good score. As with every course we got to play while we were in Scotland, playing your second shot from the fairway made things muuuch, much easier. Let me correct that statement: playing your second shot from your own fairway made things much easier.

Regretfully, I didn’t spend a lot of time on the holes we were supposed to be playing, as I hit nearly every drive about 50 yards to the right. For those of you who know him, I looked like the Erhart of old out there, playing a “power fade.” In reality, I was hitting a push-slice, which lead to a rather long afternoon for my group and me. Adding to my woes was my shitty caddy (the first I had had all week), who essentially stopped helping me look for my wayward tee shots by the time we reached No. 14.

Anyway, for Round 4 (our first at St. Andrews) we thought it would fun to play a round of the old guys (aka bad guys) vs. the young guys (aka good guys). Ergo, the teams were:

• Team 1: Jim, Mark, Steve, and Tom
• Team 2: Chris, Jake, Joe, and Nick

We decided upon the same format as the day before (four 2-ball scores, four 3-ball scores, and one 4-ball score per side) for the Old vs. Young shootout.

Day 4 Results

It pains me to write this, but the old men ran away with the victory on Day 4. As a member of the Young (aka Losing) Team I feel like there were a few factors that contributed to this outcome:

1. Jake and I spent more time on the wrong holes than the correct ones, as both of us hit drives that sailed so far right they often ended up on another hole’s fairway.
2. None of the young guys really played a complete, solid round of golf – Chris and Nick looked good at times but I didn’t get the impression either one was thrilled with his round.
3. The young guys’ caddy took his job very seriously was a fucking drunkard (I think he may have been hungover – and we played at Noon) who sucked ass and helped only me (if you can call it help – he checked his cell phone every five minutes on the back nine. This was the service I received for my £55 – roughly $96). Conversely, the old guys had an All-Star caddy (Graham), who read everyone’s putts and apparently did an outstanding job.
4. The young guys were clearly being a bunch of sandbaggin’ sons-a-bitches because we all new the Old Course was still to come. (I kid, I kid. Relax, old guys, you won fair and square.)

Anyway, here’s what everyone fired:

Name	Out	In	Total	Skins
1. Steve	39	39	78	0
2. Nick	43	42	85	2
t3. Mark	42	44	86	2
t3. Tom	42	44	86	1
t6. Chris	42	45	87	0
t6. Jim	44	43	87	0
7. Jake	47	46	93	0
8. Joe	45	49	94	0
Team 1	-8	-1	-9
Team 2	-2	+6	+4

Douchebag of the Day

I must admit, writing this portion of the post is extremely difficult, given the recipient. Sadly, I was unable to avoid our trip’s version of the Scarlet Letter (aka Douchebag of the Day). Despite all the clamoring for Jake to take this title (and believe me, I’ve received quite a few requests), I beat him to the punch, as he scored better than me in a round of golf. I don’t know which is more disgraceful: being named D-Bag of the Day or losing to Jake (Jake!) after all the smack-talking I did.

Little did I know in this pic taken prior to our round on the New Course that I would end up playing my worst round of the week and take home D-bag of the Day dishonors.

But it doesn’t stop there, it gets worse. Jake beating me in a round of golf was one thing (as they say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then), but what really cemented me as a total D-Bag on this day was that I was too big of a pussy to tell my shitty caddy not to return the next morning to carry my bag on the Old Course. My re-enactment of the scene:

Joe (handing over £55 and thinking, ‘You don’t deserve any of this money, you jack ass,’): “Thanks for all the help, Chris.”

Chris the Caddy: “Aye. Would you like me to come back tomorrow at 7, then?” (Our tee time the next day was at 7 a.m.)

Joe (thinking, ‘Fuck no, I don’t want you to come not help me on the Old Course, you fucking dope,’ but acting like the biggest pussy/d-bag in the world): “Sure.”

Chris the Caddy (thinking, ‘Sucker,’): “See you at 7, then.”

So, congratulations, me! You went above and beyond the trip and were the biggest D-Bag in the world today!

Day 3: Royal Aberdeen (Tuesday, June 30)

As I said to everyone in the group upon finishing, if I could describe this course in one word, it would be, “Merciless.”

Talk about a true test of golf. I’m not exaggerating when I say there were some fairways that were only 10 yards wide – with some of the thickest heather (grass) you’ve ever seen just a few paces outside of that, and bunkers everywhere you looked.

To put it simply, Royal Aberdeen made – almost – all of us its bitch. (The one exception was Uncle Steve, who fired an other-wordly 79. I’m still amazed at that one. Mr. Coffaro said it was a treat to watch, and I don’t doubt it one bit.)

In addition to the ultra-wide fairways, there was a “light breeze” (according to our caddy, Alex, who plays to a 1 handicap, up from a .3 earlier this year) of about 10-15 mph.

There’s not much to say about the course – other than the fact that it absolutely beat us down. It was a pretty course and we didn’t have the issues with fog that we had had the day before at Cruden Bay, but to be honest, some fog might not have been bad because there weren’t too many shots I hit that I actually cared to watch.

