A new boy in the school

WE ARE SITTING in that institutionalised emblem of middle class respectability – the local golf club.

Rather nice it is, too. What, with windows on three sides, looking out over the greens and out, panoramically, over the spectacular sweep of Morecambe Bay.

They serve a really nice pint of Tetley’s bitter here, too.

And yes, I rather shamefacedly have to admit we are the newest members here.

Personally, I feel like a new boy in the school – it’s all rather strange and unreal and I’m a bit like a fish out of water.

Never in a million years would I have believed I’d ever be member of a golf club. I’ve always been too much of an inverted snob; something in my working class roots rebels at the idea.

And yet, here I am!

Oh, the explanation is simple enough. Quite a few of our friends from the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub have migrated here. They’ve been happy enough to sign us in as guests, but after our third or fourth visit we began to feel it unfair for them to keep doing so.

So after a brief struggle with my conscience, I’ve decided to abandon my principles and become a member.

The class war will never miss me.

And the Tetley’s is very good.