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The Demise of Apres Golf
by Nicky Barry

In matters spherical, meaning big balls, Rose balls, hopped balls and small balls, the Kingdom of Kerry is out on its own. From magnificent Ballybunion right down to wonderful Waterville we are blessed with absolutely splendid golf courses and charming club-houses. In the seventies and eighties they were fun palaces of epicurean delight. However, in the scheme of things, time passes and culture evolves. As a simple scrubber who, after a game loves to sup porter, suck a pipe and sing an auld song, I deeply regret the demise of that most sociable activity known as Apres Golf!

All you jet-setters out there who jump on a plane at the drop of a hat and hit the slopes of Bavaria, know full well that the ritual of Apres Ski, after a long exhausting day on the piste, is half the fun of skiing. Today's young lions of the fairways seem to be sadly under the impression that golf is all about hitting golf balls, and are blissfully unaware of the antediluvian traditions of Apres Golf.

All over the county, with the odd glorious exception, golf club bars are like morgues. Old muttering ghosts in tweedy plus fours loiter in dark corners, idle card decks and green baize tables have gone mouldy, and once hot honky-tonks are covered in cobwebs. Apart from the ubiquitous Yanks who arrive and depart in buses, nowadays, after a game of golf there's neither cheer nor beer. All over Ireland the lights have gone out at the 19th, and for the native sons of Erin, it's off with the spikes in the car-park, into the boot with the clubs and straight home to Momma.



It all started with Minister Smith's Road Traffic Act of 1994 when the dreaded breathalyser first put the fear of God into scooping scrubbers everywhere and, overnight, turned clubhouses into the ice-palaces they are today. Gone forever are the days of a weary fourball gleefully pulling up stools and ordering up four pints of porter. Gone forever are the days of four good yarns, four howls of laughter, four fierce footballs rows - and then, for no reason at all, another round. And another, and then one for the road, and then, maybe a burst of a song or a recitation. Sadly Sam Mc Gee from Tennessee and Dangerous Dan Mc Grew, not forgetting the Lady that's known as Lou, no longer ride the golf-range or whoop it up in the Malamute Saloon.

In the pre-breathalyser days invariably some scrubber would rattle out a class of a tune on the ole joanna and, before you knew it, the eldest member would be up on his shaky feet warbling "The Rose of Tralee" with the whole house breaking into the chorus. Then he with the roving eye would ask the barmaid, or some other adjacent female, out for a little waltz. In no time the lads would be up dancing the feet of four fine lassies down from Cork for a day's golf - and all this mind you before six o'clock and Charles Mitchell reading the news on the telly! Boys oh boys!

Ah Yes - gone are the days - and on second thoughts maybe it's not such a bad thing at all! Golf-widows are a thing of the past and golfing daddies now regularly attend First Communion and Confirmation ceremonies. Nowadays, come the Angelus bell, good Kerrymen and true are at home cutting the grass, painting the fence, putting up shelves and cleaning out gutters instead of cavorting like half-pickled auld eejits with dolly-birds from across the county bounds. No longer do they return home at dusk to find the dog barking at them like an approaching stranger, their din-dins in the fridge and herself in the sulks! Their livers are in pristine condition, their hands are as steady as Pee Harrington's head and their tummies are as flat as pancakes. Hey - people - when you think about it, in all fairness as they say, that Apres Golf really was a sad, bad business!