The teams for Day 3 were as follows:

• Team 1: Chris, Jim, Mark, and Steve
• Team 2: Jake, Joe, Nick, and Tom

In somewhat of a tactical error, we changed the game up a bit for Round 3. For this round, each group used four 2-ball scores, four 3-ball scores, and one 4-ball score on each Nine.  By the time the dust had settled, the teams tied as each squad finished a ludicrous +9 for the day. The clear winner on this day (aside from the obvious, Uncle Steve) was Royal Aberdeen. The rest of us were a bunch of fucking losers. But damn it, we still had fun.

After our round, we headed back to the hotel and got cleaned up, after which Dean drove us into Aberdeen (3^rd largest city in Scotland, with 400,000 people) for a delightful meal at “The Filling Station.” We started off with our first taste of the local delicacy Haggis – in the form of Haggis balls. (No, not those kinds of balls. Get your minds out of the gutter, you fucking perverts.) This was simply a dish of haggis formed into ball-sized bites. I believe everyone had at least a taste and agreed that haggis wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounds. In fact, it kind of reminded us of goetta.

The gents dining on some haggis balls at the Filling Station. (As much as it sounds to the contrary, I swear there was nothing homosexual about this meal.)

After our meal, we headed up the street to take a quick look around the town. However, we only got about three doors away from the restaurant before seeing an entire window filled with nothing but shelves of liquor bottles. Obviously, this was a store we could not pass up. (In fact, we decided at that moment that this was our version of window-shopping.) So, we poked our heads in and looked around. When we left, everyone had purchased a cigar and Mr. Mendel and Mr. Coffaro bought a nice bottle of Scotch.

(Actually, writing this just reminded me that I forgot to mention our dinner from the night before, when we dined at the Marcliffe at Pitfodels, which was the night of Jake’s infamous Rabbit Balls picture. I’m fairly certain everyone had an absolutely fantastic meal. However, I don’t think it’s possible that anyone enjoyed his food more than me. I had the lamb, and as I told the group that night, the fat from my lamb chops was better than any steak I had ever eaten. Although that’s a slight exaggeration, the lamb – and the fat – was fucking incredible, and was easily the best I’d ever had.)

Now then, I’ll get back to the Scotch and cigars. Upon finishing “shopping” we headed back to the hotel and decided to congregate in a cozy little courtyard in the center of the hotel. As was the case with every single destination of the week, the Doc, Mr. Mendel, and Mr. Coffaro were the first to arrive. But the rest of us followed soon after, and we were notified that nobody was allowed to the leave the table until the entire bottle of Scotch had been downed. That proved to be quite a simple task, as we watched the bottle gradually disappear whilst shooting the shit, telling old drinking stories, and laughing our asses off. In fact, the one bottle proved to not be enough for the lot of us drunkards, so we followed it up with a few pints of our favorite brew of the trip, Tennent’s. (I think some of the other rooms’ occupants may not have enjoyed us too much by the night’s end. But that was no problem, because we were out of the hotel and on our way to St. Andrew’s early the next morning anyway.)

There were plenty of laughs during our night of scotch and cigars in the Marcliffes courtyard.

To say we had a good time that night would be a tremendous understatement. We had a fucking fantastic time, as we acted like ghastly, vulgar, fat and rude Americans. (A note about that last comment: That description was taken from the title of an actual story in one of the newspapers we read over there. I’d link to the story, but for some reason the link is broken to the page and won’t display. However, the titles of the article: “Ghastly, vulgar, fat and rude – and I don’t mean Americans” By Santhnam Sanghera.)

Chris told quite a few entertaining stories in the courtyard at Marcliffes. I think he talked more that night than the whole rest of the trip combined. We drank a little booze that night. I wonder if these two observations are connected in some way?

Day 3 Results

As noted above, Uncle Steve was the lone bad ass on this day, with everyone else heading home with their tails between their legs – or a large object shoved up their ass. Jake’s comment after the round (with a huge smile on his face, of course): “I took a big one up the ass today.” With a smile like that, he must like ‘em big. Without further ado, the carnage that was our scorecards at Royal Aberdeen:

Name	Out	In	Total	Skins
1. Steve	39	40	79	3
2. Nick	46	44	90	2
3. Jim	45	49	94	1
t5. Joe	46	49	95	1
t5. Tom	42	53	95	0
6. Chris	46	50	96	0
7. Jake	50	49	99	1
8. Mark	47	53	100	0
Team 1	+3	+6	+9
Team 2	-1	+10	+9

Douchebag of the Day

In an interesting turn of events, we decided to name multiple D-bags of the Day after our round at Royal Aberdeen. At first, we thought we would actually go with an inanimate object and give the course the title for this day. But after a little discussion and a quick review, we decided there was a better option: the whole group (all eight of us) earned D-bag of the Day (dis)honors.

