All I want for Christmas is you

You’d miss the Christmas countdown over in Brisbane. The buzz about Grafton Street. Your breath against the air. The chance of an impromptu trad session, or any busker but Bono making a scene. Of course you still get amongst it Down Under. You try for 12 pubs and make it to four because the humidity would kill you. You catch Santa out surfing and fire up the bbq instead of the hearth.

But some things stay the same even when 16,000kms divide you. And on the way out of the pub the other day, I was reminded of that very thing.

So, I met a lost soul at the bar waiting for a drink. OK, so I didn’t have to talk to him. He had his friends waiting for him and I had mine. But I wanted to talk to him. Felt compelled to approach him. Drawn forth like I’d been drawn to the cool condensation running down the magical thirst-quenching taps we both craved.

You see, this fella did something standing at that counter that only a pervert would chance in public. A movement so indiscreet, so unnatural, that you either want to be caught in the act, or the act itself is so instinctual that you don’t even know you’re doing it. Let alone in public. In a public house of all places. This golf sicko out in the wild working on his swing.

Now we’d been in the pub a while at this stage. Trapped in there if you must know, waiting out one of Brisbane’s super soaking tropical storms. And this lad had a shocking sway going, something the armchair teacher in me wanted to eradicate before I made a break for the bus.

“It’s hopeless,” I said, as a look of confusion crossed his face before the penny dropped.

“Bloody oath it is,” he laughed. “But it’s much easier swing the thing without a club in your hand.”

“Plus you won’t get struck by lightning,” I laughed as a clatter of thunder wobbled the empties at the bar.

We chatted then, briefly, about this endless pursuit of happiness. This insatiable want for a repeatable swing. And here’s this lad three sheets to the wind explaining to me how he’s trying to get into the “waiter position”, holding his right palm open above his shoulder as if he’s carrying a tray of drinks across the room.

“What are you doing that for?” I asked him.

“F***ed if I know,” he laughed. Probably saw it on Facebook or YouTube or in his dreams like the rest of us blindly chasing this route to happiness; a way to bypass the over-the-top catastrophe zone that haunts many a golfer at a high-stool level.

I shook his hand and wished him a Merry Christmas, and luck in his search, knowing full well he’s chasing in vain. Searching for buried treasure with a map of his own making. Each checkpoint in his practice routine located at the wrong coordinates. Trying to find Letterkenny and he’ll end up in Kinnegad because the voice inside the GPS this man needs is one of a PGA pro. Or a shrink.

Like I could talk. Leaving the pub and only too happy to have packed the umbrella so I could work on finding the famous slot as I waited for the bus home. 

To think I spent years penning letters to Santa trying to find the perfect gift. The elusive slot. If you’re out there. All I want for Christmas is you.