The Hacker (Volume One) by Phil Churchill
The Hacker - Volume One
by Phil Churchill
Copyright 2013 Phil Churchill
Table of Contents
Introduction
SECTION 1: THE ORBURY WAY (SAMPLE CHAPTERS)
The Orbury Information
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Orbury at War
Chapter 2: Emergency Council
Chapter 3: Shrimpers
Chapter 4: Bramley's Challenge
Chapter 5: Rubens
SECTION 2: THE HACKER
1: I think I know what I'm doing wrong...
2: Mad dogs
3: The honeymoon strip
4: Stop flapping
5: The more the merrier
6: Whose divot is it anyway?
7: They think it's all over...
8: Time for a round...?
9: A level playing field...
10: An athlete's breakfast
11: Bandits
12: Rule 19-6: Ball coming to rest, close to the hole
13: The gloves are on
14: G=(IFp>30,pb2,p)
15: When is a reed not a reed?
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Contact the Author
Introduction
This free ebook compilation gives you both the first five chapters of The Orbury Way (so that you can see if you like it before you purchase the rest of the book - this sample is over 10,000 words longer than the free samples offered by online retailers) as well as bringing together all fifteen columns of 'The Hacker' that were written for the Surrey Hills League. They are reproduced in full, rather than the reduced formats that were published on the Golf Monthly website.
Section 1: The Orbury Way (sample)
The Orbury Estate
Earl Orbury - President
The Golf Committee
Jim Chives - Club Secretary
Spencer Cartwright - Club Captain
Ian (Minty) Fresh - Vice Captain
Brian St. John-James (BSJ) - Committee Secretary
Colin Stimpson - Social Secretary
Charles Easter (Bunny) - Handicap Secretary
Bill Muir - Competition Secretary
Estate Staff
Brunswick - Steward
Vic Peters - Golf Professional
Cedric Abeline - Head Chef
Clarence Llewellyn - Master Housekeeper
Dave Marsden - Head Greenkeeper
Bert Pamphlett - Gamekeeper
Eric Styles - Estates Manager
Barry Jones - Tenant Farm Manager
Prologue
The old man paused to rest halfway up the steep slope, leaning heavily on the four iron clutched in his hand as his chest billowed to suck air into his lungs. He could feel his heart thudding away inside his chest and his temples throb with the gushing sound of pumped blood.
They were no more than twenty yards ahead of him and yet he watched on enviously as his playing partners reached the crest of the hill and disappeared from view.
‘Time was when I used to run up to this tee’ he thought sadly, reflecting on the toll time had wrought upon his body.
Once his erratic breathing had managed to calm to a wheeze, he closed his eyes to summon the energy to force on to the summit. Pushing off, the wasted muscles in his legs quivered in pain, every sinew afire with the exertion. His shoulder socket burned, the tendons stretched to breaking point as he dragged his trolley behind him. Inch by inch, step by step he slowly made his way towards the crown. With relief he finally reached the top and collapsed against one of the tall slender pillars of the old temple that stood sentinel behind the elevated seventh tee.
Despite the pain and exertion, a thrill of delight percolated through him as he looked out and feasted upon the grand vista of his estate before him. From the raised teeing ground he looked out beyond the green below and back down the line of the first fairway. This snaking ribbon of closely mown grass climbed towards what had been the family seat for almost three centuries. The yellow southern face of the building never ceased to send a thrilling shiver through his body, its splendor glowing in the autumnal sunshine. From this distance he couldn’t pick out the individual columns of the portico, instead it was a dark smudge, a missing tooth in a broad smile. But as ever, the pleasure of this wonderful sight was followed by a sadness that had increasingly plagued him with the passing years. Before gloom could get the better of him, he shook his head to clear the dark, melancholy thoughts of loss from his mind.
Turning away from the hall his eyes came to rest upon the tip of the slender column that was poking over the top of the trees adjacent to the tee. The Memorial to the Unknown Airmen. That brought a smile back to his face. Not so unknown to him. That however, was another little secret he would take to the grave.
“It’s your honour, Your Lordship,” said one of the other men, breaking his reverie. His playing partners stood aside as he strode onto the tee and looked down at the familiar green nestled at the base of the hill. He bent down stiffly and speared his wooden tee firmly into the immaculate turf. After balancing his ball on top he stood up a little too quickly and the distant pin shimmered into a haze. To regain his senses he scrunched up his eyes and waited for the fuzziness to pass. Then, for the first time, he became aware of the stiff breeze that was blowing over his shoulder.
“Damn, wrong bloody club,” he cursed as he glanced back at the abandoned trolley in the shadow of the temple. It was only thirty paces away but with his head swimming he shrugged and turned back to the green. Like it or not, a four iron it would have to be. As he took his stance, he slid his hands down the grip to take off some distance before punching a shot with a three quarter swing.
“Oh wonderful strike your Lordship,” exclaimed one of the other men instantly.
“Get your wallet out your Lordship!” joked another as the ball tracked towards the heart of the green. The kidney shaped green below was made up of two symmetrical sides that were split by a central spine. The ball struck the putting surface right in its heart. For a moment the ball seemed to stick firm as if imbedded in its own pitch mark but then it started to move and trickle down to the right half of the green. The trickle became a creep, and then the creep became a crawl as the tiny speck gathered pace with every revolution. The pin was tucked hard right.
“Scotchus maximus!” cried the third man, dreaming of a free tipple as the ball rolled towards the hole. Even the ever-present sound of birdsong fell silent as the slowing ball inched towards the hole. The four-ball held their collective breath, as the ball seemed to come to a halt, teetering on the edge of the hole. They leant forward on their toes, craning their necks and willing the ball to drop.
Suddenly the group screamed as one. From their lofty perch they watched as the little white globe dropped into the cup. Their jubilant cries caused the huge black birds that had been skulking in surrounding trees to burst from cover and take to the skies, their haunting caw adding to the tumult.
But one scream cut short. As the winged carrion circled above, the world melted into a fusion of green, blue, ochre and pain as the old man crashed to the ground. His last breath burst from his lungs as he struck the turf, his club and triumphal arm the last to hit the manicured tee.