Before last night, I thought they were a myth, but now I may well be one myself: a female who doesn’t find golf unfathomably dull. I honestly thought that being in possession of a set of ovaries somehow made enjoying the game a biological impossibility.
Like understanding why it might be necessary to spend £4k on a bicycle that weighs less than a pencil sharpener just to commute 3 miles to work.
Don’t get me wrong, I still wouldn’t watch it on the telly unless I was shackled to a chair with my eyes stapled open, but I very much enjoyed my trip to the inner city driving range.
As far as I can tell, this has many of the best bits of golf (whack a ball as far as you can) without the challenging things (forage for your ball in a prickly hedgerow, break in to a fit of sand-covered rage in a bunker, be forced to walk 18 holes whilst having a conversation about the relative merits of a BMW versus an Audi).
It’s a great way to spend an hour or so if you ever find yourself at a loose end around Liverpool Street. If you work in that part of town it’d be the perfect lunch break unwinder. Just turn up, hire some balls and clubs, and play.
I was fortunate enough to have a friend with me who is practically a pro, so he taught me the correct grip and all that stuff. I wasn’t what you might call good, but I wasn’t as shockingly bad as I am at nearly all other ball sports.