Windmills of my mind

Half-term activities are different now to what they were like in the ‘60s and ‘70s when I was at school. 

Growing up, I’d often be seen running up and down Balham High Road with my hoop and a stick.

But the activity which has stood the test of time is Crazy Golf.  During school holidays mere mortals and their children and grandchildren mentally turn into Tiger Woods – without the lack of driving skills or sex addiction, one would hope.

As a young teenager I honed my golf skills at Morden Pitch ‘n’ Putt and have played regularly since.

However long you’ve been playing, these skills become academic on a crazy golf circuit. 

Even if the putter they give you (and skanky old ball) had a grip and was the right size, your putting ability (and any innate golfing talent you may possess) goes out the window.  However, if people know you play, there is added pressure.  But why should this be?  At my course, south of south London, the opening hole is 551-yards – you need more than an antique putter to get you close if you’re to get the required par five.  Plus, the ball would probably disintegrate before you’ve even got close to the green.

The other fundamental difference between crazy golf and my local golf course?  There’s no massive clown’s mouth ready to gobble up your Pro V1 golf ball; there is no giant windmill in the middle of the fairway and although you can hear the A217, there is the complete absence of dinosaurs roaring. 

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