The Confessions of a Golfer

Mark Twain once said that golf was a good walk spoiled.  On the other hand golfing legend, Lee Trevino, said it was the most fun that he ever had with his clothes on!

Which serves to remind us that the world is divided into golfers and non-golfers?

In that respect I was quite unique. I was actually a non golfing golfer. I had all the gear...bag, boots and buggy. I really looked the part. Unfortunately what I did on the golf course bore no resemblance whatsoever to the grand and ancient game. I spent so much time in the rough that people asked me if I had been coached by Harry Butler, after his popular TV show of the 1970s, “In The Wild”.

Although I no longer play the game myself it should surprise no one that golf is the most played game in the world.From  Scotland, where it all began, to Japan where they have multi tiered, artificially grassed indoor driving ranges, golfers of all shapes, sizes and abilities take swipe after swipe at that little white ball. In my case it was definitely a case of swipe after swipe... after swipe. Quite often I missed the ball completely.

To a golfer, missing the ball altogether is most annoying. It is doubly annoying, really, because many years ago some smart alec good golfers established the tradition that if you had a “windy” (no, my dear, nothing to do with your digestive system) then you had buy your playing companions a jug of beer.

For years I had fellows clamouring to play with me. At first I imagined that this was due to my rugged good looks, elegant charm, rapier like wit and extremely modest disposition. But, no! It was merely in the hope that true to form, or lack of it, I would have some windies (does sound a little like digestive trouble, I'll admit) out on the course. They were rarely disappointed and enjoyed copious quantities of free beer at my expense.

 I had windies on the tee, on the fairways, in the rough, in the bunkers and on two infamous occasions on the very putting green itself.

On the first of these occasions I faced a 6 metre putt. About 20 feet in the old money.

As I lined the ball up with the hole I was distracted by a large black ant moving towards my ball from the rear. I swung at it and despatched it to the great anthill in the sky. 

My partners, however, all insisted that I had played at the ball and missed.

Rather miffed at their strict interpretation of the rules, and in something approaching high dudgeon (by the way, does anyone ever act in low dudgeon, or even just plain old dudgeon for that matter? But I digress.) I pushed my putter forward. I was determined to make very firm contact with the ball. Unfortunately my dudgeon was just a little too high. My club pushed forward too quickly, hit the ground behind the ball, bounced over it and took a small divot on the other side.

My ball was still on the green, as were my partners who were contorting themselves in paroxysms of mirth.

One, almost purple in the face, rolled around spluttering, “Guinness Book Of Records...two windies..(chortle)...two windies on the...on the..(long pause as he gasps for breath, his face now magenta)...on the green!”

Apparently these people saw some humour in the situation

Needless to say I had to purchase TWO jugs of beer as a result of that incident.

Back in the clubhouse my “friends” gleefully poured MY beer into other members’ glasses and cheerfully recounted the sorry event. For the remainder of the evening I suffered in silence as various people came up and told me, “ You know,Noel,  the main problem with your swing is that you are standing too close to the ball...after you’ve swung at it!” Once more the clubhouse would erupt in uproarious laughter.

A lesser man would have given up there and then.

 However, I did play one more game. It was at the beautiful Country Club course in Donnybrook where I happened to be teaching at that time.

I drove off from the No. 1 tee. The ball sliced viciously out of bounds across the roadway that runs between the fairway and the club’s bowling  greens.

As luck would have it, the Club Captain was driving up to the clubhouse along this road at the time and my ball completely shattered his windscreen. This obviously startled the life out of him. He swerved off the road, down a steep bank and rolled on to the bowling green, gouging out huge chunks of freshly mown turf as he went along.

In the process he knocked over three bowlers, crushed an eski full of cold cans and completely demolished a shelter shed erected at a busy bee earlier that very morning. Fortunately for the Club Captain, the car stopped rolling when it came to rest on top of the recently purchased electric “ride on” motor mower. Naturally enough, the Greenkeeper was not impressed by these proceedings. He was on the motor mower at the time.

After a while the confusion died down. The captain and the greenkeeper were extricated from the entangled machinery. Together, with those bowlers who could still walk, they proceeded up the bank to where I was standing on the first tee.

