My good friend Fat Al is a man who possesses the rare quality of ‘self promotion’ without really annoying people. Well not all people anyway.
I used to go every year with him on golf tour to his native Scotland usually with Spicer and the wealthy Offenbach. The latter would spend each evening of the trip vacating hotel rooms because none came up to his stringent requirements whilst the other three of us pushed Scotland nearer financial independence by copiously supporting their whisky industry.
Fat Al, who acquired this nickname because he is fat and called Al, decided it would be an incentive if we had something, other than the unseemly sums of money bet on the outcome of each hole, to play for. He therefore purchased a trophy and after much debate about what name the prize should bear it was decided to call it the ‘Average Yorkshire Golfers on Tour Trophy’. The engravers however made an absolute cock up with the wording and it duly arrived back bearing the inscription of ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ which coincidentally is Fat Al’s name.
Undeterred by this unfortunate and unexplained mix-up we transported this piece of silverware with us year after year the length and breadth of Scotland. In the early days Al, who is self taught in the art of golf, but has been playing since toddler hood without recourse to changing his 24 handicap, walked away with the cup bearing his name. He gave long, immodest and sometimes largely incoherent, dependant upon the quantities of Glenfiddich consumed, acceptance speeches at the tours conclusion, often to the amazement of the other diners in the ‘Asian Spice House’ in Perth.
As time progressed and Offenbach’s £75000 per annum expenditure on golf lessons began to take affect Fat Al’s hold on his trophy came under pressure. He decided that in the interest of variety and to freshen things up then the cup should not be given for merely winning the overall tour but for acts of skill during the course of the matches. Thus over the coming years he managed to retain the prize for ‘The best recovery shot from behind a tree’, ‘The best recovery shot from under a bush’ and ‘The best recovery shot from off the beach’.
I have to admit that on one occasion I did secure the money bet on each hole when registering a somewhat dubious longest drive. The other three all hit either out of bounds or into the rough whereas I topped my shot which rolled thirty yards under a bridge, my second shot was unplayable, but upon rigorous examination of the course map my playing companions had to admit that technically, for some reason, under the bridge was classed as the fairway so the reward was mine.
Pressure of work has prevented me from touring for a few years. That pressure being that I no longer make enough money to go on tour but I still manage the odd ’home’ game with Fat Al and he has also now turned his not inconsiderable bulk and ‘self promotion’ toward tennis so our paths sometimes cross on court.
He recently donated an ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ to be played for at the Annual International Tennis Tournament held locally and duly entered ‘his’ competition. Unfortunately this being a prestigious tournament played under the watchful eye of the LTA his suggestion that he should take the trophy by dent of ‘The best drop shot off the frame’ didn’t hold sway.
The cup was the prize in Men’s Doubles for players aged at least twenty years my corpulent friend’s junior. To my chagrined I was roped in as his fellow cannon fodder.
We were drawn to play a Canadian and a seasoned tournament player from the North East. Now before I go further I should explain that my plump partner’s quest for notoriety sometimes embraces the bizarre as when two years ago he adopted a self preferred sobriquet.
We were at a Rugby Club Dinner and a special presentation was made at the end of the evening to an eighty year old doyen of the Club. Now Al could have been impressed by the fact that this sprightly octogenarian had in his youth gained a rugby blue at Oxford or the fact that he had scaled Mont Blanc wearing a woolly sweater and sustained only by a mars bar. He could have been swayed by this remarkable mans war record, an MC, captured at Dunkirk, escaped from Officier-Lager7 dressed as a nun, one of the first on the Sword beach. He could have been impressed with his successful business career and his contribution to the judiciary or for his charitable work within the county. However what really impressed Fat Al was that this man in his young playing days had gone by the nickname of ‘Shagger’. No explanation was given and none asked for. Putton however decided that from that day on he should also be known as ‘Shagger’.
Amazingly for some time, his friends, self included, actually adhered to this request and who knows may well have being doing so still, if his lovely wife had not put her foot down after becoming fed up of him referring to her to everyone he met as ‘Shaggers Woman’.
I mention this now because the names of the players we were drawn against were Randy Smith and George Groper. Al immediately insisted upon resurrecting his Shagger moniker. Thus I played with Shagger, Randy and Groper it was like an audition for parts in the porno version of ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’. Surprisingly we did win some games from Groper and his Randy partner but were in the end comprehensively beaten. If only this pair had eventually won the ‘Shagger Trophy’ instead of the ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’
Still I am sure that my fat friend will be donating more trophies to more sports in the future and may decide that the former is too good a name not to use.
