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December Duck Tales:

So the weather has finally cooled, winter is here and we can all walk around without having to take shelter under a tree every five minutes to avoid the intense heat. A distant cousin dropped in for a few days in late September and he’s still here!! Strange how family and friends descend on you once they realise that Cyprus is so nice. Can’t get rid of him now. I’ve noticed an increase in tourists on the golf course over the last few weeks and members with ‘guest’ so I expect you humans are having the same problem. What with Christmas just around the corner who knows who is going to turn up next.

Just a few weeks back we were rudely awoken by the sounds of heavy machinery working and for a moment I thought they might be changing the course around again. God help us I mused but, on investigation, I found they had started work on the brand new clubhouse. I only found out it was the club house because Parker let it slip while playing nine holes with Taffy Tony. We call him Parker because he’s a nosey old sod and seems to know everything about everything. Taffy Tony is from Pontypridd with an accent to match and asked, “What’s going on over there boyo?”. “Ah, that my celtic friend is the new clubhouse or it will be in 9 months time” replied Parker. “Nine months! Is that a guarantee or CMT” Taff enquired. “What’s CMT” Parker asked. “Cyprus maybe time” came the reply.

Halloween was a good evening for the members and once again they gathered for a celebration at the club. They have this strange penchant for dressing up in bizarre costumes and trying to frighten the living daylights out of each other. Frightening, I’ll give you frightening! Try sitting still when there’s a twenty-four handicapper, one hundred metres away on the eighteenth tee with a driver in his hand. That’s frightening! Anyway Chef did them proud with a splendid dinner, which delighted all, but then they started dancing to such wondrous tunes as Monster Mash, Thriller, Bat out of Hell and Bring your daughter to the Slaughter! Ossie Osborne turned up for a while, a werewolf, a saucy devil, a coven of witches, two wizards, various Hobbits, The Hunchback of Notre Dam, three vampires and an exceedingly overweight skeleton. To see Ossie dancing with a nasty looking witch forced me to do a double take as just for a moment I thought Sharon had turned up!! My mistake, the witch was better looking. Roll on Valentines Day! At least they will look a little more pleasant.

The annual Celts v The English golf match was ruthlessly fought out during early November and from my vantage point it was not a pretty sight in the early morning gloom. Tartan clad, kilt wearing Celts with a piper blasting my eardrums at 7-30 in the morning doing battle with the stiff upper lip anglophiles in their white shirts and Brylcream. Wee Tam strutting down the fairway brandishing a 3 wood for all the world looking like a cudgel carrying extra from Braveheart. The Colonel walking around as though on parade at Sandhurst accompanied by shouts of ‘I say old chap damn good shot if I may say so’. The reply was along the lines of ‘Ah hush yer mooth ya Sassenach skunner, yi wood nae know a gued un if it smacked yi in yer breeks’ or words to that effect. They seemed to be enjoying it and from the noise at the end it was plainly obvious the Celts had taken the honours …again. A comprehensive thirteen to five thrashing of the auld enemy saw the English retreating from the course in complete disarray. Vice Captain Billy and his team celebrated but the unfortunate Cap’n had to take it all on the chin and even alleged an element of skulduggery. Clutching at straws he proclaimed the Celts had brought in a number of foreign mercenaries to bolster their ranks, a claim which was totally unproven. Bragging rights for the year were taken by the Celts and according to what I hear the English were lucky to win five points!!

Thinking back I have to say that drugs in sport has been a major issue over the summer months especially when you remember the Tour de France. Other sports seem to be rife with performance improving substances, steroids or social stimulants but I had never thought it an issue in the golfing world, until recently that is. I assumed the most toxic substance the poor dears here use was Paracetemol, Sanatogen Wine and the occasional rub down with a smattering of embrocation. But my flabber was well and truly gasted when witnessing the antics over by the 17th last week.

Stumpy Steve and Top Up Terry were enjoying their regular weekly round of golf. As they played the 17th, Terry notices that Steve is still furtively swigging from a plastic bottle in his golf bag.
“What is that you’re drinking these days?” asks Terry.
“Oh, ah… It’s nothing…” says Steve.
“Come on you’ve been drinking that for weeks now, what is it?” Terry persisted.
“It’s nothing, just a cold drink, honest”
“Let me see,” says Terry, snatching the bottle and sniffing. “My God, that smells like brake fluid?”
“Er, well yea, it is,” admits Steve.
“Listen mate that’s bad. Drinking brake fluid! You’ve got a big problem, ” says Terry.
“No I haven’t,” shrugs Steve, “I can stop any time I want to…”

Keep your pecker up and mind the ducks!!!
 