“Hey, you!” exclaimed the captain. “Do you know that you just sliced your ball out of bounds, smashed my windscreen, caused me to crash onto the bowling green, colliding with several bowlers, gouge up the greens, demolish the shelter shed, wreck the mower and nearly kill the greenkeeper?”

“Yes, I saw it all” I answered truthfully.

“You saw it all! You saw it all! Is that all you can say?” exploded the captain. “What are you going to do about it?” he yelled.

“Well, I’m not really sure what I CAN do about it.” I replied.  “Maybe if  I dropped my left hand down the club and brought my right wrist over a fraction it would straighten out my slice and...”

That was when they took my golf clubs off me.

Anyone want to buy a pair of golf shoes?

A Tale of Two Teachers

Whenever politicians talk about improving standards in education they generally say that teachers need to work harder or longer or should be much better qualified. The inference being that teachers generally are a shoddy lot responsible for just about every social ill. Various Federal Minister for Education have threatened strong government action unless teachers lift their game.

Since the arrival of NAPLAN in 2009, teachers have been commanded to improve literacy and numeracy levels throughout the country. This will no doubt not only reduce unemployment, but will also level out the balance of payments, reduce inflation, wipe out the trade deficit, increase the GNP, reduce taxation, cure the national health scheme, stop global warming, prevent bushfires and quite possibly even bring peace to Somalia.

Sometimes, some politicians, who have never seen the inside of classroom since leaving school, threaten that if standards don't improve then teachers should have their salaries cut or be dismissed. Now, with sagacious decisions like that from our leaders, is it any wonder that the rest of the world says that we really are The Clever Country!

The fact is that in many under achieving schools the teachers are sweating blood to improve the educational standards of their pupils. Unfortunately, they are under resourced in trying to cope with the many problems that are manifest in their classrooms, which are often a direct result of poverty, dysfunctional families and drug and alcohol abuse in the home.

Teachers need more school psychologists, more social workers, more adult support in their classrooms to assist them in educating increasing numbers of children who are suffering from what seems like an epidemic of emotional, intellectual and/or physical disabilities.

Politicians who criticise teachers for failing to improve standards are akin to army general who fail to give their troops any bullets and then blame them for losing the battle. To some, the government's criticism may seem a little harsh, but then governments have always been harsh with teachers. Two of the greatest teachers who ever lived were Jesus Christ and Socrates. Government crucified one and forced the other to commit suicide! Some would argue that little has changed in nearly 3000 years.

So, just how would Jesus and Socrates fair in today's educational climate? Thanks to The X Files, some internet bulletin boards and a couple of units in the Sociology of Education, we are now able to take a look.

Socrates accepted a teaching position at Ramshackle Community College and almost immediately fell foul of the administration. He was eventually dismissed under Section 86C of the Education Act for a poor professional attitude and a lack of teaching skills.

Part of his Adverse Report read as follows: "Socrates presents himself in a most unprofessional manner. He invariably arrives at school wrapped in an old sheet and wearing open toed leather thongs and no socks, which is quite contrary to the School Council's Dress Code. He does not seem to own a tie, or even a shirt.

Furthermore, he does not keep any data recording student performance.His lesson preparation is non existent. He does not use a Daily Work Pad and never has any work prepared for his lessons. In fact he rarely uses the classroom. He prefers to wander about in the school grounds with his students clamouring around him. He obviously has very poor knowledge of the subject matter that he is supposed to be teaching. He spends almost the entire time of each lesson asking questions of his students in the hope that their answers may enlighten him! However, their answers only add to his bewilderment, causing him to ask even more questions. Clearly no real learning is taking place and Socrates is a menace to our youth. He will be terminated."

After his dismissal, Socrates moved into marketing and the growth industry of Professional Development. He now has his own consultancy and presents seminars to New Agers entitled " Really Getting To Know Thyself Through Wisdom, Truth and Beauty " at $750 per person. No questions asked.

Jesus commenced teaching at Gonski Senior High School. On the first day Jesus said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called God's children. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see..."

At this point several students began interjecting in a disruptive and aggressive manner. "Hey, Dude, is this stuff part of our core curriculum?" asked Peter.

"Are we supposed to be summarising this for an essay?" questioned Andrew.

"Is this junk going to be our major semester assignment?" queried James.