And although the rationale for this could have easily been our play at the course, that actually wasn’t the reason we went in that direction. The real reason (much to Mr. Mendel’s chagrin) is that both of our foursomes allowed a group of women, yes women, to play through. It actually pains me a little to even write that. But, sadly, it’s true. Since we spent the whole day trudging through the heather and gorse looking for our wayward shots, and every time we looked back we saw three golf balls on the green, we decided it might be best to just let the ladies pass on through. The feeling was, in a word, demoralizing.

After the round, we asked Dean if he had ever let a woman play through in any round he had ever played. His response: “Fuck no.”

So, for letting three women play through our groups at Royal Aberdeen, the whole group was awarded D-bag of the Day for Round 3. Congratulations, you big bunch of pussies (me included)!

These fucking douche bags let a group of women play through! What a disgrace to their own gender. I feel ashamed.

Time to vent

(Mrs. Mendel, if you’re happen to still be checking the blog and you’re planning on reading this post, I’d re-think it. I’m not very happy. And I’m about to be dropping my favorite word an awful lot.)

To say I’m angry right now would be an incredible understatement. First things first, I apparently got a little too ambitious with the whole photo galleries in the blog posts — I guess wordpress just isn’t cut out for it. This week has been maddening trying to fucking upload pictures into these posts. And every time I post photos and everything looks fine, I log back on and see those fucking little blue question marks where my photos used to be and I start to pull my hair out. So, I’m going to scrap the whole galleries, and just post what I have written with various photos. When I find a better place to host all the photos, I’ll compile them all and send a link for viewing those.

Now then, contributing to my overwhelming anger is my fucking idiot friend, Baird. Granted, the man had a rough day yesterday; however, that did not excuse his uncouth/disgusting/inconsiderate/deplorable/bush-league behavior this morning. You see, Baird fucking pissed on our couch last night. So, while I should have been working on this fucking blog, I was actually cleaning up his fucking piss. The sad thing is, pissing on the couch isn’t even really that big of a deal to me. I know plenty of people who have wet the bed/couch/ground after imbibing a bit too much, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a few rough nights of drinking over the years – perhaps even once or twice waking up in a little urine of my own.

Now then, all that being said, I would never have done any of the following things that Baird did after pissing on my couch last night:

1. Not tell the person who lived at the residence where I pissed. (Baird told Erhart this morning, yet neglected to mention it to me, the person who has to fucking live where the idiot pissed.) We’ll call this Strike One.

2. Leave towels and/or blankets covered in said urine sitting on the fucking couch where I just pissed. (Yes, Baird did this. And, to be honest, this wasn’t even close to the worst thing he did. We’re still getting to that.) This would be Strike Two.

3. This is where Baird cemented himself as the most inconsiderate fuck I’ve ever known: He cleaned his piss up with the towel that was hanging on the rack in my bathroom. The one I use when I shower. AND THEN HE PUT THE FUCKING TOWEL BACK ON THE FUCKING RACK. AND DID NOT FUCKING MENTION THIS TO ANYONE.

I got out of the shower today, grabbed my towel to dry off, and almost vomited as I brought it toward me and was hit with the overwhelmingly fucking revolting odor of Baird’s piss. Luckily, the foul stench was strong enough that I was unable to even bring the towel close enough to dry off. But, still, are you fucking serious? Who does that? Honestly. I mean, what the fuck could have possibly been going through his thick fucking skull? What’s the thought process for cleaning up your urine with someone’s towel and then putting it back on the fucking rack where it was, as if nothing happened? Did he think I wouldn’t notice? And if so, did he want me to rub his piss all over myself? Is this some sort of sick fucking joke that I don’t find even remotely humorous? Or is he just that inconsiderate that he didn’t even stop to think, ‘Oh wait, this looks like a fucking bath towel. Maybe I shouldn’t put this piss-covered towel back because that would clearly give the appearance that it had not been used for said piss cleaning.’ We’ll call this Steerike Three. You’re out, fuckhead.

As you can tell, I’m not too thrilled with my friend’s (mis-)conduct from this morning. So, without further ado, the graphic stylings of one Elisa Bigner, who captured the essence of my words with the following photo:

Jack + Baird = Piss everywhere

Slowly but surely

So, I realize a few days have passed and I haven’t updated the blog like I said I would. In my defense, I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure out the best way to use a picture gallery on this thing – but I think I finally have it figured out. Now then, one other issue I came across was whether or not to finish my prior posts or to simply re-post the content as new posts. After messing around with the Royal Marine hotel/Royal Dornoch post for most of the past two days, I think I’ve decided I’ll do a little bit of both. So, if I update an old post, I’ll do so using red text to signify that something has changed. Other than that, I’m going to try to cut and paste my comments from Day 2 into this post and then go from there. (I apologize — and understand — if what I’m writing doesn’t make sense to you. Basically, I’m writing it down so that I have it for myself as a reference and I don’t forget it. So, feel free to bypass all this worthlessness and skip straight to the recap of Day 2. Whoops. Guess we’re already there.)