I used to go every year with him on golf tour to his native Scotland usually with Spicer and the wealthy Offenbach. The latter would spend each evening of the trip vacating hotel rooms because none came up to his stringent requirements whilst the other three of us pushed Scotland nearer financial independence by copiously supporting their whisky industry.
Fat Al, who acquired this nickname because he is fat and called Al, decided it would be an incentive if we had something, other than the unseemly sums of money bet on the outcome of each hole, to play for. He therefore purchased a trophy and after much debate about what name the prize should bear it was decided to call it the ‘Average Yorkshire Golfers on Tour Trophy’. The engravers however made an absolute cock up with the wording and it duly arrived back bearing the inscription of ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ which coincidentally is Fat Al’s name.
Undeterred by this unfortunate and unexplained mix-up we transported this piece of silverware with us year after year the length and breadth of Scotland. In the early days Al, who is self taught in the art of golf, but has been playing since toddler hood without recourse to changing his 24 handicap, walked away with the cup bearing his name. He gave long, immodest and sometimes largely incoherent, dependant upon the quantities of Glenfiddich consumed, acceptance speeches at the tours conclusion, often to the amazement of the other diners in the ‘Asian Spice House’ in Perth.
As time progressed and Offenbach’s £75000 per annum expenditure on golf lessons began to take affect Fat Al’s hold on his trophy came under pressure. He decided that in the interest of variety and to freshen things up then the cup should not be given for merely winning the overall tour but for acts of skill during the course of the matches. Thus over the coming years he managed to retain the prize for ‘The best recovery shot from behind a tree’, ‘The best recovery shot from under a bush’ and ‘The best recovery shot from off the beach’.
I have to admit that on one occasion I did secure the money bet on each hole when registering a somewhat dubious longest drive. The other three all hit either out of bounds or into the rough whereas I topped my shot which rolled thirty yards under a bridge, my second shot was unplayable, but upon rigorous examination of the course map my playing companions had to admit that technically, for some reason, under the bridge was classed as the fairway so the reward was mine.
Pressure of work has prevented me from touring for a few years. That pressure being that I no longer make enough money to go on tour but I still manage the odd ’home’ game with Fat Al and he has also now turned his not inconsiderable bulk and ‘self promotion’ toward tennis so our paths sometimes cross on court.
He recently donated an ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ to be played for at the Annual International Tennis Tournament held locally and duly entered ‘his’ competition. Unfortunately this being a prestigious tournament played under the watchful eye of the LTA his suggestion that he should take the trophy by dent of ‘The best drop shot off the frame’ didn’t hold sway.
The cup was the prize in Men’s Doubles for players aged at least twenty years my corpulent friend’s junior. To my chagrined I was roped in as his fellow cannon fodder.
We were drawn to play a Canadian and a seasoned tournament player from the North East. Now before I go further I should explain that my plump partner’s quest for notoriety sometimes embraces the bizarre as when two years ago he adopted a self preferred sobriquet.
We were at a Rugby Club Dinner and a special presentation was made at the end of the evening to an eighty year old doyen of the Club. Now Al could have been impressed by the fact that this sprightly octogenarian had in his youth gained a rugby blue at Oxford or the fact that he had scaled Mont Blanc wearing a woolly sweater and sustained only by a mars bar. He could have been swayed by this remarkable mans war record, an MC, captured at Dunkirk, escaped from Officier-Lager7 dressed as a nun, one of the first on the Sword beach. He could have been impressed with his successful business career and his contribution to the judiciary or for his charitable work within the county. However what really impressed Fat Al was that this man in his young playing days had gone by the nickname of ‘Shagger’. No explanation was given and none asked for. Putton however decided that from that day on he should also be known as ‘Shagger’.
Amazingly for some time, his friends, self included, actually adhered to this request and who knows may well have being doing so still, if his lovely wife had not put her foot down after becoming fed up of him referring to her to everyone he met as ‘Shaggers Woman’.
I mention this now because the names of the players we were drawn against were Randy Smith and George Groper. Al immediately insisted upon resurrecting his Shagger moniker. Thus I played with Shagger, Randy and Groper it was like an audition for parts in the porno version of ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’. Surprisingly we did win some games from Groper and his Randy partner but were in the end comprehensively beaten. If only this pair had eventually won the ‘Shagger Trophy’ instead of the ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’
Still I am sure that my fat friend will be donating more trophies to more sports in the future and may decide that the former is too good a name not to use.
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