"I want an extension. I doubt that I was here when you started this topic" demanded Thomas.

"None of this is in our set text book" grumbled Mark

"Is this rubbish remotely relevant to the real world of business and commercial accountability," sneered Judas.

The Principal of the school heard the commotion and called Jesus to his office for a Performance Management interview. He said, "None of what you are teaching is listed as a school priority. None of it is related to our School Development Plan for 2012-2016. There is no Strategic Plan for it, neither is there a budget item allocation to provide for relief teachers for staff in-servicing, audio visual aids, text books and the other resources needed to support and implement it. There are no assessment tools in place to evaluate the outcomes.

It is not included in our school's Management Information System. It does not conform to The Education Department's Mission Statement of Purpose and Ethos. It is not relevant to the Student Outcomes Statements. Furthermore it does not relate to any of the Education Department’s Key Performance Indicators. How can this school be accountable for what you are teaching when it doesn't even have a departmentally approved Performance Indicator?

The Parent Participation Committee, The P and C Association and every member of the School Council have all contacted me to complain that your teaching has strayed markedly from the set syllabus and is not within the approved curriculum guidelines. Under no circumstances can you continue to teach at this school."

Jesus wept.

The Confessions of a Jogger

When I was young I played quite a lot of sport and led a reasonably active life. However, the “Life. Be In It” brigade, and its international counterparts, have a lot to answer for.

 Two years ago the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission reported that more elderly Americans are getting injured while exercising. It stated that injuries from exercising have risen 54% in six years. At the same time injuries from more energetic activities, such as aerobic gym work, have risen even more alarmingly by a whopping, and painful, 173%.

Even cheerleaders are getting injured. The US National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury (NCCSI) reports that "In the last 25 years cheerleading has accounted for 63 percent of all high school direct catastrophic injuries to female athletes and 56 percent at the college level. Cheerleader injuries continue to increase each year, in part because the sport has evolved into a high-risk activity. Injuries from exercising have risen 54% in six years. At the same time injuries from more energetic activities, such as aerobic gym work, have risen even more alarmingly by a whopping, and painful, 173%."

Similar leisure injuries occur in Australia. In 2014, Flinders University published its report on Australian Sports Injuries Hospitalisations, 2011/12. The report revealed that 36 000 people, aged 15 years or over, were hospitalised because of a sports injury. The report warned that this was a significant underestimate of sports injuries, because many injuries did not result in hospitalisation. The injuries that Flinders University did record amounted to 79 000 days in hospital. That is the equivalent of 216.4 years of hospital care. And why did this happen?  It happened because concerted  television advertising campaigns  enticed perfectly contented middle aged individuals into physical activities that  eventually made them casualties in the Battle of the Bulge, Mark 2.

All over the world doctors continue to report increases in exercise related injuries, such as jogger’s ankle, tennis elbow, bike riders bottom, kite fliers finger burn, frisbee flingers forehead fracture and roller bladers ankle roll. The increase in athletic activities has caused painful outbreaks of shin splints, plantar fasciitis, ankle sprains, as well as achilles tendon, calf and pulled hamstring problems

Forty years ago I was an early victim of the get fit cult that lured husbands from their wives and even attracted entire families onto our streets, roads and parks.

When I was Principal at Three Springs Primary School in the early 1980s, a local charity decided to have a Fun Run. Surely, Fun Run is an oxymoron. They are two words that are mutually exclusive. As the school principal I thought I would set a good example by going in this 10 kilometre fund raiser. The idea was to get sponsors to promise to pay so much for every kilometre that I ran, or jogged or even walked. It was an exercise in total embarrassment. As I lumbered and stumbled past the 8 kilometre mark my eldest daughter skipped passed me, much to the merriment of the many onlookers who had taken the easy option of donating money without having to participate.

I quickly foresaw the horrendous human wreckage that was to litter the countryside as sedentary leisure lovers were shamed, cajoled and blackmailed into leaving the comfort of their lounge rooms for the dog eat dog physical fitness jungle outdoors.

It was the dog eat dog aspect of the health campaign that hastened my retirement from the runners' ranks.

