It's An Acting Job -

I Hasten To Say To Snobs From The Surrey Pine-and-sand Country That No Invention Since The Corn Plaster Or The Electric Toothbrush Has Brought Greater Balm To The Extremities Of The Senior Golfer Than The Golfmobile, A Word That Will Have To Do For Want Of A Better.

So The British, Of All Ages, Still Walk The Course. On Trips To Florida Or The American Desert, They Still Marvel, Or Shudder, At The Fleets Of Electric Carts Going Off In The Morning Like The First Assault Wave At The Battle Of El Alamein. It Is Unlikely, For Some Time, That A Briton Will Come Across In His Native Land Such A Scorecard As Henry Longhurst Rescued From A California Club And Cherished Till The Day He Died. The Last On Its List Of Local Rules Printed The Firm Warning "a Player On Foot Has No Standing On The Course."

Las Vegas Is Everymans Cut-rate Babylon. Not Far Away There Is, Or Was, A Roadside Lunch Counter And Over It A Sign Proclaiming In Three Words That A Roman Emperors Orgy Is Now A Democratic Institution. 'topless Pizza Lunch'.

New York Is The Biggest Collection Of Villages In The World.

Sir Guy Campbell's Classic Account Of The Formation Of The Links, Beginning With Genesis And Moving Step By Step To The Thrilling Arrival Of 'tilth' On The Fingers Of Coastal Land, Suggests That Such Notable Features Of Our Planet As Dinosaurs, The Prairies, The Himalayas, The Seagull, The Female Of The Species Herself, Were Accidental By-products Of The Almighty's Preoccupation With The Creation Of The Old Course At St. Andrews.