If Carlsberg Did Golf Days...
A 9-hole course on the Isle of Wight...
Two teams: Isle of Wight vs the Rest of the World...
One oversized yellow jacket that nobody really wants to wear… but everyone wants to win.
There are two dates that are permanent fixtures in my diary, aside from obvious family stuff. The first is the Orlando PGA Show, the global meeting of the golf industry where brands, media and the golf trade come together (at which I have a 20-year attendance record, only interrupted by the birth of my son).
The second couldn’t be more different. Smaller, sillier, and far more chaotic. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce The Cowes Week Open.
While everyone secretly wonders if this will be the year they take home the hallowed yellow jacket, the real goal is simple: have an incredible day. I should warn you, dear reader – parts of this may come across as childish, foul-mouthed, and alcohol-fuelled… and unapologetically so.
The day unfolds at Cowes Golf Club – a tricky 9-hole course dating back to 1909, perched on the northern tip of the Isle of Wight. The format has shifted over the years, but recently it’s been Isle of Wight vs The Rest of the World. Born on the island? You’re in the IoW team, wearing fuchsia pink tops and blue shorts. Everyone else? Green and white. Despite my mother being an islander, I’m firmly on the RoW side, making me an “overner” – local slang for anyone not native to the island. The date is always the Thursday of Cowes Week, one of the world’s oldest and most prestigious regattas, and the players are a glorious mix of family, friends, and close colleagues.
Alongside the team event runs an individual Stableford competition, where the winner earns the honour of wearing the yellow jacket – liberated from a holiday park many years ago, now embroidered with the names of every champion since 2004. Unlike The Masters, where each jacket is tailored to the winner, this is a large ‘one-size-fits-none’ number, making me look a bit like the kid in the film Big.
The field could fairly be described as ‘mixed ability’. The lowest handicap is 18, the highest a scarcely believable 45. All players are vetted by the ‘handicap committee’ and handicaps changed to match what they believe it should be, rather than what it technically is. Imagine your club’s monthly medal if the organisers could simply say, “Yeah, no, you’re off 6 today!” Group captains are usually those who have a grasp of the Stableford scoring system. For many players, this is the one and only time they play golf every year; for others, this is their passion. Isn’t it one of the amazing things about golf that all these players can be on the same course at the same time and compete?
We meet in the car park at around 8:15am, where hugs are exchanged, beers are handed out and the laughs begin. Captains are given two essential documents: the scorecard and a fines sheet. Fines are to be noted down for pretty much anything, but captains can also be fined if their fines are not funny enough. The local rules for the day are laid out: preferred lies (as the ground is mostly rock hard and grass-free); drop a ball closest to where a ball was lost for a one-shot penalty; longest drive on hole 1; nearest the pin on 3 and 8; compulsory beer anytime you walk past the clubhouse; and a shot of Sambuca on the 8th tee. Standard.
A shotgun start at 9am gets us underway. My group begins on the dogleg par 4 fourth. I know one of my playing partners; the other two are new faces. We talk, we laugh, and we prove once again that golf is as much about the company as it is the scorecard. I play OK, safe in the knowledge that my 31 points mean I won’t come last (18 points took that), but also that I won’t have to wear the jacket again! That’s about as much of the golf I want to talk about, for the real fun begins after the round ends.
We congregate in the cosy clubhouse (which we completely fill) for post-round beers and a lunchtime fry-up. We’ve all paid £15 for a classic English fry-up to mop up some of the morning’s alcohol and set us up for the afternoon’s festivities. We find out later that one member of the group has generously and secretly covered it, providing another £500 for the pot.
Now for arguably my favourite hour of the whole year: the reading of the fines. Every golfer must be equipped with a pile of 50p and £1 coins and the thickest of skins; there are no limits as to what the fines could be for, and the amount, for that matter.
Captains stand one by one to announce the contents of their fine sheets. They come thick and fast, and with it the giggles and inevitable extra comments that keep us all belly-laughing and grinning ear to ear for the duration. My personal favourites this year: Rattler for snapping his 5-iron; Tommy for losing 14 golf balls; Neil for looking like Doctor Strange; Pitters for having to wee 15 times (50p per wee); Bell for trying to kill Sedge by hitting him with a golf ball; Sedge for being in the way of Bell’s ball; Bell for trying to kill another group; Pitters for talking up his chances of hitting the longest drive but then slicing his ball against the tee marker; Baz for pissing on his own shoes (twice); me for taking a PW-size divot with a 7-wood; a ‘virgin tax’ for first-time players; Bell for pissing too far away from the hedge; Pibby for having ‘questionable’ head covers; Teddy for being a wan**r and wearing a ‘wan*y’ visor; Paul for telling a tree to ‘f**k off’; Macca fining his own staff for taking the piss out of his pink shirt (£80 in the pot); Jupey for not having enough teeth; Tommy for being sick in the hedge before the golf even started; Ted for mistaking two Spitfires for ‘big birds’; me for hitting the 4th green from the 6th tee; and finally, a ‘perfect tax’ for anyone who has somehow managed to get away without being fined. My cheeks hurt from the laughing.
Quickly on to the auction, where fourballs, bottles of booze and a few other items are sold to the highest bidder to raise a few extra pounds. Still the banter flows, nobody is safe. One item is bid on by Jamie, who is outbid by his son Billy, who is then outbid by his other son Stan – essentially all the same person. Three friends bid against each other for a four-ball that they will all be part of.
So, what happens to all this money? Straight in the kitty for drinks later on? Well, that’s the next beautiful thing about this day – we give it away. Sometimes to a charity, more recently directly to someone close to the group that needs some help. Two years ago we contributed to buying a minibus for a special needs school; last year we gave the money to the family of a little boy who has contracted a rare disease that will shorten his life (they spent it on modifying their garden as little Teddy will likely never walk). The room fell quiet as one of the younger guys held back the tears to give a heartfelt speech about his friend’s dad who has MND and needs financial assistance to make the most of the little time he has left.
Before the winner was crowned, there was the presentation of the ‘Sid Pitman Trophy’. Sid passed away a few years ago and was what we call a ‘tryer’ – not the best golfer but always there, always bringing the best of himself to the group and always giving it his all. This year the winner also won £20 in the sweepstake, which was deposited back in the fines pot without hesitation.
Then, at last, the winners of the golf were crowned. The home team lifted the new trophy, which had been hand-crafted from English oak by one of the RoW team. Forty-one points was only enough for 5th place, with the winner needing a massive 46 points (off an official 19 hcp, before you ask) to win the yellow jacket. As the reigning champion, I had the honour of crowning the 2025 winner in true Masters fashion.
The final tradition was a round of Port for a solemn and poignant toast to absent friends. With the passing of time, inevitably we’ve lost some of our comrades over the years. Gone, but never forgotten. For a while, I was part of the youngest generation, but as we head into mid-life, the next generation have arrived and bring their own energy and humour. Several dads spoke of their pride at seeing these kids grow into young men and represent themselves so well.
From here we walk to Northwood House to meet with family and friends, then down to the seafront and then off into the night. The sight of 36 men in bright shirts always turns a lot of heads, and we chat, sing, dance and be merry until the wee hours. The group chat is still buzzing with silly photos and one-liners. Absolute perfection.
What other sport gives this kind of opportunity, excuse even, to get people together? From 18 to 80, from tradesmen to teachers to entrepreneurs to retirees – all the same for a day. It’s one of the reasons we all love this game so much, and I hope that many of you experience something similar with your golf groups around the world.
The Cowes Week Open is a golf day with a heart and a smile as big as the island that hosts it, and long may it continue.