Old school golf

22 11 2018

                   (It’s not just Peter’s golfing attire that’s old school.)

     I think it would be fair to say that my friend Peter Dobbs and I have a love/hate relationship on the golf course. We love to make fun of each other’s bad shots (and, believe me, there are plenty of opportunities)  and we absolutely hate to lose. So on Tuesday this week we travelled down to Arrowsmith Golf Club near Qualicum to continue our long-running feud. As usual, we spent most of the journey deciding how many shots I was going to give him. Peter is a skilled negotiator and normally squeezes anything between 6 and 8 shots out of me. This time, however, I outmanoeuvred him: “How about you getting a shot on all the Par 4’s and Par 5’s and we play even up on just the Par 3’s?” “Done!” said Peter without hesitation.

Tee hee! Peter had forgotten Arrowsmith is an executive course with 13 Par 3’s, so I’d only be giving him 5 shots. Sadly, I was so full of myself that I completely butchered the first hole and made a double bogey to go one down. “Serves you right,” said Peter, with some justice. We then settled down to some fairly decent golf and I actually hit a few greens in succession. On #6, a steep uphill 123 yard Par 3, I hit what seemed like a good shot – a six iron – although the flag was on the top tier and the hole itself wasn’t visible. Then Peter hit – a driver, for goodness sake! It landed short of the green but otherwise looked pretty good, although from the tee box it was impossible to tell if either ball was even on the green. So we walked all the way up to the green and…

Yep, my ball’s the yellow one – about 15 feet from the hole – and Peter’s is the white one, not even 15 inches. 123 yards and a driver! Now that’s old school golf…

golfing Arrowsmith 071

I finished up winning the game, but we both know who made shot of the day. Well done, Peter my friend (Grr). Thank goodness the ball didn’t actually go in though – I’d never hear the end of it!

All da best!

Dave B.


The new golf rules 2019 (20 biggest changes)

2 11 2018

We’re less than two months away from the plethora of rule changes that take place in the new year, so here’s (another) short video explaining them. Maybe you can be the guy in your group who actually knows the new rules as opposed to making them up as you go along.

The active season in BC ends on November 15th, after which scores do not count towards your RCGA handicap. My own cunning plan is to play by the new rules so I’m good and ready for the new year.

I know there are some of you out there (and nice people too in many respects) who didn’t bother much about the old rules. Well, the new ones are simpler and there are fewer of them, so how about a New Year’s resolution in 2019? Watch this video, learn the new rules and play by them!


Oh, and thanks to my good friend Peter Dobbs for sending me this video. Oh the irony! Peter’s infamous for driving a cart and horses through the rules of golf – could he be a poacher turned gamekeeper? (Answer: highly unlikely.)


All da best!

Dave B.



Peter the Impossible

21 09 2017

storm clouds are gathering

Storm clouds are gathering over Alberni…

When it comes to controversy, about the only thing my friend Peter Dobbs and I agree on is how to pronounce it. We’re both proud Canadians now, but our British origins are obvious when we say ‘contróversy’ rather than ‘cóntroversy’ as seems to be favoured in our adopted land. (Well, that and the accent, I suppose.)

So when Peter and I play our annual challenge match every September one thing that is guaranteed is that we’ll find something to argue about. Actually it’s not so much ‘something’ as ‘a bunch of things’. It kicks off long before we get to the course:

Me: ‘My handicap factor is 14.5. What’s yours?’

Peter: ‘Dunno. Give me 8 strokes.’

Me: ‘But we tied last year and I’m playing way worse now.’

Peter: ‘You’re always whining.’

So we arrive at the course (Arrowsmith) and Peter says ‘O.K. How about we just play even up for practice today and then play our proper match at Alberni tomorrow.’ Three hours later, Peter wins the last two holes to halve the match and celebrates as only he can. (Picture Brazil winning the World Cup of soccer).

Me (through gritted teeth): ‘Well played, Mr Dobbs. That was a great game. So we’ll play even up again tomorrow, right?’

Peter: ‘No. Give me 8 strokes’.

