Put a football at my feet or a rugby ball/cricket bat/tennis racket in my hand and I'll do all right – I'll not embarrass myself. But please don't let me swing a golf club. Don't even mention that perhaps I might perchance make up a foursome ever again.
Just as I'm picking the ball out of the hole after another inglorious triple bogie, I hear a suited gentlemen with a business-like English accent questioning if I was using Nike golf balls – the type Rory McIlroy uses. I obviously answer incorrectly as instead of getting a year's free supply of golf balls he issues me with a petition signed by fifty irate residents fed up with my wayward Nike balls smashing into their conservatory windows, taking slates off their roof, leaving pimpled dents in their top of the range cars and in one instance killing Thumper* a much loved pet rabbit. I am lost for words as he serves me with an injunction banning me from using their company's brand of ball and from setting foot in Balmoral Golf Club again. Yes, me and golf have had a history!
It dawned on me during the second half, with Ulster struggling on the field against their mid-table rivals, that I should do a pastel painting of our local born embarrassed hero with the challenge being that it should actually look like him! I googled his name and called up hundreds of photographs featuring Rory teeing off with a wood, playing an iron shot from the fairway, a sand wedge from a bunker and a putter on the green.
I was pleased with most of the pastel, his club, jacket and hat look great but if Rory should ever see this he would probably want to sue me for the amount of poor plastic surgery he looks to have has undergone in my painting. No matter what I tried there was no getting round my shoddy below par performance here. I know where I went wrong and though it was too late for Rory it was perfect timing for the lovely Keira Knightly later in the year. Maybe I'll do another one of Mr McIlroy should he ever win the Masters!
* Thumper wasn't really his name. I had to insert that to protect myself from physical damage should that little boy, whose pet rabbit it was, ever grow up to be a psychopath with a long lasting grudge for wayward golfers and a memory for names.