Keeping the score for a five-ball, four members of which have two shots on any number of differing holes when your own game is as fragile as Mr. Grumpy's, is akin to doing complex algebra whilst riding a unicycle. Thus it's to no one's surprise when the result as discussed in the bar is open to correction by the computer. By way of proof, the match that was thought to be a draw actually turns out to be a comfortable two-point victory.

The other problem is spending 4 hours in the company of a triumphalist Welshman, particularly when your own team have proved to be so inept. Naturally after one's own country has been eliminated, one's support needs to transfer to another Northern hemisphere team. Whether that should be Celtic or Gallic is yet to be decided.

Anyway, the toss pairs DJ with Stan's yellow cherry leaving Tate to team up with Turbo and Mr. G. 

Following last week's stellar performance, Tate thrills the crowd with some wayward shots of colossal proportions the best of which threatens a house on Dovehouse Lane and draws a shout of OH FUCK!....    FORE!!!!! much to the amusement of the 4 ball playing the 9th.

Turbo has a good day and despite collecting the camels, takes the ten points with a useful 37. Although they don't know it at the time, the three ball win the match. It's also a great day for the Annual Dinner Fund with OOBs, ducks and camels a-plenty.