……………………(24 hours later, on the first tee at Alberni Golf Club)……………………:

Peter: ‘OK. 4 strokes then, but I’m quitting if it starts to rain.’

Me: ‘Why didn’t you bring your…? Oh, never mind. Just hit the ball.’ (I like to play golf at a fairly brisk pace. Peter plays as if he’s following a funeral cortege.)

At the turn, over 2 hours later (we’re a twosome, mind) Peter is 3 up in the match and I’m sulking.

Peter proceeds to sit on the bench by the #10 tee box and slowly consumes a sandwich. ‘I’m tired’, he says.

Me: ‘Get on with it. It looks like it’s going to rain.’

Three holes later and I’ve made a semi-miraculous comeback, having won three holes in a row. We’re now all square. It starts to rain – in torrents. I put on my wet weather gear. Peter rummages through his bag and finds a flimsy jacket and an umbrella with broken spokes. We play #13, a tricky downhill 200 yard par 3 and halve it in 4. Peter’s now completely soaked. I persuade him to play #14 (back towards the clubhouse) and he chips in from off the green to go one up in the match. Ba$tard.

Peter: ‘That’s it. I said I wouldn’t play if it rained. Game over. I win.’

Me: ‘No, wait. You can’t. There’s still four holes…’

Peter is already disappearing in the direction of the clubhouse: ‘You play on if you want. I’m going in for coffee.’

So I did play on. I raced round the last four holes in under 30 minutes and the sun was beating down before I’d even finished the first of them. Peter was still drinking his coffee when I joined him in the clubhouse.

Me: ‘You’re not seriously claiming you won the match, are you? You quit! And anyway it’s sunny now!’

Peter: ‘I clearly explained that the match was over if it started raining. It rained. I won. Simple.’

Me: ‘Bah. You’re impossible!’

ugly-trophy-2        Peter the Impossible, self proclaimed winner of the 2017 Brooker-Dobbs Trophy.

Not sulking

Me (in no way sulking).

Grrr! You deserved it, Peter. But just wait till next year!

Dave B.







The Cat

7 10 2016

I was 12 years old when England won the World Cup on home soil in 1966. Four years later, defending the trophy in Mexico, they made it through the group stages without difficulty and in the quarter final match led West Germany 2-0 with 20 minutes to go. England’s legendary goalkeeper Gordon Banks had had to pull out of the game with food poisoning but they had a great replacement in Peter Bonetti, nicknamed ‘the Cat’ because of his amazing agility and reflexes. Unfortunately, Bonetti fumbled a shot to give the Germans hope. Sure enough, Germany went on to win 3-2 after extra time and Bonetti never played for England again. I’m now 62 and still waiting in vain for a second England victory.

When I immigrated to Canada in 1992 I joined a local soccer team called the Collingwood Innvaders. Our goalie was also English, also named Peter and also known to his team mates as the Cat – not because of his great skills, however, but because of his tendency to have a nap if play was concentrated in our opponents’ half of the field. Peter Dobbs only played for that first season, but we’ve become great friends over the past two decades – and fierce rivals on the golf course.

For the last few years, always in late September, we’ve played a series of matches – always match play – at Gold River. Peter plays fewer than a dozen rounds a year (and I play 150), he doesn’t have a proper handicap (and I know my factor down to the last decimal point) and his knowledge of the rules is selective at best (and I’m a rules official). Despite all this our games are nearly always close (thanks to some pretty tough negotiating on the first tee re exactly how many shots I’m to give him). And at close of play, one of us always looks pretty smug:

Just how smug can a man look?

This is Peter after the first round at Gold River last year.

So last week I phoned Gold River to make our usual booking for two rounds of golf, overnight camping and our standing order for lots of beer and fish and chips. To my dismay I was told that the course was closing the very next day! Oops – lucky I phoned. Plan B was quickly put into operation. A quick look at the weather forecast, an equally quick look at Peter’s 2 for 1 Lung Book, and phone calls were made to Cowichan Golf and Country club and Mount Brenton in nearby Chemainus.