Day 2: Cruden Bay (Monday, June 29)

Monday started off on a very good note. After getting our first solid night’s rest in three nights, everyone woke up in better spirits, and it showed on the bus.

Dean was kind enough to move our tee time at Cruden Bay back two hours so that we could “sleep in” until 7:30 or 8 a.m. Thank God. The extra two hours of sleep was glorious and much needed, and the group looked much better this morning than any other morning thus far.

We hit the road at about 8:45 a.m. (still feeling like it was 3:45 a.m., which it is back home) to embark on a roughly 4-hour drive to our next destination: Cruden Bay Golf Club.

Some funny quotes from the random discussions on the way over:

• “You can’t delete a picture you didn’t take”

– Chinese philosopher PhotoWang, after I uploaded his 100+ photos from the first 3 days (2 of which were spent in airports only) of our trip onto my computer.

• “Chicks and Ticks” – Inside joke. Don’t ask. Seriously.

• Thoughts on Donald Trump :
  • The Scotish perspective per Dean, our driver for the week: “When a Scot visits New York City, he says, ‘There’s Trump Tower. Let’s go take a piss on it.’”
  • The English perspective, per Tom Mendel, and agreed upon by everyone else:“That guy’s the King of the Douche Bags.”

• Nick’s friend Neville’s exchange with a caddy while playing in Scotland:
  • Neville (who’s from Scotland, after hitting a wayward tee shot): “Do you think I can find that one?”
  • Caddy’s response: “You could wrap that ball in bacon and Lassie wouldn’t find it.”

The Course

I think we were all in agreement that Cruden Bay was one of the most beautiful course we’ve ever played (if not the most beautiful). Unfortunately, for most of the Front Nine, the course was ensconced in a thick fog, which limited our visibility. Apparently the view from the No. 9 is absolutely incredible. At least that’s what we’re told – we couldn’t see any further than five feet in front of us. But on the Back Nine, the fog cleared out and we had some great views, including the one below of Chris playing his ball from the beach – literally.

Chris hit a slightly wayward drive on No. 14. Luckily he was able to locate his ball. Even luckier, the tide hadn’t had a chance to take it yet.

Anyway, for Round 2, these were the teams:

• Team 1: Chris, Joe, Nick, and Steve
• Team 2: Jake, Jim, Mark , and Tom

We played a slightly different version of the game we played in Round 1, instead using nine 2-ball scores and nine 3-ball scores in each group. Since I’ve had a limited amount of time to do actual writing, I’ll spare you the explanation for what that means. But suffice it to say that me and the Chaney boys put an ole’ fashion butt-whuppin’ on Team 2, running away with an 11-shot victory.

In addition to the great quotes on the bus ride to Cruden Bay, there were also a few gems on the course, particularly from Joe the Caddy.

• “Our Dean” (ask Chris about that gem of a comment from Jake) and one of his fellow drivers on the prospect of us playing from the middle tees instead of the back tees:

“If you can’t handle it, we can fit ya for 8 dresses after the Front Nine.”

• Joe the Caddy commenting on Nick’s tee shot on No. 5 (which was a fucking monster drive, which is how Nick has been hitting his drives this week):

“That’s rootin’, tootin’, shootin’.”

• Nick’s name for Team 2 (Jake, Jim, Mark, and Tom):

“The Old Men and the Douche.”

• Joe the Caddy commenting on Chris’s drive (he pushed his tee shot a wee bit to the right. And you did not want to go right on this particular hole. On a side note, I followed this tee shot with a shot of my own on the exact same line):

“Aye yi yi.”

• Chris commenting on playing from the North Sea beach:

“Joe the Caddy had no good tips for me on how to play from the beach.”

• Uncle Steve looking through the telescope at the clubhouse back at Team 2, still out on the course. (Team 2 was still teeing off on No. 16 while Team 1 was enjoying some Tennent’s in the clubhouse.):

“Jake looks like John Daly.” (Note: This was in reference to Jake’s physical appearance, not his golf game. Not that one is really better than the other. Just thought I’d point it out. Also, to be fair, No. 16 was quite a ways away from the clubhouse.)

• Jake’s comment on Uncle Steve’s comment:

“Up close, I’m a physical specimen.”

• Jake’s potential new nicknames for the trip following Uncle Steve’s comment:
  • John Jake Daly
  • J.J.
  • John Jake Daly Douche
  • J.J.D.D.
• My comment on the fact that college-age girls don’t wait tables in Scotland because there’s no money in it. (This quote was referring to cart girls in the States):

“The bigger the tits, the bigger the tips.” (This doesn’t apply to me, of course, but to the general masses. I have high personal standards, and the size of a woman’s chest has no bearing on the amount I tip her for services rendered. As an aside, I’d like to point out that this is the great thing about being the writer of the blog – I can defend my uncouth actions. As for everyone else on the trip – mainly Jake – they’re relegated to the “Comments” section.)

