The science of dinner speaking at golf clubs

by Paul Mahoney

I made my proper, fully paid, money in an envelope, professional after-dinner speaking debut last week. No safety net, lots of deep breaths, but not one drop of alcohol consumed. I was driving. So nothing to numb the nerves, then. Sober. Speaking in front of 200.

I turned down beer, wine, whisky, brandy and port. Not all in the same glass. This was an all-male night out, but at a posh golf club in the Shires not a stag do at a strip bar in Magaluf. Once you get past the first nine ‘No thank you, I’m driving’ booze refusals it becomes easier. The waiter tried desperately to tempt me with sparkling water to fizz up my evening, but you know how the bubbles can go straight to your head.

When I was invited to speak at the golf dinner they told me I’d be following the chap from The R&A. No pressure then, they japed. Captain Fantastic from St. Andrews was polished. You could see the confidence shining forth from his forehead. I was scuffed. You could see the nerves dripping down my forehead.

They told me they’d booked a comedian last year and he was rubbish so they didn’t want anyone this time that thought they were witty. I’d come recommended. I took that as a compliment. I think. Along with the other VIPs on the top table, as guest speaker I was clapped into the room by those paying to sit in the cheap seats. Which was nice considering

they hadn’t yet heard any of my “many amusing experiences with the top players in the game,” as my speech was billed on the dinner invitation.

Black tie dinners always sound grand, fine and dandy, but they are really unimaginative and uncomfortable fancy dress parties where everyone has hired the same outfit and is struggling to understand the point of a cummerbund, while trying to squeeze bellies into trousers that haven’t been worn for years and fumbling to attach a bowtie without cutting off the oxygen supply. Result: 200 guests looking more stuffed, trussed and cooked than the chicken dinner. The irony of the cummerbund in today’s so-called high society formal occasions is that its origin lies in 17th century India when sashes were worn by low-status office workers.

Some of the VIPs were sporting blood red tunics. Perhaps while many of the tuxedoed groups had arrived together with a designated driver, these splendidly turned out fellows had galloped in on their steeds. I chickened out of beginning my speech: “Good evening gentlemen, golfers, James Bond enthusiasts and fox hunters.” I might have got a rasping laugh, or at least a titter, but I might have got a raspberry instead. Never mind Spectre, I was just trying not to make a spectacle of myself. But I did survive to die another day. Perhaps they’d hired a useless comedian after all. It felt like I’d been dropped into a secret meeting of the Grand Order of The Shiny Buttons and Badges. Lovely people, though. They toasted the Queen. On both sides. No butter or marmalade.

Judging the age of my audience (I was the youngest by about 60 years), I made some last-minute changes to my speech. Here is one of my “many amusing experiences” that was edited from the final performance…

“We golfers often say that you can tell a lot about someone’s character by playing a round of golf with them. And it’s true,” I didn’t say on the night. “So there I was, caddying for OJ Simpson. Lovely fella. And I’d heard such bad things. Then I pulled him up for taking an incorrect drop at one hole, then writing down the wrong score at another. And then another. His mood suddenly became darker. I explained the rules and the maths. He wasn’t having any of it. Denial, denial, denial. I thought, ‘Wait a minute. This is starting to sound familiar.’ I decided to let it drop. You know, just in case. But, I thought, OJ Simpson, if you can cheat at golf, you’re capable of anything.”

The question I am asked most is, ‘What are the players like?’ So I shared anecdotes about meeting Seve, Arnie, Jack and Tiger.

But I left out this story about Monty. Decided the language of the punchline would be too pimp for the conservative circumstances of this pomp.

“The heckling in the States was tough for Monty. But great for golf writers,” I edited out of my post-crème brulee bonmots. “At the US Open at Bethpage in 2002, one New Yorker tried the polite approach to attract Monty’s attention. ‘Mr Montgomerie, Mr Montgomerie,’ he kept shouting. Monty ignored him. ‘Excuse me, Mr Montgomerie,’ he tried again. Monty finally broke and turned around. ‘Hey Moneeee,’ the guy yelled. ‘Nice titties.’ Poor Monty. He’s golf’s Oliver Hardy. And that was another fine mess he’d gotten himself into.”

I finished my speech with some advice for the weak of mind that had turned down the offer of water in favour of the Devil’s Drink.

“As you retire to the bar, please remember the wise words of Dean Martin: ‘Don’t drink and drive. Don’t even putt’.

(I detected a muffled laugh. It may have been indigestion.)

“And if you are thinking of heading long into the night accompanied by a bottle of whisky, I’ll leave you with a warning from comedy genius and awful golfer Tommy Cooper. (I even did the voice.) ‘I’m on a whisky diet. I’ve lost three days already.’ Thank you very much and goodnight.”

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