The weather worked out perfectly. It was lashing down when we left Comox on Wednesday morning, but sunny and warm when we arrived in Cowichan. I played pretty well, shooting 81, but I was giving Peter a shot on all but the Par 3’s and it proved too much. He made a great up and down at the 18th to win the match one up. “Well played, Mr Dobbs”, I muttered through gritted teeth. I was about to mention my bad luck in mysteriously losing a ball on the 17th fairway, but then remembered my tee shot on #16 which landed in the bunker, hit a rake and ricocheted onto the green. Better to maintain a dignified silence and hold on to the moral high ground…

Right next to Mount Brenton golf course is a large parking lot ‘for the use of golf patrons only’ and that’s where we camped in Peter’s RV that night. Peter had provided supper, so I bought the beers at the somewhat dubious-looking pub a couple of hundred yards down the road. Peter was pretty quiet (he’s not usually quiet after a victory) and when I asked him why he explained that he’d just remembered that he’d had a heart attack last time he’d played Mount Brenton. Not only that, but the guys he’d been playing with (not knowing how serious it was) had insisted that he paid up his $6 bet before he left the course! Now Peter is quite capable of playing mind games if he thinks he can gain an advantage, but I knew that even he wouldn’t stoop so low as to make up a story of this magnitude. Actually, it reminded me of another reason why he’s called the Cat – with all his heart attacks and other medical issues over the years, he must have nine lives!

The morning got off to a rocky start when the pro shop pointed out that our 2 for 1 coupons were not valid until noon. Even Peter couldn’t talk his way out of that one and I think that may have affected his play. I wasn’t at my best, but Peter struggled too – except on the greens where he irritated me no end by making every single short putt he looked at. After 14 holes we were all square, but suddenly his putter deserted him and he three putted the next two holes to leave me dormie two. When he hooked his tee shot into the trees on #17 we knew Peter needed a miracle. We found his ball, but all he could do was chip out sideways while I – for once – hit my second shot pretty close to the flag. As we walked to the green, Peter mentioned he’d felt pretty nervous about his tee shot. I agreed that #17 was indeed a narrow fairway to aim at. “It’s not hitting the fairway I was worried about,” Peter replied. “This is where I had my heart attack.”

We were pretty sombre for all of thirty seconds and then it was back to the usual insults, with Peter insisting I putt out from 18 inches when I had three putts for the match. When I queried the need to putt out, he simply said “Well, you never know.” And of course he’s right – you never do.

Over coffee on the patio afterwards, Peter brought out a trophy he’d made for the event. To say it was ugly would be putting it kindly. Thinking of Scottish Wife’s probable reaction if I showed up with the trophy in tow, I protested: “But we won one match each, Peter, so surely we should share it.” “Indeed we do, my son – but you get it for the first six months!”



Don’t tell anyone, but the way I’m playing these days I’m actually pretty happy to be part winner of a trophy, however ugly it may be:

All da best (and cheers, Peter!)

Dave B.

Gold River – Grudge Match Redux

20 09 2014

18th hole at Gold River

The 18th hole at Gold River

Three weeks ago I received an email from my good friend Peter Dobbs. It consisted of the above picture and a very short message: “The 18th awaits. Get ready!”

It was a none too subtle reminder of our annual pilgrimage to Gold River and the pain and suffering that the course has caused me on past visits. I have mentioned Peter’s somewhat laissez faire approach to the rules of golf in previous posts, which drove me to distraction back in 2010. I abused him so much that I was later forced to make the following disclaimer:

Legal notice

26 04 2010

On the advice of my lawyers ( Sue, Grabbit and Run) I wish to make it perfectly clear that a derogatory comment about ‘my mate Peter’  in last week’s blog was a reference to a totally fictitious character. It should in no way be construed that I was referring  to Mr Peter Dobbs of Powerhouse Road, Courtenay whose character is, of course, as pure as the driven snow. It would be outrageous to suggest that Mr Dobbs would ever seek financial gain by using his physical or mental infirmity in order to receive a higher handicap than he is entitled to. Clearly Mr Dobbs misunderstood the concept of  a ‘handicap’ as it applies to the game of golf. Nor should there be any doubt that  his habit of occasionally breaking  wind while a fellow competitor is in the middle of his backswing is completely involuntary and the fact that the French verb ‘péter’ means ‘to fart’ is merely an unfortunate coincidence. Finally, may I say that I yield to no man in my admiration of Mr Dobbs for continuing to persevere with a game for which he has no talent whatsoever.