Day 2 Results

I’m going to take a moment to relish this, because I don’t often get the opportunity to make a comment such as this, but I was actually the low man at Cruden Bay. (I know most of you are probably surprised – it’ pretty damn shocking to me as well.) In addition, as I mentioned above, Team 1 ran away with the win on Day 2. The scores:

Name	Out	In	Total	Skins
1. Joe	43	37	80	1
2. Steve	39	43	82	1
3. Nick	41	42	83	2
4. Chris	43	42	85	2
5. Mark	46	40	86	0
6. Tom	48	45	93	2
7. Jake	50	46	96	2
8. Jim	49	48	97	1
Team 1	-9	-3	-12
Team 2	E	-1	-1

Douchebag of the Day

Once again, nobody did anything particularly embarrassing, so we took the easy way out and based the D-Bag of the Day on the person who didn’t win any skins. So, congratulations, Jim Coffaro! (I should note here that I forgot to mention that this was the same reason the Doc was the clear choice for D-Bag of the Day on Day 1. My apologies, Dad.)

Mr. Coffaro won D-Bag of the Day because he didn't have any skins - not because of his unkempt appearance in this photo. (Although, I figured this would be the most appropriate pic, given his title for the day.)

Cruden Bay photos:

We’re still bad asses on Day 2

View of the course from the clubhouse before the round

Another view of the course from the clubhouse before the round

View from the clubhouse after the round (the fog cleared out for most of the Back Nine)

Uncle Steve driving into the fog

Great view for this tee shot from Chris

I’m pretty sure this one had to split the fairway

Nick’s still hitting from the wrong side of the ball

Nick, after drilling his tee shot on this hole: “The yardage book says this hole is a ‘full 3 shotter.’ I swung at that one wanting to prove the guy who wrote the yardage book wrong.” And he did – knocking it on the green in 2 shots, using driver, 4-iron.

“What happened to my club?”

Uncle Steve hits a shot into the fog as Joe the Caddy critiques his swing.

“Where the fuck did that one go? I can’t see a damn thing.”

(The Victorious) Team 1, with “the best view on the course” in the background. Unfortunately, the fog hung around about 25 minutes too long.

Team 2 (halfway home to their beat down) at the same spot as Team 1 but 15 minutes later. Still not quite clear in the background.

The Chaney men apparently wanted to be close to each other on this Par 3, No. 11. (Per the yardage book: ‘Do NOT miss to the right.’ Care to guess where these three balls ended up?)

Chris on the long journey out to his ball on the beach

The shot didn’t look as good as this pose lets on

Still on the beach but no water in the pic now. How’d that happen?

Uncle Steve teeing off on No. 15, a 236-yard Par 3. Oh, did I forget to mention it’s a blind shot to the green?

Incredible views weren’t hard to come by at Cruden Bay

I didn’t play with Jake but there’s one thing I can guarantee here: This shot couldn’t have looked anywhere close to as good as the setting.

Mr. Mendel teeing off on No. 15

Mr. Coffaro considering teeing off on No. 15

The Doc getting ready to rip one down the middle

Apparently it’s not just nut-sucking rabbits that get Jake excited – I guess the sheep in the distance make him “perk up” as well. (Or maybe he’s just cold?)

Another change in plans

Unfortunately, I didn’t get everything finished that I would have liked to today. I ended up attending a layout for one of Elle’s family friend’s grandparents, so my plans have sort of had to change in regards to the blog. I was able to organize all the pictures I uploaded from my Dad’s and Uncle Steve’s cameras, so I’ll try to post some photos later tonight. But chances are I won’t get around to finishing everything up until Tuesday or Wednesday night (I play poker on Mondays, so that’s out). Sorry for the delay (again).

Cheers.

– Joe

Un. Fucking. Believable.

Sorry for not being more eloquent or articulate about today but, quite frankly, I don’t know what else to say. I’ll provide a look back at some of the previous golf and good times when I get a chance. But, for now, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to briefly mention today. It’s currently 12:22 a.m. in Scotland, and the Doc is sawing logs in the bed next to me. (I’m typing verrry quitely, so as not to poke the bear. That could make for a long day tomorrow.) Basically, I think the only reason I’m even bothering to write this right now is that I don’t want this day to end. I just played the fucking Old Course at St. Andrew’s — twice. In one day. Let me repeat that, simply for my sake, so I can read it again.

I JUST PLAYED THE FUCKING OLD COURSE AT ST. ANDREW’S — TWICE. IN ONE DAY. (Side note: The name of the course is really just “The Old Course,” not “The Fucking Old Course.” I’m just that excited. Also, I like to use the word fuck. Mostly because for some reason, people tend to not like that and I’m not sure why. People, it’s just a fucking word. Calm the fuck down.)

To say I’m a bit excited/thrilled/overjoyed at the moment would be an understatement. They don’t have a word for what this day was like for me. In fact, I think I’ll make one up right now: fabfuckingtastieriffic. (Maybe the word needs a little work, but the feeling stands.)