Dog eat dog, unfortunately, is not what happened. It was dog eat ME! What started as a pleasant jog would end in an exercise in terror as dogs from near and far came far to near.To avoid this mongrel menace I ceased running around suburbia and took to jogging through the verdant, dew decked bushland of Perth’s fabulous Kings Park.

My fear of snakes was allayed by a certain Mr Harry Butler, who in those far off days, had assured me via his very popular television programme, "Into the Wild", that snakes are actually quite timid creatures. He said they would take evasive action whenever they heard the thud, thud, thud of a jogger’s joggers. (I must say that he described my running style perfectly).

This news gladdened my heart. As I jogged along the bush tracks that lace through the park, I gloried in the knowledge that not only was I getting fit but I was scaring the living daylights out of all those snakes. Macho stuff!

This, I reflected, is what jogging is all about. I actually began to lope along, breathing in deeply the crisp and tangy, aromatic air. Birds twittered musically overhead. My worldly cares dissolved. Life really was something to be in.

This euphoria lasted a full minute.

Bruno, a Doberman Pinscher of gargantuan proportions, suddenly appeared 50 metres down the track. He was headed in my direction. I knew his name was Bruno because his owner was a further 50 metres behind him yelling, “Heel, Bruno.  Bruno, here boy. Bruno, heel. Heel”. Bruno was either very deaf or  a drop out from dog obedience school. He just kept accelerating towards me.

“Don’t worry. He won’t bite you,” shouted Bruno’s owner.

I am sure that Bruno would never hurt his owner, but from where I stood (I had naturally stopped running as soon as Bruno came into view) it seemed that Bruno would take delight in hurting me a great deal.

I had vivid memories of my days as a telegram boy. As a secondary school student I often spent my summer holidays earning an honest shilling, pedalling around the suburbs of Perth delivering telegrams. On far too many occasions I was threatened and bitten by the householder’s faithful pet. Whenever I complained about a dog’s aggression, a kindly old lady would say of her pet, “Oh, but he doesn’t bite, dear.”

"He might not bite you,” I would loudly retort, “but he has just bitten me.” And I had the bloodied fang marks on my leg to prove it.

Anyhow, back to Bruno in Kings Park and me in a Banksia tree, up which I had hurriedly climbed. Bruno skidded to a halt at the base of my tree refuge, mouth agape, huge red tongue lolling over menacing rows of sharp white teeth. He tried unsuccessfully to climb my tree of refuge.

The owner finally arrived and looked up accusingly at me, as if, somehow, it was all my fault. “You startled him,” he complained, as he struggled to prise Bruno from the trunk of the tree. “He wouldn’t have bitten you,” he added.

This may have been true. Bruno might not have bitten me. He could have quite easily  swallowed me whole.

After this experience I decided to confine my jogging to the beautiful stretch of sand between Scarborough Beach and Trigg Island.  As a result I very nearly became the first man to RUN to Rottnest Island.

It was a mottled grey, unmuzzled greyhound that forced me to take to the surf. He chased me through the foam for 80 metres before I ran off the edge of the sandbank, plunged into a deep channel and the dog lost interest.

After that I gave up jogging and became a founding member of Athletes Anonymous. Whenever anyone had an urge to do anything athletic, such as participate in father/son football  or a mother/daughter netball match, they could ring Athletes Anonymous and a trained counsellor talked them out of it. Unfortunately, this marvellous organisation disbanded several years ago because the counsellors' union ruled that answering the phone was actually an athletic activity.  A pity really, because they could have thwarted the Life. Be In It mob’s efforts to turn us in to a nation of Willie Nelson’s...Back On The Road Again!

What followed my "running to Rottnest island" escapade was many years of peaceful inertia. Whenever I felt my lifestyle  under threat of enforced physical fitness, I would read again the sobering words of The American Safety Commission Report.

I hope everyone reads it because the increasing health oriented adverts on television are likely to rekindle the desire for fitness fanatics to again goad the rest of us sedentary soldiers into various undignified positions in the pursuit of  health,  hernias and hospitalisation.

I have seen it all before. It is not a pretty sight.

 

Going to the Dogs

It is well known that  school principals are often confronted with unusual and bizarre situations.

One morning four parents entered my office before school and their leader said gruffly, “What are you going to do about the school’s dog problem?” 