Once again, in abject apology for any misunderstanding,

Bagger Dave


This then is the background to our three round battle that took place at Gold River golf course this week. Peter has had a few medical issues recently but, to his credit, I’ve never known him to use this as an excuse for a bad golf shot. The fact that he plays only a dozen or so rounds a year and I play ten times that amount would also, one might think, make me a firm favourite in our contest, but that would be to ignore Peter’s competitive nature as well as his ability to wring as many strokes as possible out of gullible opponents such as yours truly.

As usual, we drove up to Gold River in Peter’s trusty RV, introduced ourselves to the lovely Jen in the clubhouse, got settled into our campsite on the abandoned driving range and then headed for the practice putting green. As I knew it would, the question of handicaps came up immediately. I’ve been in a rich vein of form recently and my cap has dropped to 8. Peter, of course, has no official handicap and so we had to agree on a figure. I suggested 16, Peter asked for 20 and we settled on 18. We obviously got it right, because 4 hours later we walked off the 18th green having halved the first match, although our scores (86 and 98 respectively) suggested we were a bit more hackerish than we’d hoped.

Peter fancies himself as something of a gourmet chef and that evening we enjoyed a wonderful meal of corn beef hash and sweet corn, accompanied by a selection of alcoholic beverages. And therein lay the problem. You would think at age 60 I would know better than to combine beer, red wine and whisky but apparently this was not the case. I have no clear recollection of getting myself to bed, but I do know I felt absolutely awful on the first tee the following morning. It was no great surprise that Peter gave me a bit of a thrashing, 3 and 1.


This is how Lord Dobbs of Gold River looked that evening

This is how Lord Dobbs of Gold River looked that evening. Most superior.

...and this is how I looked.

…and this is how I looked, pondering a heavy defeat. What was Plan B?

It turned out that Plan B was the non availability of a golf cart for our final round. Gold River golf course has some particularly steep climbs on some of the early holes and Peter, whose age – like his IQ – is in the low seventies, struggled to cope with having to walk the course. I quickly went three up and Peter never really recovered, particularly as his win in the second match meant that he had fewer strokes to play with in Round 3.

The overall result, then, was a win and a half for each of us, which meant that the match was tied overall. Peter has suggested that the tie breaker should consist of our respective ability to consume alcohol, in which case I readily concede defeat. I do, however, make this solemn vow: I shall never combine beer, red wine and whisky at a single sitting again. Ever.

Congratulations to Peter for his good play, great cooking and surprisingly solid grasp of golfing etiquette this year – a definite first – and many thanks once again to all the staff at Gold River golf course for their great hospitality and warm welcome. It’s a pleasure to play there and in my opinion the value for money is second to none. To paraphrase Arnold Schwarzenegger in ‘The Terminator’: “We’ll be back”.

All da best.

Dave B.



Grudge match at Gold River

25 06 2011

Looking back down at the 2nd fairway at Gold River Golf Club. It’s quite a climb up to the 3rd tee box!

If you’re a regular reader of my blog, then the subject of this week’s post will need no introduction. Step forward Mr. Peter Dobbs – one time whisky salesman, police officer, teacher, mechanic and car importer. You name it, Peter’s done it and usually has a strong opinion about it. Our friendship dates back to 1992 when I bought a used Volvo from him, sight unseen, while I was still living in England but needed a vehicle ready for as soon as I immigrated to Canada. I sold it for a profit 10 years later, after many adventures – including discovering a box of rotting fish, thoughtfully provided by Peter, in the wheel arch three days into a journey to San Diego. I’d slighted Peter a few days earlier apparently, and he knew his generous offer of a free service just before the trip would not be refused. Revenge for Peter was sweet, but for me it was totally rancid!