Anyway, as I said, it’s now about 12:30 a.m. and I need to be up at 7 a.m. to play Carnoustie tomorrow. (I know. Rough life.) So my plan is to golf tomorrow, then do a little souvenir shopping, then get absolutely shitty for the first time on this trip after Andy Murray beats Roddick in the Wimbledon semifinals (yes, we’re rooting for the Scot because this place will be fucking nuts tomorrow night if he wins. Also, nobody really gives a shit about tennis in the U.S. anyway, right? And even if you do pretend to care, right now you’re reading this thinking, ‘That fucker’s right. I only give a shit about tennis about 3 weeks out of the year.’ By the way, for those of you currently wondering, the fourth Grand Slam is the Australian Open and it takes place before any of the other Grand Slams. I knew you weren’t a fucking fan.)

Now that I’m finished going off on that tangent, my plan is to write everything up while we travel home. Our flight leaves Edinburgh on Saturday at 9:25 a.m. GMT (supposedly) — that’s 4:25 a.m. EST, meaning I’ll have a good bit of time to gather all of our scores, stories, pics, etc. and right about the trip as a whole before we arrive back in the States.

I’m bummed I didn’t have more time to write about this stuff (we’ve met some great people and have some great stories), but I can’t complain about the past few days, which have basically consisted of the following routine: golf, eat, drink, sleep, repeat (we also fit a shower in here and there — but there really hasn’t been time for anything else).

So, to reiterate, I played the fucking Old Course at St. Andrew’s today — twice. In one day. I had an absolute blast both times, had a great caddy for both rounds who helped make it even more fun, and I actually played pretty fucking good. (78-81 ain’t too shabby in my book — even though I couldn’t keep up with that youngest fucking Chaney. Nicholas should consider changing the spelling of his first name to Nicklaus after today, as he fired an outstanding 77-75. So, kudos to you, Nick. You fucking douche bag. Side note: I’ll explain later, but that last comment is somewhat of an inside joke at the moment.)

Well, the Doc just rolled over and sighed, so that must mean it’s time for me to quit making all this noise. See all you fuckers in a couple days. (I played the fucking Old Course at St. Andrew’s today — twice. In one day.)

Cheers. — Joe

So little time, so much to do.

So I know I’ve been tardy with posts to the blog, but internet access has been scarce and expensive over here and time has even been scarcer. (If I’m not dumping a golf ball into some seriously thick fucking rough, I’m dumping some Tennent’s down my throat and shooting the shit with these assholes who’ve accompanied me.)

Anyway, without further ado, a look back at Days 2 & 3 of this incredible trip: (You can now see above posts for recaps of Days 2 & 3.)

On the Road to St. Andrew’s

In last night’s proverbial battle between me and the Scotch, the Scotch won. Waking up this morning (Wednesday) was not the easiest of tasks. (Nor was falling asleep with me sawing logs according to the Doc.) But it was well worth it after last night when we did our best Denny Crane/Allan Shore impression – drinkin Scotch, smoking stogeys, and listening to Chris (yes Chris) regale us with tales of promenading, do-si do-ing, and Nick’s interesting relationship with his “friend” Ashley.

Regardless of how any of us felt this morning, we soldier on. And it’s hard to not feel great when you’re headed to golf’s version of Athens, OH (aka “The Promised Land”).

On a personal note, Laura, we all hope you get “moving” today.

Now then, since I finally have some more time (we’re back on the bus driving to St. Andrew’s), here’s a look back at the past two days (Monday and Tuesday).

At this point, I’d like to note that I am missing quite a bit of essential info. The scores from Day 2, a photo of D-Bag of the Day, and scores from Day 3. As soon as I get my shit together, I’ll put it all on here. As for now, it’s roughly 10:40 p.m. over here and we need to be on the tee by 6:40 a.m. tomorrow or we get passed the fuck up. Seeing as how it’s isn’t likely I’ll be playing The Old Course at St. Andrew’s again anytime soon, I’m gonna go ahead and hit the sack. Whenever I have a decent amount of time, I’ll clean all this shit up, add scores and photos, and provide recaps of Day 3 (Royal Aberdeen) and Day 4 (The New Course at St. Andrew’s).

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Look, I’m not homophobic or anything. In fact, I think the gay community generally gets a bad wrap. I mean who really gives a fuck if two men or two women love each other and want to marry? They should have the opportunity to be just as miserable as the 51% of people who end their “sacred” marriages anyway. But I digress. The real reason for this post is to stop the insanity…of women asking me to give their men a kiss. Look, ladies, it ain’t happenin’.

Mrs. Mendel, I’m a big fan of your husband — but not in that way.

Christa, I’ve always enjoyed your dad’s company — but not enough to pucker up and give him a big wet one.

So I’m asking, begging, and pleading, please don’t ask me to kiss anyone who has accompanied me on this trip. It’s eight men. Me kissing anyone in Scotland is not going to happen — no matter how much Scotch or Tennent’s (it’s the Scottish version of Budweiser) I drink.

I’m glad you are reading about our adventures, but there is no Ambiguously Gay Duo here.