 

“What am I going to do about the school’s dog problem?” I slowly repeated. I often used this ploy as a delaying tactic to give my brain a chance to tune in.

“Yes, what are you going to do?”

“Well, I must say I haven’t actually seen any dogs around the school.” My good old brain had kicked in pretty quickly on this one. 

“No, not when you’re here in school time. But every morning between six and seven thirty about four or five cars drive up to the school oval. The owners let their dogs out to run around. Then, after they have done their dirty business on the grass, the owners call them back into the cars and they drive away.”

“Yes,” added another parent, “ and later on in the day our kids go out to daily phys. ed or playtime and get dog dirt all over their shoes. It’s disgusting.”

“And other people do the same thing with their dogs after five o’clock at night. What are you going to do about it?”

“Hmmm” I said as sagely as I could, waiting anxiously for my good old brain to get a handle on the problem. Unfortunately my brain just kept telling me that unless I camped  out on the oval all night I was not likely to come face to face with the dog menace. My brain kept saying, “Handball this one as quickly as you can.”

I leaned across my desk and said as decisively as I could, “ This is a public health problem. It is against the law to allow dogs on to school property. I’ll contact the local shire and get the Ranger to issue on the spot fines.” My brain gave me a round of applause. The four parents didn’t. They did nod slightly as they left my office. I rang the Ranger and told him of the dog problem.

“No worries, mate. We’ll be around straight away. Do you have the dogs tied up?”

“No. The owners bring the dogs to school before 7 a.m. and after five at night.”

“Sorry, pal. We only work eight till five each day. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

The next day the parents were back and not too happy with my news.

“I’ll get the local shire to put up some ‘No Dogs’ signs I said. The parents left. This time they didn’t nod.

About a week later the local shire erected six ‘No Dogs” signs around the school. That weekend some galoot in a four wheel drive knocked them down and took the signs as souvenirs. The parents came back. Very unimpressed. Their heads were not nodding but they were beginning to shake all over.

"What are you going to do about the school’s dog problem?” My brain was ready for them. More handball.

“I’m going to write a letter explaining the penalties and arrange a letter drop throughout the district.”

The next day they were back wanting to see the letter.

“Well, actually” I beamed,  “I thought instead of a negative  and nasty letter about penalties I’d  appeal to their better nature. I think it is better to be positive and try and inject a little humour into the situation. So I’ve written this poem instead. I think people will get the message.”

The parent leader looked grimly at me. “Humour!  Humour! This is not funny. We do not need humour. We need action. Show us the poem.”

This is what she read:

Our school grounds would be much neater                       Oh! Could some law be quickly passed

without vast piles of dog excreta.                                      To leave our ovals merely grassed.....

Dog is man’s  best friend it’s true,                                     Not dotted with dollops of smelliness

But no one says the same of the doggie’s poo.                  That cause in young children much unwelliness

At recess our children rush out to play                              For their canine’s misdemeanours

Leaping over doggie droppings on their way.                   Dog owners themselves should be the cleaners,

The children play chasey and drop the hankey                 Removing deposits from knoll and crag

But the dog’s smelly litter is making them cranky.             And placing the doings in a doggy bag.

“Our school’s not a doggie loo,” they shout                     For until the dogs - both leashed and stray

As they cast their eyes around and about.                         Are prevented from littering in this foul way

The sight and the smell is cause for coma...                       It seems our school grounds will forever be

Poor noses invaded by pungent aroma                               Just one enormous dog lavatory.

Our school has become a doggy toilet.

How can dog owners let them soil it?

Our gardens and ovals are splendid grounds

Made unpleasant by incontinent hounds.

 This is not poetry!” she snarled and threw the poem onto my desk.

“It isn’t” I queried.

“No. It is just a lot of doggerel.”

Despite these critical comments about my poem I published it in the school newsletter and in the local paper.

Fortunately, we had a parent who was in the police traffic branch. He told me he may be able to help.

I managed to get the parent delegation to obtain the car registration numbers of the offending dog owners’ vehicles. The parent policeman traced them on the police computer and I wrote them a very stern note about council by laws and on the spot fines.

Soon afterwards the morning and afternoon dog visits stopped.

Ah yes, I really enjoyed being a school principal. Sometimes, though, it can be a dog’s life.