We’ve played a few rounds of golf together over the years, but never really seen eye to eye over how the game should be played. I am Mr Rules Guy; Peter has an altogether more cavalier approach. I know my handicap index to the last decimal point; Peter enjoys negotiating strokes on the first tee, knowing that it really winds me up, and thinks that his correct handicap is whatever he can get away with. I believe that good etiquette is a fundamental part of the game; Peter is of the opinion that anything he can do to put me off my game is all part of the fun. I could go on, but you probably get the picture by now.

I play LOTS of golf, maybe 150 rounds a year. Peter claims to play about 10 rounds a year and usually has some trivial ailment – last year it was open heart surgery or some such thing – that he believes entitles him to an extra stroke or three. He phoned me up a couple of weeks ago and asked if I was interested in a trip to Gold River and the chance to get my $5 back. Well! Talk about red rag to a bull! Peter knew perfectly well that this was an opportunity I would not be able to resist. Six years ago, with a couple of friends, we played the rugged nine hole course in beautiful Gold River, a small town a couple of hours north west of sunny Comox. I’d been sucked in on the first tee re handicaps as usual, played particularly badly, and reached the 15th green three down and needing a tricky downhill four foot putt to stay in the match. As I drew the putter back, ready to apply the most delicate of touches, Peter loudly broke wind. Not surprisingly, my ball missed the hole by a mile, and the match was over. I could – and should – have dealt with defeat graciously, but was completely unable to do so. To make matters worse, when I handed over the $5 bill, Peter promptly wrote the date, location and my name on it and, to the best of my knowledge, has never removed it from his wallet since.

So on Monday Peter and I headed up to Gold River in his luxurious camper van for a 54 hole, winner takes all, final decider as to which of us is the true heir apparent to Rory McIlroy when the lad finally hangs up his mashie niblick. We spent the first half of the journey discussing the merits of our respective grandchildren (Peter’s 11 month old granddaughter Makayla and my 10 month old grandson Eli), when and where the arranged marriage should take place and who should pay a dowry to whom; the second half of the trip was spent on the much more serious topic of how many shots I would be giving Peter. We agreed upon a starting figure of 8, but with wiggle room for the second and third rounds if necessary.

My belief that Peter would struggle with the hilly terrain was quickly proved well founded as he hacked his way to a 7 on the very first hole. Sadly I had a few difficulties of my own and, with his stroke, Peter went one up. I never really recovered and 3 hours later we were shaking hands on the 16th green, with Peter the 3 and 2 winner. Grrr!

A great fish and chip supper in the clubhouse and a couple of beers, followed by a couple more around the campfire,  put me in a much better frame of mind for the morrow and, now only giving the arch enemy 6 strokes, I found myself 3 up in the morning round with 3 to play. At this point my game totally deserted me and Peter fought back to tie the match on the 18th green. Double grrr!

I should mention at this point the hospitality of the Gold River Golf Club. Laurinda, the lady behind the bar, immediately won my heart by telling us that Mondays were two for one and then added that “You”, pointing at Peter, “definitely get the Seniors rate!” When I tell you that between us we played six rounds of golf over two days, rented a cart for 27 holes, had two delicious fish and chip suppers and half a dozen beers and paid a smidgin over $80 each you’ll appreciate that you get value for money at Gold River!

Even so, no great deals were going to ease the pain if I lost to Dobbs, so I began the final round in determined mood. Five straight pars to start with definitely gave me the upper hand but Peter’s own improved play (and those darn shots I was giving him) left me only one up as we played the final hole – a hole I had to at least halve to square the match. Things were looking good after two shots each, with Peter still 150 yards short of this long par five and me lying just off the fairway but only 80 yards or so out. It was at this point that things took a turn for the worse. We drove up to where my ball lay, and there it was: gone! My heart sank and my heart rate rose. Four minutes were spent trudging through the rough as I desperately tried to find my ball. Finally, with less than 30 seconds to go before I had to declare my ball lost and concede the match, Peter called out “I think I’ve found it!” Sure enough, there it was. An ugly lie, but at least I could lay a club on it. Three shots later I’d won the hole and halved the overall match, but Peter – the subject of a threat of litigation from me just a few months ago (read my post “Legal Notice” for more details) – was now confirmed as a man of honour. Who’d a thunk it!

