BPOB - Golfing Trip to France, 2005 - Dateline . . . . .May 12th, 2005

For months we had anxiously scanned the Business Pages of the newspapers, all the better to divine the possibility of strike-action being enacted by staff at Irish Ferries. In the event, circumstances favoured us, and our departure was not threatened.

Some of us had even taken the liberty of booking manicures on board -- albeit not at the bargain basement price of €1 per day, that facility having since disappeared!

Come the glorious day, and 9 of us travelled.

We were supposed to be 10 -- but, only days previously, one of our stallworth travellers ‘Derek Murphy’ was forced to cancel.

I say ‘forced’. He, like the rest of us had booked this holiday months in advance. However, the ‘powers-that-be’ in the Prison Service arbitrarily decided to roster him for work that week. And, with the honesty that is his trademark, Derek decided to honour the decision.

Remind me again -- prisons are supposed to keep the criminals locked up . . . . not the good guys as well!

As is now the custom, we played a game of golf in Wexford on the day of departure.

This year, by way of change, Rosslare Golf Course was the venue.

Tee-off time being 9.15 am >> that required a 6.30 am start from Dublin.

Joe Lakes: You guys are ***king mad to start your holidays like that. Not for me.

Joe D’Arcy: I’m working

7 of us played, and thoroughly enjoyed a links course that was not as fearsome as expected.

All around us horrendous thunderstorms swirled. We escaped with just a drenching on the 18th hole.

Afterwards, with the clock still ticking, all 9 of us gathered in Kilrane for vittles. Okay, a couple of pints and some wonderful pub-grub.

Because we were now a few weeks after Easter, the passenger numbers travelling were low, allowing us to drive on board with barely 35 mins to departure. The nature of a sailing with Irish Ferries from Rosslare to Cherbourg has changed somewhat now -- due to the fact that the crews are no longer Irish. Ships officers are British, with Polish and Estonian making up the rest of the rest of the nationalities. I have to say that there is a noticeable change in atmosphere on-board. A very ‘pleasant’ noticeable change.

As ever, we dined mightily in the ship’s restaurant.

The crossing was smooth, apart from the by now obligatory ‘kerb-side’ bump as we rounded Land’s End.

Rumour has it that some travellers, whose nationality/affiliation/disposition shall remain anonymous, ‘christened’ the occasion in unusual fashion! I’m saying no more. Dirty scuts.

We docked and hit the road on time, travelling en-convoy.

It’s always a logistical challenge to figure out the correct combination of transport needed. Garry had his pimped-out Mercedes,

Tony had his sedate Saab, and the Crosbies had a . . . . builder’s van. The van served as a very functional luggage hauler.

3 hours later, having checked into the hotel with a minimum of hassle, we all stood on the 1st tee of the ‘La Mer’ course.

Le Waller boomed the first drive straight down the fairway. Thus it started, and so continued for the 3 days.

Perfect weather, glorious golf courses, everyone playing good golf.

When I say perfect weather -- there was one quibble >> we all came expecting mixed weather, brought all the rain gear etc . . . . but didn’t factor in the Factor 24 stuff! Sunstroke became a potential problem.

And the perfect justification for prolonged and dedicated ‘re-hydration’ afterwards.

I do recall that, on our last visit to Omaha GC, April 2004, we enthused about the quality of the course -- a fact reflected by the staging of a European Seniors Tournament on the same course >> 1 week after our departure.

And broadcast on Sky Sports. Good thing I’d replaced those divots!

After 3 days golf (4 for the more dedicated of us) it’s fair to say that everyone was delighted with the quality of their own play.

No long faces, no long shanks, no long scores. We played a mixture of scramble and aggregate team scores.

Unlike previous years, nobody came home muttering about ‘poor play’.

Mind you, some had a slight over advantage the rest.

We all played to the handicaps assigned last year. Matthew was the one exception, it being a few years since his last visit.

Based on the quality of play in Rosslare, and recommendations, the ‘Committee of One’ arbitrarily decided to award Matt a handicap of ‘+10’. (A degree of generosity next year might amend that to ‘+11’)

I think that everyone else played pretty well to form.

I played Rosslare with Garry and Tony.

We all agreed our ‘handicaps’ on the 1st tee, and decided on a simple ‘stroke-play’ format.

As Tony boomed his drives, chipped like the divil and sank his putts . . . . I began to have some doubts.

“Tony, what are you playing off?”

“+24”

Bang -- another birdie.

BPOB Golf Handicaps:
Barry Crosbie	+ 9
Derek Wall	+ 14
Derek Murphy	+ 14
Ian Crosbie	+ 7
Ronan O’Dea	+24
Peter Crosbie	+18
Michael Crosbie	+16
Garry O’Dea	+23
Joe D’Arcy	+36
Tony Bateman	+19
Joe Lakes	+ 30
Matthew Wall	+ 10

“Tony are you sure?”

“Yea, +24. I’ve been doing some practicing recently.”

Bloody Bandit, I thought to myself.

To play so straight, and true -- on an unfamiliar links course . . . . . mighty impressive.

Anyway, the week continued.

When writing this report -- I decided to update the ‘Golf Handicap Table’ from 2004.

And what do I see for Tony ‘El Bandito’ Bateman?

Not ‘+24’ as suggested. Not ‘+22’. Not even ‘+20’. NO.

Tony Bateman’s official BPOB handicap, as recorded in the Doomsday Book is ‘+19’.

An outrageous piece of gamemanship, unprecedented in the annals of BPOB.

How bad?

In football parlance -- akin to calling a ‘goal’ for a shot that hits the corner flag.