Just four married men (Jim, Mark, Steve, and Tom); three men in committed relationships, one who actually respects his girlfriend (Joe), and two who openly treat their girlfriends like second-class citizens (Jake and Chris); and one single guy who (mistakenly) thinks he’s God’s gift to women (Nick). [Quick tangent: Nick is clearly living in an alternate universe because I haven't seen one single female look in his direction this entire time -- not to say he would even want any of them to, though. We're currently on a mission to find at least one attractive female in Scotland. So far it's: Days 3. Good looking Scottish women: 0. We're rapidly running out of time.]

Side note: While there’s no Ambiguously Gay Duo here, there is the Openly Gay Duo of Jake and the Rabbit Who Sucks His Own Balls (see below).

Jake thinks this rabbit sucking on his own balls is pretty amazing. I feel like commenting any further would be too easy — like shooting fish in a barrel. So feel free to think of your own joke, which I’m sure will be just as good as anything I could write. (The possibilities are endless.)

Come to think of it, that might be more bestiality than homosexuality. (I’d like to take this moment to apologize for the sometimes vulgar nature of this blog. Please forgive my forthrightness, as well as my sick and perverted sense of humor. Also, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.)

Now then, here’s the Bottom Line: The whole point of this post is to let everyone know that these lips are reserved for one Elisa J. Bigner. They will not spend any time near any of the men on this trip. (Conversely, Jake’s lips could spend a little time near my ass if he wants to save some money, since I’ve whooped him so bad on the links this week.)

I guess that’s about it for now.  We’re about to grab some dinner (I know it’s 2 back in the states but it’s 7 p.m. here). Hopefully I’ll be able to come back and give a recap of the last two days of action. (Sneak Peek: I was the low man Tuesday; Uncle Steve kicked everyone’s ass Wednesday.) However, if things get a little unruly, I may have to postpone my writing until tomorrow. Then again, people always tell me I’m funnier when I’m drunk, so who knows. Until next time. — Joe

Retro-entry from June 27, 2009

(Given my state of mind last night, I was in no shape to do any writing – as evidence by whatever it was that I posted. So, I figured I’d take the opportunity to take a look back at Day 2 with a retro-entry after the fact.)

After putting our ordeal from Day 1 of the trip behind us, we moved on to bigger and better things – namely the Newark International Airport, where we spent 12+ hours on a layover.

But as much as the drive to Columbus and looong layover sucked, it was all worth it, as we learned that the 4:30 flight from Cincy to Newark on Saturday (which we were originally told to take after our flight was canceled) ended up being canceled as well. In other words, if we had done what Continental wanted us to do, they would have fucked up our whole trip and there’s no telling when we would have arrived in Scotland. (I absolutely despise Continental and everything they do. Buncha bums, if you ask me.)

In any event, we spent our time on the layover wisely – catching some much-needed zzz’s, eating some $15 philly cheesesteaks (who’s ever said NYC’s prices weren’t reasonable?), and enjoying some overly friendly service from our waiter Dan (“the Dick/Douche/Dumbass”) at Ruby’s Airport Diner. The Doc even spent some time checking out the airport’s Meditation Room.

This shot of Chris sleeping pretty much sums up our 12-hour layover at the Newark airport.

Finally, at approximately 8:30 p.m. Saturday (a full 25 hours after we were supposed to depart Newark), we boarded our plane. And then we waited another 45 minutes for other planes to take off prior to our flight leaving the ground.

I’ll spare you the details of the roughly 7-hour flight but suffice is to say it was nearly impossible to get comfortable, let alone get any sleep, and about 20 minutes into the flight there was so much turbulence that, for a moment, I thought for sure our trip would be coming to an end before it even began.

Luckily, I was wrong (in a rare instance), and we arrived safely at Edinburgh International Airport at roughly 8:52 a.m. GMT (3:52 a.m. EST) – approximately 37 hours after we left our humble abodes back home.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

The Fun Begins

So, after our 37-hour debacle, we immediately set foot on a golf course spent another 4 ½ hours driving to our first hotel – the Royal Marine in the city of Brora.

After getting cleaned up (one of the most necessary showers Jake’s ever taken – and that’s saying something), we headed over Royal Dornoch for our first 18 holes of the trip.

For the first round of the week, we figured we’d play a 4-man, 2-best ball pitting the two foursomes against each other. (For those of you who may be unfamiliar with golf, this means each foursome took its two best scores on every hole and then we added up the scores from every hole for that team’s total score. The winning team had the lowest overall score after all 18 holes.)

For Round 1, here’s how the teams broke down:

• Team 1: Joe, Nick, Mark, Steve
• Team 2: Chris, Jake, Jim, Tom

Finally, just 45 short hours after we embarked on our journey, we teed it up at Royal Dornoch to get our first taste of Scottish golf (which I figured would be pretty solid if it was half as good as our first taste of Scottish beer). But about three holes in (two of which I lost a ball on), I thought some of us might have bitten off a little more than we could chew.