So honour was satisfied, Peter’s reputation enhanced and Gold River Golf Club firmly ensconced as one of my favourite places on the planet. This may or may not be good news, Laurinda – we’ll be back in September!

El bandito Juan: an apology

6 03 2011

A few weeks ago, in my last blog, I mentioned my friend John (aka el bandito Juan) and the difficulty he has with the finer points of golfing etiquette. I made particular reference to his habit of always teeing off first, whatever the scores on the previous hole. He has even  – I kid you not – mastered the technique of throwing his tee in the air on the first tee box so that it unerringly points to him, thus giving him the honour right from the get go. He repeated his party piece yesterday on the 8th tee at Glacier (Saturday Men’s Morning is a shotgun start) and proceeded to reel off eight pars in a row, thus keeping the rest of us firmly in our places. I then spoilt the party  by somewhat fortuitously birdying our ninth hole – if the hole hadn’t got in the way of my twenty foot putt I would have had another twenty footer coming back – but John clearly took this as a challenge and promptly birdied the next hole himself to reclaim the honour and go one under par. Seven holes later, as he addressed a tricky downhill fifteen foot putt for birdie on the long par 5 sixth (our penultimate hole) he still lay even par. Understandably, John was anxious not to give the ball too much of a charge and promptly did the exact opposite, brookering it down the slope and leaving himself a nasty little  two foot downhiller for par. After never looking like missing a putt the entire round, he let this one slide by the hole. Agony! He leant over the hole to avoid standing on Robin’s line, tapped the ball from all of six inches away – and missed again! Four putts from just over four yards! To be honest, I hadn’t even seen the last putt as I was entering our sixes on the score card, but John said straight away ‘No, that’s a seven for me’. He then stood quietly on our final tee box muttering ‘Four f**king putts’ to himself as the rest of us hit our shots. No question of not counting the six inch miss: on Saturday mornings at Glacier Greens you have to hole everything. The dream of an even par round, or possibly even better, had come to a screeching halt.

So probably no low gross for John this week, but a lot of credit for automatically doing the right thing on the course when it counted. That’s got to be worth more than a few dollars in prize money, hasn’t it?

And now the apology: when I said the other week that John didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘etiquette’ (let alone how to spell it) I was being a trifle unfair, as English is not really his first language. He hails from the hamlet of Chester, near the village of Liverpool, way oop in’t north of  England where English as we know it is mangled rather than spoken. I recently emailed John to ask if he wanted to play at Glacier Greens the following day at 9:00. His reply read “That’s the gear, la”. With the help of my English/Scouse (Liverpudlian) dictionary I was able to ascertain that John was in fact saying “I agree with your excellent plan, Dave”.

So, John, your honest actions on the course today spoke louder than any of the incomprehensible words you so often utter – thank goodness – and I apologise unreservedly for anything I may have said or written which caused you offence. Please don’t consult your lawyers – I’m having enough trouble as it is with Peter Dobbs. We salute your skill on the golf course, Ringer,  as well as  your integrity – and we’re prepared to put up with your funny accent…

Finally, courtesy of my good friend Ben Davies, a vintage caddie joke:

A poor golfer (let’s call him Peter Dobbs) is having a particularly bad day, hacking and slashing his way around the course. Eventually he can stand it no more and asks his caddie if he can see any particular reason for his poor play. “Aye, sir, I can that”, comes the caddie’s reply. “There’s a piece of  sh!t on the end of your club.” Peter hands the caddie his driver and asks him to clean the club face. The caddie does so, but says that it won’t do any good. “How so?” asks Peter. ” Because, sir, the piece of sh!t is on the other end”.

An oldie, but a goodie – just like Mr Dobbs himself.

All da best,

Dave B.