Dear Mum,
Well, if you can't beat 'em join 'em. After packing what's left of the tent (bits of it should land somewhere in Cheshire by the middle of next week), I headed off to Birkdale to watch my mate Norman and some Irish bloke called Porridge who walks like a farm labourer and wears his teeth on the outside of his face.
Then there was this other fella called Poults. He's like Nicholas Lyndhurst crossed with Danny Dyer - flash and awkward is a funny combination, but he got everyone going and once my mate Norman looked like he was out of the picture I was all for him.
It even turned out nice again, even if it was blowing a hoolie (what does that word mean, by the way?). I'm now down to the last three layers of skin on my face. I'll have to undergo some kind of regeneration treatment when I get home.
That Porridge bloke won again in the end, but someone told me he doesn't drink and that last year he filled this old jug they give away as first prize with ladybirds. What kind of sicko does that?! A night on the Sambucas will sort him right out.
I've got this golf bug good and proper now. Reckon I might even go to Turnberry next year. Scotland gets great weather in July, right?
Big hugs,
Jack x