Fortunately, no matter how poorly I hit the ball (and it was pretty damn bad at times), I could stop, take a look around, and realize I was playing one of the coolest courses in the world with some of my favorite people in the world. It’s hard to worry about the result of one stinking shot after taking all of that into consideration. (I know, I know, this is an optimistic outlook on things, which I’m generally not known for. But I figure if I can’t be optimistic on this trip, I don’t think I can ever be optimistic about anything.)

Now then, I will say that golf is a completely different game in Scotland than it is in the States – and it isn’t even close. The high shots we normally hit into soft, receptive greens are more or less useless over here, as every shot a person hits generally rolls for 50 yards or more – regardless of club, trajectory, or intention. Imagine playing golf on astroturf and you’ll get a pretty good idea of what it’s like playing golf in Scotland. But the hard surface is only the half of it, as the wind gusts so hard that it not only affects every drive, approach shot and chip, but also some putts.

I know it may not sound like it based on the comments above, but to put it simply, playing golf in Scotland is fucking incredible.

It’s physically demanding, at (most) times frustrating, challenging on a number of levels, mentally taxing, and occasionally laughable (like when Uncle Steve hit two pretty fantastic shots with his putter only to see the ball slowly roll off the green and 30 yards away each time). But when you hit a great shot, one that’s hit the way it’s meant to be hit on a Scottish links course, I’d argue there is no better feeling you will have for as long as you golf – even if you miss the putt that follows.

Here am I hitting my best shot of the day – a knock-down 6-iron that ended up 10 feet past the hole on the 160-yard, Par-3 6th. I missed the birdie putt, but after hitting that shot, I couldn’t have given a shit less.

Day 1 Results

Well, it’s embarrassing to admit it (because Team 1 had a caddy and Team 2 didn’t), but Team 2 (Chris, Jake, Jim, and Tom) took home the win on Day 1. The scores:

Name	Out	In	Total	Skins
1. Steve	46	38	84	1
2. Nick	44	42	86	2
3. Chris	50	41	91	1
4. Mark	47	45	92	0
5. Tom	49	44	93	2
t6. Jake	54	41	95	2
t6. Joe	48	47	95	1
8. Jim	52	47	99	1
Team 1	+5	-5	E
Team 2	+3	-4	-1

Douchebag of the Day

At some point during our roughly 48 hours of traveling, it was decided that each day of the trip we would nominate someone to be the “Douchebag of the Day.” It could be for any reason – a poor shot, a stupid comment or, in Jake’s case, just generally existing.

Since nobody did anything particularly idiotic or embarrassing on the first day, the clear choice for D-bag of the Day was the Doc (aka Group Captain; aka PhotoWang).

Congratulations, Dad!

Here we see the Douchebag of the Day dining after his round and enjoying his new title.

Despite Dad’s win, I must say that I was a very close second, and nearly took the crown from Day 1 based on my tying Jake in golf. There was plenty of smack talk between the two of us going into the round and I’m thoroughly embarrassed that he was able to earn a tie.

I’ll be back tomorrow to write about today (Monday, June 29th). Until then. Peace out.

– Joe

Royal Marine Hotel/Royal Dornoch Golf Club photos:

Here we see the Douchebag of the Day dining after his round and enjoying his new title.

Our first hotel – the Royal Marine

The Royal Marine

Royal Marine lobby

Tom and our driver, Dean, at the Royal Marine

Room 3 at the Royal Marine

Room 3 at the Royal Marine

The front lawn at the Royal Marine – 1

The front lawn at the Royal Marine – 2

Our coach for the week

Our first course – Royal Dornoch Golf Club

What a bunch of bad asses.

One of the many beautiful views at Royal Dornoch

Me blasting one out of a bunker to about 12 feet

Nick blasting one out of the same bunker to about 10 feet (you can see my ball in the background)

Uncle Steve hitting a bunker shot as our caddy, Ian, and I look on

Team 1 – we may have lost, but damn it, we looked good doing it

Nick hitting a shot at Royal Dornoch as Uncle Steve and I look on

Me and Nick standing in front of a gorse bush on No. 17 at Royal Dornoch

Team 2 (aka the winners) walking back to the van after the round

The cool set of brudders after Round 1 at Royal Dornoch

“I’m so discombobulated”

Apparently, I’ve said the phrase, “I’m so discombobulated” quite a few times today. And everyone let me hear about it. Well, I don’t know what else to say. Mr. Coffaro and Mr. Mendel calculated that we spent 37 hours straight traveling without a legitimate night’s rest. That needs to change. As soon as possible. So I’m going to bed. I’ll write something about today (Saturday) tomorrow. For anyone who’s curious about yesterday, I’m not even sure where to start. I’m too tired to think about what time/day it is back in the States. All I can say is that I’m beat (and discombobulated) and I’ll try to piece this all together tomorrow. I will say that we had a great time playing Royal Dornoch today. I’ll provide some details tomorrow after we golf. Until then.

– Joe