September Duck Tales:

Welcome to my first tome in the Paphos Scene. You may find it somewhat peculiar (Ed. was that intended? Peck-uliar) for a duck to be writing in a magazine but may I just remind you of a certain Donald, yes him, D Duck, that's right, the one who made a rather significant fortune as a film star. So why can't I be a writer then?

Personally I found his acting somewhat animated but that is purely my personal view and does necessarily reflect those of the management. However my scroll here is to inform you on the comings and goings, people and activities at my residential abode, Tsada Golf Club.

So lets' quack on. Sorry! My mistake, crack on.

Having been closed for renovations the course finally re-opened in June of this year and what a relief it was too.

Twelve months of noise, bulldozers, noise, JCB's, noise, digging, noise, and even more noise.

My female companions, (yes more than one! I am not a swan) were all up for moving but I insisted we stay put. I can see potential when it's handed to me on a plate don't you worry about that. I have to say when they started to clear the pond and surrounding rushes, well even I started to have concerns. However it turned out fine in the end and now we have superb living quarters and the construction guys have nearly all gone. Peace at last?…Eh. … not quite

You see when the course re-opened it was all hell let loose. People who had been denied their home turf for a year returned, and with a vengeance. From early morning till dusk they strafed the fairways, exploded sand (and the odd ball) from the bunkers and swore with gusto at missed puts. I had hoped after a year they would have improved, but no.

Balls crashing into trees, ricocheting off stone lined ditches and the number that whistled over our heads and into the pond, well, I couldn't estimate!!

By day two it was obvious, we were safer in the middle of the fairway and there we stayed until it was safe to return to the pond. We still get the odd 'inbound' but not with the same regularity or intensity. The females call it friendly fire but I'm sorry, I just cannot see any logic in such a ridiculous statement. What in Gods name is "friendly" about somebody you know launching a projectile at you which has the potential to kill or seriously injure? In their defence I suppose 80% of the members have absolutely no idea where their ball is going anyway, apart from a slight inkling and misguided belief the general direction might be forwards.

But it was good to see the old regular faces again, especially the ones who bring the odd slice of wholemeal with them. Not many I hasten to add, but some make an effort. I have my own names for them so they don't actually know when we are talking about them. Somewhat similar to when the locals speak Cypriot if the Brits are around. I digress, Rooster, the Course Marshall (named after Cogburn in True Grit on account of him wearing an eye patch) is regular at eight every morning and afterwards he always brings us some food.

Half eaten muffins, a couple of wedges of olive bread and the odd digestive go down well for breakfast. He tells all and sundry he only has to whistle and we ducks waddle straight across the fairway to him. Trained to respond we are. Yea, right. Just try it without the bread in your hand Rooster and we'll see just how well trained we really are. Hey, it keeps him happy and the visitors amused, apart from one visiting American who had the audacity to say "gee look Mildred they godda Canadian Goose". A swift peck in the groin area ensured his swing was ruined for the day. Canadian !!!! Helllllooooo. I mean, do I look Canadian???? Do I have a maple leaf tattoo on my upper thigh? Do I shout 'get in the hole' or 'you the man' every time somebody hits a golf ball? I think not. It gets my dander up just thinking about it.

Enough! Next time I'll talk about the social events and other golfing stuff but sadly I have to end on a sombre note. Unfortunately Fred, one of our more elderly male members passed away peacefully in his sleep just a matter of weeks before the course reopened.

I overheard his wife explaining to her female companion while waiting to play their shots to the 9th green. The delay was caused by the Wing Commander lining up a tricky two foot down hill across the slope put for a bogey 9. We call him the Wing Commander because of his moustache and the fact he always wears a cravat and blazer after his round. He tries to look and sound like an RAF pilot type but I think he was probably an admin clerk in payroll.

Anyway, very keen on his golf was old Fred but apparently his biggest fear was there was no afterlife. So Mary, his wife, was explaining to her friend they had made a deal and whoever died first would come back and inform the other of the afterlife.

True to his word and just six weeks after his demise Fred made contact with her. She explained that early one morning just as the sun was rising (I heard a maiden No, no, no, sorry, no) just before the alarm went off to wake her for the monthly medal at Tsada she heard his voice.

"Mary…… Mary"
"Is that you, Fred?" she replied uncertainly
"Yes, I've come back like we agreed."
"What's it like?" asked Mary full of expectancy.
Fred explained "Well, I get up in the morning, I have sex, I have breakfast and then I go off to the Golf course. At midday it's home for lunch and more sex and then straight back to the golf course for the afternoon. Then home for tea, sit in the sun, then I have sex and because of the light evenings another romp around the golf course. When it gets too dark it's back home for supper and I pretty much have sex until late at night. The Next day it starts all over again."

"Oh Mary" said her friend with a lustful look on her face "Fred surely must be in heaven".
"Not exactly" replied Mary "He said he's a rabbit in Scotland."

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