Get the Egg-Timer on, Bernhard’s putting!

By Martin Johnson

This week’s theme, and apologies for taking so long to get round to it, is eggs. Boiled eggs to be precise. There are other topics worthy of consideration, such as Tiger Woods’ health, the impending demise of broomhandles, or whether Jordan Spieth’s £6.5m FedEx bonus was a touch on the mean side, but none of them provides, pardon the pun, quite as much food for thought.

My personal preference is for three minutes, which allows all that lovely yolk to run over the side the eggcup when you dip your soldier in, and in case you’re wondering how long I’ve been pondering the connection between golf and boiled eggs, the answer is round about a month. Specifically, after watching the conclusion of the US Amateur matchplay championship on TV, when Bryson DeChambeau and his opponent Derek Bard were putting on what turned out to be the final green.

Thanks to modern satellite box technology, which allows you to press the rewind button and watch something you’ve just seen – but can scarcely believe you’ve just seen – over again, I was able to establish that from the moment DeChambeau tossed his ball to his caddie for cleaning in preparation to putt first, to the time Bard’s putter head struck his own ball in reply, four minutes and 25 seconds had elapsed.

That’s when I thought of my breakfast egg. In four minutes and 25 seconds it would not only have been boiled the way I like it, but also consumed – along with a slice of toast and marmalade, nicely washed down with slugs of coffee. Ye gods. And in recognition of the fact that non-boiled egg eaters might struggle with the comparison, try this. Those two putts took 59 seconds longer than it took the current world record holder to run 1500 metres.

Amazingly enough, this kind of timescale is no stranger to top level golf, as anyone who’s turned on their television set to witness Bernhard Langer or Padraig Harrington preparing to take a shot will know only too well. It is usually possible, while

Bernhard is consulting his caddie, his yardage book, the prevailing wind, the ShippingForecast, and the alignment of Venus in relation to the Milky Way, to have mown the lawn, done the shopping, and boiled the kettle for a cup of tea, and still be back in time to see him hit it.

Which is why I had to lie down for four minutes and 25 seconds in a darkened room earlier this year upon hearing the news that the people who decide these things were considering raising the upper handicap limits for amateur golfers. From 28 to 36 for men, and from 36 to 50 for women.

The logic behind it being that the steady haemorrhage of people quitting the game could be halted by the simple expedient of allowing bad golfers to improve their stableford scores. You can picture the scene. There’s old Daphne, finally holing out on the par five after a series of tops, duffs, shanks and air shots, and her partner whips out her pencil and says: “well played, Daffers. That’s an eight for one then.”

The actual effect, of course, of devising a system which encourages someone to keep playing a hole when they’ve already hit the ball several times, would be to drive even more people away from the game by making golf an even slower game than it already is.

Somewhere down the line, sanity prevailed, but while they voted to keep the system unchanged for 2016, there was a clause permitting individual clubs to raise those upper limits. The result of which will be that five hour rounds turn into six hour rounds as people line up ten foot putts for triple bogies, and even more people will form the view that life’s too short to waste large chunks of it waiting to hit a golf ball.

I’ve no idea how many golf clubs will take advantage of being permitted to allocate handicaps so high that batsmen get applauded in cricket when they score that many, but those who do should brace themselves for losing even more members. Ah, but don’t worry we’re told. The patient will soon be back on its feet again when golf’s return to the Olympics for the first time since 1904 will send its profile soaring again. Utter tosh.

First of all, some nitwit has decided to make it 72 holes of strokeplay, the most boring format of them all. And while golf will certainly make an impression while the Games are on, it’s format gives it every chance of joining the long list of sports which are instantly forgotten afterwards. I would sooner take a razor blade to a major artery than ever again watch a game of handball, or synchronised diving, both of which packed out their respective arenas at the 2012 London Games. And have never been written about or televised since.

Other factors, as well as slow play, are affecting golf’s declining popularity, including the Major tournaments disappearing off terrestrial television and the fact that it’s expensive. And stuffy. It’s not all that long ago since the club I currently belong to required its male members to change into jacket and tie in order to access the main bar after 4.30, and there are still rules and regulations that turn people off if you want to play for one of the club’s teams.

First you have to buy an official club shirt. And, if it’s a cool day, you’re only allowed to cover the official club shirt with an official club sweater. Then you have to partner whoever the captain tells you to partner. You’re then possibly out there in the company of people who turn out not to be terribly interesting, and even worse, when they knock in a 20 footer, say:  “Drive for show, putt for dough, I always say.”

Then you have to change into a jacket and tie, sit down to eat a meal you may not want, and clap politely when the visiting captain stands up and congratulates the head greenkeeper on how nice the course is. Or compliments the caterer on the steak and kidney pudding. Luckily for him, Jordan Spieth doesn’t have to put himself through any of this. And if he did, you might even find yourself saying: “Whatever they’re paying him, it’s not enough.”