How bad?

Even Christy Gorman wouldn’t call that handicap.

That bad!

A plenary meeting of the ‘Committee of One’ has been convened to consider sanctions.

Henceforth >> ‘El Bandito Bateman’.

None of that interfered with the main business of the trip -- namely, Food, Wine, Golf and the occasional beer along the way.

I say ‘occasional’ for a very good reason.

For the 3 days in France, our party did find opportunity to sample the local beer, and a few continental varieties.

You know how we complain in Dublin at anything over ‘€4.50’ for a pint! Well, in France -- we paid €6.00 for a 0.50 litre glass of beer.

Yipes!

It was decidedly cheaper to drink wine or coffee.

Our time schedule didn’t permit us to get down to the habour town of Port-en-Bessin for a more civilised pub-crawl.

Anyway, we found out that, apart from Easter, most places were not yet open at this time of year.

So, yuz had a slight quibble with the beer. Anything else?

Well, one of the cherished pleasures of the trips is the gastronomical grazing we indulge in. This year was no different.

A mentioned previously, we ate ‘mightily’ in the Renoir Restaurant aboard the Irish Ferries ship ‘Normandy’.

A personal crusade of this writer is the perennial lack of a proper choice of deserts/sorbets on menu’s. In particular something featuring lemon.

How gratifying then to savour the ‘Lemon Lip Lock’ from the menu. Suffice it to say that, on the return leg, a majority of BPOB’ers chose that desert. Lip licking, lasciviously lovely lemon.

And, in France, as part of our half-board package, we dined in the L’Albatross Restaurant, attached to the Omaha GC.

The food was memorable, and this writer persuaded a few more enthusiasts to venture into the ‘Gourmet’ menus -- for a paltry €12 supplement.

Thus we were ‘spared/????’ the dubious pleasures of the ‘Sausage Special’ on the 1st night.

When I say ‘sausage’, it’s not in any meaning of a ‘Denny’s frankfurter’. No, this was something entirely different.

It’s not really possible to describe the sheer awfulness of that digit.

The last time I smelt something so awful was in the lavatories of my primary school at Oatlands, in 1963.

Poor old Ronan, you should have seen his face after taking a first bite of his ‘sausage’.

It changed to Green faster than one of his beloved traffic lights on the Nangor Road!

A few others at the table had ordered the sausage, and all struggled.

The only person who cleared his plate was Joe D’Arcy. Now, I’m not saying that Joe has ‘no taste’, but . . . . . . . . . . . !

So, you guys seem to spend a lot of time working up an appetite, an equal amount of time satiating that appetite, and a reflective amount of time appeasing that appetite -- would that be a fair comment!

Don’t forget the amount of time we spend talking about it!

Now, I’m sure the question has oft been asked of a BPOB’er -- after 30 years playing football together, and 7 years travelling to France together . . . . . . just what do yuz find to talk about.

30 years ago, it might have been the ‘un-attainables’ >> wine, women and goals.

Not necessarily in that order.

Over the years, the order changed, expended, contracted >> wine, women, salary, winning in Bushy, car.

Football came (and went, for some). Golf inveigled itself into the fabric of BPOB life.

So, an eclectic bunch of ageing travellers. With an equally wide range of interesting interests, opinions and prejudices.

“ . . . . .and I saw a report recently that confirms this point -- somewhere in Holland, I think, is a vast production centre where they . . . .mass-fry eggs . . . . and these are then specially packed and shipped around Europe to where-ever . . . . so you can have the situation that a shipment of ‘fried eggs’ might be delivered to say, Marbella, or Trondheim, but not needed/used . . . . and can be shipped back to the point of production, only to be onward-shipped else where . . . . “

“ . . . . and when I was on holidays in this resort, we could get every sort of egg for breakfast -- fried, boiled, scrambled, poached . . . . now, my favourite method is poached . . . . and did you know you can ‘poach’ an egg in the microwave . . . . No, I’m serious . . . . Yea, what I do is ----- place it in a cup, covered in clingfilm, oh yea - - - you put a little water in the cup . . . . mumble mumble (something about a spoon ) . . . . .

“ . . . . you gotta have baby potatoes, boiled to preference, meanwhile you take a bunch of chives -- chop finely, get a knob of butter, a large wedge of lemon, ground black pepper -- when the spuds are boiled (with skins, of course) - slice in half, mix in the garnishes, give the pot a good shake to coat everything . . . . . . Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm”

NOW yuz know.

Sad, isn’t it, to behold a once-majestic band of footballers morphing into such decay.

A cross between ‘Keith Floyd meets Marion Finucane meets Mrs Doubtfire’.

I’m torn between thrashing that entire segment - - - or opening a ‘Gourmet Column’ on this website!

We did kick up our heels . . . . occasionally. [BigPete . . . be very CAREFUL how you write this]

You gotta picture the scene: the BPOB’ers have been mightily feed aboard the ship’s restaurant, they wander down to the ‘Molly Maguire’ lounge where the action is really beginning to rumble. Lottsa action on the dancefloor.

SO, we dispatch Matinee Matt down to join the action. He returns after . . .. 5 mins.

“I’m too old for them” he mutters.

OK, who’s for a pint! Krista, Anastasia? Hey you -- stop oogling Olga!

Yea, but what about the ‘highlights’?

Well, Ronan lost his wallet. And we found it. Garry lost his car keys. And we found them also.

WE HAD A GREAT TIME, LOOKED GOOD IN OUR JACKETS, AND ARE READY FOR NEXT YEAR.

48 weeks and counting.