The Moaning Husband is proving ever popular with you lot... probably because he is very relatable!
This week he frets about family commitments getting in the way of his golf!
Sunday bloody Sunday...
Sunday should have been such an amazing day. My kids were at their Grandparents’, which meant I woke up at 10am. Ten Ay Fucking Em!
I looked out of the window. Gorgeous blue skies, sunshine, and a little chill in the air. No kids, sunshine, Sunday. What does all that add up to?
You said ‘golf’, didn’t you?
Of course not golf, dickhead. Otherwise I wouldn’t be ranting. Dickhead.
You see, on this perfect Sunday, rather than being occasionally brilliant but mostly like a chimp with Parkinson’s holding a 7-iron, I had to waste my Sunday. I had to See Family.
I’m not against seeing family. We all have to see family.
BUT WHY CAN’T I SEE THEM WHEN IT’S FUCKING DARK? Fuck’s sake.
I wouldn’t have minded so much, if it was the giant cash cow that is Valentine’s Day that stopped me from playing. Alas, given that there’s about as much romance in my marriage as there is between Tiger and his ex-wife, that was never going to get in the way.
I had after all, done the honourable thing and popped to Morrison’s for some roses and a multi-pack of Wispa Gold, so at least that box was ticked.
But no. I had to see family.
Old racist folk...
The family in question were a geriatric aunt and uncle of Mrs Angry Husband, from Somerset or something like that. From 11am until 7pm, I was graced with this company.
Waffling nonsense, casual racism and comparisons between junior doctors and Tesco shelf stackers was the white noise that filled the air, whilst my brain was running through the 72 shots I should be taking on the course.
Well, if I’m daydreaming, it’s not going to be of thinning a wedge into the bushes, is it?
That’s the thing with winter. It ruins all the hard work that you’ve put in from spring to autumn in making sure that nothing, at all, is ever arranged for Sunday.
Sunday is our day. We give ourselves bollockings, motivational talks and golf lessons while we walk to our golf balls.
We shit ourselves on the first tee.
We make three putt bogeys with the same ease in which we make excuses for our failed lives.
But the frustrations of our amazing game don’t matter, because it’s infinitely better than pretending to be interested in other people’s lives.
I was talking to a colleague in the week, and her husband played golf on Christmas Day.
Christmas fucking day!
He’s basically Yoda to me.
The bloke must have been working on those skills for 700 years. Yoda wouldn’t get himself in the situation I was in on Sunday. Yoda would have pulled out some Jedi mind trick that meant the family turned up at 9am with some Powerade, a box of Srixon Soft Feel (how many times have I got to mention these balls before I get sent some?) and wished him good luck on his round.
I’m not Yoda. I’m not even fucking Paul Daniels.
So now begins the annual process of habit forming. Of training the better half into knowing that on Sundays, I don’t exist. I’m a ghost, and she’s that annoying little twat from The Sixth Sense.
She may think she can see me, but I’m not there. Sunday me is doing what he was born to do. Being decidedly shit at playing golf, and loving every second of it.
I'm the Managing Editor at The Club. I like putting and Rioja. I dislike my low slice.