My meltdown playing with Ian Woosnam...

I played golf with Ian Woosnam once. And when I say ‘played’, I mean I played one hole. And when I say I played that hole, I mean I started on the tee and finished on the green. And that’s where any similarity to playing golf ends.

Which is especially galling when you work for a golf website. Not only are you representing yourself but you feel responsible for the reputations of all your readers. You feel duty bound to be at least quite good at the game you spend all day talking and writing about.

On these occasions it matters not that the whole point of your website is to be 100% inclusive, appealing to everyone from Ernie Els to Ernie Wells (who plays his ‘golf’ in Wessex and has yet - in 23 years of hard labour - to break 112.) On these occasions – even if it’s just for one hole - you have to be good.

"What's that berk up to now?..."

GolfPunk had been invited to a corporate golf day at East Sussex National, Uckfield, a blockbusting course which has hosted, amongst many others, The European Open. A lot of excellent and very famous golfers have strode these fairways, lighting up the mammoth 7,200 yard course with shots most of us can only dream about.

My dream today was to play the 175 yard par three 16th (inspired by Augusta’s 12th) with former world number one Ian Woosnam and not make a complete berk of myself. My handicap certificate says 12 but it was issued some time back in 1982 when sinews were strong, days were always sunny and anything seemed possible to a young man.

I recently entered three scorecards at my club, Haywards Heath, and discovered an extra 10 shots had been rather impolitely added to my armoury. In the days leading up to my showdown with Woosie, I decided that I was in trouble.

It all looks so peacefull....

So I arrived early at the course and headed straight for the range. Warm up easy, I thought. Start to conceptualise the round and by the time you reach the 16th your golf swing will be a thing of natural beauty and awe inspiring accuracy.

So I took out my sand wedge and proceeded to hit seven straight shanks. And no ordinary shanks either. These babies flew off at right angles, forcing anyone to my right to desert the range in fear. I started to go into melt down. What the heck fire was going on? I never shank the ball. Fade it dramatically on occasion yes. Draw it shamelessly into ponds frequently, but the shanks?

I genuinely wanted to slink off and make my excuses there and then but that was out of the question? When the shotgun rang out, Team GP teed off on the 2nd. By the time we reached the 16th, Team GP was out of contention. It wasn’t all my fault either, we were all playing rubbish. But anyway, here came the 16th.

We were introduced to the great man and Woosie shook my hands with the words: “What’s this GolfPunk all about, then?” He knew the website! Well, he knew its name anyway. I think I managed a couple of “Fnnff”s and even ventured a “golf website for the ffnnffs of usss” before he drew back with the look of a man who suddenly wanted to get this over with.

My tee shot, a 5 iron, flew high over the vast lake and for a brief moment looked like it was going to land majestically on the green. “Good strike:” said the Masters winner. At which point the ball decided to investigate a large area of 'oomska' 30 yards right of the green. Bugger.

"This is how to do it, Shanky Pants"

When we reached the green, Woosie and his technical advisor were embarking in a spot of kind-hearted ball-searching on my behalf. The rough was thick. In fact, these were bushes. There would be no chance of finding my ball.

I noted the irony of a complete hacker having his ball searched for by a Major winner: “Hey,” I said, “when I woke up this morning I never thought I’d see a Masters champion looking for my... “ “Found it,” says Woosie by way of shutting me up before hurrying off to the green.

My ball was buried so far down I’d need an industrial digger to get it out. Somehow I managed to move it. Under the circumstances, it was a great shot. It flew across the green and very nearly stayed on it.

If only it had. By the time I got to my ball everyone was standing hands on hips waiting for me. I was suddenly aware that I was taking an inordinately long time. Two groups were stacked up on the tee. I was sweating like a swamp donkey now.

East Sussex National: Where GolfPorn meets golf carnage...

Just get it over with. Chip anywhere on the green, knock the putt somewhere near the hole, pick it up and get the hell out of there. Just don’t waste any more of Mr Woosnam’s time and he might forget he ever met me.

I was about a foot off the green and would ordinarily have putted the thing but this rough was ludicrously thick and I was worried the blade might snag and I’d look foolish.

So, instead, I shanked my sand wedge at a comedy right angle, 45 feet across the green straight into a bunker. If I stood there for 24 hours and tried to repeat the shot, I swear I couldn’t do it. I was no longer an inconvenience, I was a bona fide nuisance.

By the time I’d shanked my first bunker shot into a plugged lie in the bunker’s face, I’d become a laughing stock. By the time I’d hacked it out onto the green in two more shots, I’d become quite boring. By the time I was lining up my putt I’d become utterly meaningless.

“Well, that one’s dead,” scoffed Woosie, much to the amusement of my partners who were putting for double bogeys and feeling like golfing Gods in comparison to Shanky Shanky Sand Boy.

Woosie was right, I was dead. At that particular moment, I may as well have never even been born.

He bade us farewell and shook my hand with : “Don’t give up the day job” eyes. Rest assured, Woosie, rumours of my impending pro sponsorship deal with Titleist are vastly exaggerated.