The third Monday in January is sometimes referred as Blue Monday, as some psychologist had suggested that, after the Christmas holidays and festivities have become a distant memory, and spring seems a long way off, it is a time of year when people are more prone to depressive feelings than at other times. A google search seems to suggest that this notion was made up without any scientific foundation whatsoever, but as we know, such conditions don’t always mean people that will dismiss such nonsense. Regardless, if the designation makes people more thoughtful about the difficulties others are having, that can only be a good thing.
Yesterday’s edition of Blue Monday made me think of the New Order song of the same title, from ‘83, which became the largest-selling 12 inch single of all time, for anyone who can remember the days when a song was something you bought, usually from a shop. I’m showing my age here, as I would probably need to painstakingly explain to my children what a compact disc was, let alone a long player, or a 45, so accustomed are they to the convenient and accessible streaming and playlist protocols of today. Nowadays my CD’s are in the loft gathering dust, next to a few remaining bits of vinyl and a small collection of old golf clubs. It’s hard to jettison some of this stuff; too many memories linked to each piece.
The thought (which actually appeals hugely to me, rather like the use of persimmon woods) of having to remove a fragile disc of black plastic from a card sleeve, in order to hear Bernard Sumner’s rather miserable vocal track would probably make my kids laugh in its absurdity. If I then went on to talk about the occasional need to re-spool the brown tape innards of a cassette, or wait several seconds to re-wind to a certain location (where it never, ever stopped, by the way) it could well blow their minds. Luckily for all concerned, they don’t seem particularly interested in the history lesson or in New Order, and so we save a bit of time avoiding that particular discussion.
But listening to that seminal track on a train up to London took me back to ‘93, when that band were headlining Reading Festival, and I had to choose between watching them and the lead band on the second stage, Big Star, who’d reformed for that gig. Their charismatic singer, Alex Chilton, was a hero for me, as an impressionable teenager with a head full of dreams, and so I flitted between these two rare chances.
That summer and the gap year that followed were idyllic, with enormous expanses of spare time to play golf, hang around in bars, and generally get up to no good, and the soundtrack to that phase of life was full of such indie sounds. It was like a halfway hut between childhood and the adult world, and we lingered over the refreshments like the dogs in the Sunningdale equivalent, savouring the best leftover sausages in golf.
Staring out the train window at the crisp blue sky, and, as we approached Vauxhall, at the wonderfully named and mysterious British Interplanetary Society, it seemed to me the most beautiful of days, and I had an exciting mission ahead. I would shortly be walking through the glass doors and down the steps into Urban Golf, to meet founder James Day. I’d heard wind of the back room here on a podcast recently (Cookie Jar boys again, very many thanks), and could hardly wait to explore the treasure trove of old clubs that James was purported to be hoarding, each of which, just like my old albums, had its own story to tell.
To say the experience, which was followed by a simulated thrashing over the back nine at the Old Course, met expectation would be a chronic understatement. James revealed an incredible array of metal and persimmon woods, sets of forged blades of every vintage, wedges, putters - everything. Once or twice, I wondered if this was yet another golfing dream, but then I tried to hit the unbranded Mizuno 1 iron that one of my golfing heroes from that childhood, Sandy Lyle, had owned, and the lack of quality in my strike, and the subsequent pain that shot up my arm, were too realistic to have been the product of an REM cycle (that’s Rapid Eye Movement, not the US band, although I listened to “Automatic…” a lot in that ‘93 phase of life, too. Also in the loft).
James had persimmons from MacGregor (naturally); Mizuno (including a TP-5 like the one in my loft, but also a number of other, earlier models); Cleveland; and Joe Powell, to name a few. There were a couple of Bridgestone J drivers, and, having inexplicably got rid of mine somewhere down the years - despite the fact it would occasionally propel the ball an outrageous distance - I was amused to realise I had forgotten the sub-title on the sole - “PROFESSIONAL WEAPON”. There were several sets of Maruman irons, although not the classic round soled Conductors (41CX?’s) that Woosie won the Masters with; lots of Mizuno’s; a rare set of good-looking Taylor-Made irons; and too many others to mention here.
I was lost in much of James’s clear and deep exploration of the craft of club-making and the fitting process, but it remained eye-opening, as I glimpsed another level of artistry and apprenticeship in this golfing chamber of secrets. It is rare to feel so out of one’s depth and still be relishing every single moment. Rather pathetically, given the degree of experience and skill that was pouring out of my host, my one contribution was that he was unaware of a (my favourite) moment in the ‘89 Gus Van Sant movie “Drugstore Cowboy”, where the cops, during a raid of Matt Dillon’s junkie den, start breaking stuff, and Dillon clearly doesn’t care a jot until the golf clubs start being snapped. “No, man, touch touch my Hogan’s…”. James had a set, obviously, the lights of this underground marvel glinting off their silky Apex curves.
By the time I emerged, enchanted at this trip down memory lane, the daylight had long since gone, replaced by the distant Wolf Moon, high and full above London. On the train home, I reflected on how I’d approached life back in ‘93…fearless, always open to new experiences, and yesterday, soaking up all that is wonderful about Urban Golf, the bunker, and my charming host, and picking through these remnants of the game as it was back then, I felt nostalgic for those simple times, and for the clubs we used back then, full of beauty and character, and unapologetically impossible to hit.
Heading to Urban Golf was just one example of the sort of thing I’d been putting off, or rather just not getting around to, for far too long. I’d been not playing enough golf, not listening to enough music, and a host of other things, for years now, and just recently, I’d finally got round to trying to put that right.
James was the latest kindred soul I’d met with an interest in a different sort of golf, where you play regardless of the score, or often without a score. Where you cherish the challenge of playing with just one club, or hitting that wretched ball with the ludicrously small insert of an Eye-O-Matic, or with Sandy’s butter knife of a 1 iron (and whatever equivalent tool Trevino was on about in that famous lightning quote, Sandy’s driving iron must have been more demanding to hit. I laughed when I looked down at it, the blade wafer thin, then cried in pain when I hit it).
A version of the sport where the yardage and the loft are just noise, and the real game is underneath, chasing a ball round and embracing the good and bad shots as one, always in a hurry to hit the next one. Where you don’t take yourself too seriously, and return home with no answer to the question “how did you get on?”, other than “it was great”.
As Blue Mondays go, it was just wonderful.
Sitting here taking notes on this nameless Tuesday, I pull out my headphones, and search up another of New Order’s tunes, for a change grateful that the modern musical device doesn’t require re-winding. “True Faith” came a few years later, but like that experience of playing golf so freely of late, the words and that familiar rhythm also evoke a wistful gratitude for those simpler times, and in this phase of stepping back into golf, the lyrics drag me back to the here and now, and I smile.
I feel so extraordinary
Something's got a hold on me
I get this feeling I'm in motion
A certain sense of liberty
Soon the people upstairs will start to move, and it will be breakfast time, and school runs, and the rush will begin all over again, but on the other side of that will be one more chance to swing a club and head down the fairways, despite the frozen ground, despite the icy air. But before I head out, to play this game that makes my heart sing, I must pop into the loft. For today is a day for the old persimmon, which has been quietly waiting in the loft for this moment for what seems like an eternity.
I mustn’t sky it…
My morning sun is the drug that brings me near
To the childhood I lost, replaced by fear…
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(Lyrics from New Order’s True Faith; credits below:
Songwriters: Bernard Sumner / Gillian Gilbert / Peter Hook / Stephen Eric Hague / Stephen Paul David Morris
True Faith lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.)