1997 Turtle Team Trip to Martinborough

There has been a lot of speculation in the media recently about what really did go on behind the scenes when Jim Bolger was ousted. There has been none at all about what went on when the FTFC had a weekend away back in September, so I thought I had better fill that void, so to speak.

Stories about Turtle team trips of years gone by have been passed down through generations, young children being thrilled by stories of adventure, excitement, and puking up cooked breakfasts. Many is the time a young girl, dressed for bed in her nighty, has sat on her "Uncle's" knee listening to the stuff of legends. Unfortunately nothing more can be said of that until Simon's case is heard, but it was with a modicum of excitement that I waited to be picked up by Terry in his Ford Phallic on a sunny Friday afternoon.

Those of us with proper jobs headed off to New Judgeford for the first of the planned three rounds of golf. Not surprisingly, this first round, unencumbered as it was by hangovers, was the best of the three. Myself and Tel shot our best ever, thus fucking up our Classic handicaps for many years to come. Spratty, Don and Steve had the misfortune to play with Boy (?!). After a few beers it was off over the hill to Martinborough.

On the way we stopped off in the Featherston Hotel for a glass of milk. We knew we had arrived in rural NZ when a pissed local came up and promptly recited Featherston's joke-de-jour :-

"What do you tell a woman with two black eyes ?"
"Nothing, she's already been told twice".

The toothless crone beside him, who could have been his wife, cousin or mother, and was probably all three, was still cackling away at this display of rapier wit as we departed the car-park a very short time later.

A brief visit to our country estate near Martinborough confirmed it was a lovely place, with a nice lawn tennis court, deck and living areas. Suitably impressed, we abandoned it and went to the pub. The Martinborough Hotel had been done up, but was still able to serve a jolly good pint of piss, the quality of which was further enhanced by a Rugby League victory over Australia being served up on the TV in front of it. Dinner was courtesy of the burger bar across the road, that stayed open late to cater to our needs. An extra portion of chips was purchased for decorating Spratty's car.

By now a slight problem had arisen. Weasel's plan to get the Wairarapa's only taxi to come from Featherston to take us back to the house had fallen through, and no-one was sober enough to drive. The locals regarded this as a great joke, as few of them had ever driven actually under the limit. Our bar-man took pity on us, and we all piled into the back of his s/wagon for $20. Generous as this may seem, it was more a case of a guilty conscience, as the same guy had tried to rip us of with change earlier.

Back at the old homestead, the inevitable games of indoor golf and hacky-sac (with a teddy bear) ensued. The teddy bear lost an eye and ended up lost at the top of a tree, and the putting course was ruined by several people going to bed and shutting doors. A couple of night-caps were called for, Weasel and Spratty finally closing proceedings at about 5.

Breakfast a short time later was not a glamorous affair, but humorous, as most of us were still pissed. We headed off to Carterton golf course, the next agenda on the Weasel-organised itinerary. Playing Carterton on the Saturday and then Martinborough on the Sunday was a master-stroke of planning, as he had several weeks previously told Nick that this order would be the reverse. Apparently Nick turned up at Martinborough, spent an enjoyable half-hour sitting in the car-park, and then went home.

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Carterton was overjoyed to see us, as we quadrupled their green fee income for the month. Several Turtles were on the other hand not overjoyed to be there, Spratty in particular doing an excellent impression of a walking corpse. It was pointed out by Steve that Spratty played 90 % of his golf with a shocking hangover anyway, and that it has no effect on his play, and so it proved, as the wee gnome shot an 85. Most others also played well, but at the other end of the scale I had a shocker, and Don lived up to his "George of the Jungle" non-de-plume by hitting every third tree on the course.

After a refreshing lager in the nineteenth, during which Spratty was presented by with the dubious prize of some woollen head-covers for "winning", it was back to the homestead to watch Wellington lose a game of rugby. On then to a charming little restaurant in Martinborough for dinner. Things were going well, but then a shocking piece of bad luck - C J found us. The only thing for it was to drink heavily. The Martinborough Hotel was quiet, so most of us had a look at the Pukemanu (or something like that) on the other side of the square. Terry, single, and Boy, to be married in about a month, decided to try a small cafe instead, because of a table of ladies by themselves. They missed a real treat in the Pukemanu. The all-male "band", was an absolute comic act. Their average age must have been 50. The keyboard player had an eye-patch, the drummer looked like Keith Richards on a bad morning, and the singer, surely on day release from some secure institution, brutally murdered every number one since the forties. We did get the impression though that laughing at them may have resulted in a beating from their loyal, gumboot-clad, following.

Back at the Martinborough things were still quiet. Terry and Boy had scared off the local tottie in two minutes flat, so it was clear we had to make our own entertainment. Back to the house. With several cars directed toward it with their headlights on full, the tennis court was transformed into a football ground to rival Madrid's "Stadium of Light". Early on in the game it became clear that Don's penchant for violent aggression is severely enhanced by alcohol.

Full-time was called at midnight. The after-match drinkies were remarkable for CJ being keen on showing us his bollocks, apparently swollen and purple after "the snip". The offer was politely declined, so he tried to describe the operation, beginning by sticking his finger in the air and saying "I'll draw you a mental picture - here's my penis". Everyone present quickly changed the subject. Not to be silenced, CJ then delighted us with some comments about his son reaching puberty, such as "his penis is smaller than mine was at his age", and "I can tell what he's been doing when I walk into his room by the look on his face". Not surprisingly, Don's violence flared again, as he lashed out at anyone within reach. Weasel caught a welly in the groin, and spent 10 minutes on the floor looking pale. People were by now starting to sneak off to bed to avoid any more of this physical and mental maiming.

The next morning Terry cooked up a storm in the kitchen, and the boys were well prepared for an attack on the Martinborough golf course. However, a strong wind, coupled with a heavy weekend on the piss, meant that few had good rounds. Over a meat pie and pint in the nineteenth, most agreed that for a group of mature, intelligent men to go away and act ridiculously for a weekend is very silly indeed, and that there would be no more Turtle team trips. For at least twelve months.

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