And so to sweet home Long Reef, jutting out from the coast of Sydney’s northern beaches like a giant ski-jump shaped like an echidna coming up for a scratch, and the dreaded Monthly Medal.

And it was not, as it is often not, fun. Because stroke play, by dint of the shots all counting, is not fun. And on Medal Day, with the course setup from the tips, the pins in tricky enough spots, it’s meant to be difficult, a test of your best golf.

And people can get off on that, and good luck to them.

But it isn't often fun.

And if scoring is how you make yourself happy, how you judge your self-worth, and is the reason you practice the blessed damned game, then stroke play on Medal Day is not the format for you, not if you have any expectations about your ability to play.

Stroke is the format the pros play. Four rounds of the stuff. Do they look like they’re having fun? No, they don't. They're narky, irritable, malcontented creatures who can't swing the club unless there's total silence (or total party-noise, in some instances). Those guys are at work; it's serious stuff. It’s a miserable way to play the game. It's not fun.

But we amateurs, mug punters and weekend whackers, you're paying to play. Why would you ... not enjoy it. 

I mean, once you’ve had a quadruple-bogey on a hole, that’s as many as you need to write down to acknowledge that, on that particular hole, you were not up to it. You were not up to the task set by the course, the conditions, the otherwise friendly consulting architect they call Popeye. The hole beat you. No money here, Chopper.

What’s the point of prolonging things? Having a 10 or a 12 or sextuplet-bogey, whatever, you're done. Even a triple-bogey, that’s the hole saying to you, you lose, try again.

Now, intuitive readers may have perceived that this column might be the result of sour grapes following a particularly poor round on Saturday. And they would be one hundred percent correct. For how else do grapes taste when, on the same golf course you once shot a career-best score of one-over 72 (ironically in a medal round), yet on Saturday you amassed 94 shots and walked off 18 like you’d just hiked the Kokoda Track minus any sense of achievement.

My it was bad.

Of course, in the infernal ways of the game, it was also occasionally very good.

And it went like this:

From the first tee, three-wood was pulled into a creek. A hybrid hit a tree and found another creek, albeit without water and thus penalty. Six-iron from there squirrelled under a bush. A pure low-running four-iron from 140 metres ended 10m above the hole, a shot Seve would've enjoyed. The three subsequent putts, not so much.

And all that happy action added up to eight. Which I would again posit would be enough to illustrate hole's mastery over player.

My playing partners, meanwhile, chaps off six, eight and 10, and thus people who have known the centre of the clubface, if not which groove, conspired to finish the par-5 in seven, nine and 13 shots respectively.

Four shots went out of bounds. It wasn't pretty. Or fun, obviously. 

From there I would record: double, par, par, bogey, double, quad (a seven on a par-3), par and double, and that was my handicap torched.

So I thought, Stuff it. Let’s just let it all hang out. Who cares where it’s going. Aim it, whack it, find it. Par the back nine, baby.

And, of course, things came good.

There was a decent bogey on the 217m uphill par-3 playing into the stiff east wind.

There was a par on the downhill 11th after an eight-iron travelled as far as four-iron normally does, and stiffed to ten feet.

On 12 there was a piercing low drive followed by a hybrid from 190m which stiffed to 10 feet under the hole, a shot Jordan Spieth would’ve told Justin Thomas about. 

There was a knock-down, bunted eight-iron on 14 that had to go under a branch and do many things right, and did. How much fun was it? Top fun. Luna Park stuff, baby.

And after wailing on driver – a brand new loaner from the Pro Shop – I walked up the 15th fairway doing sums in my head. Couple birdies home, y’know, this round could be salvageable,

What I should've been thinking, of course, was: Shut up, head. You stay out of this. Stupid head.

For of course I snap-hooked three-wood, pull-hooked eight-iron, knifed wedge over the green and took three further shots before writing down seven.

Then: Driver on 16 went OB. Driver on 17 went OB. And driver on 18 went straight down the guts and resulted in a par which maintained my score of 23-over and 80 net in the way of things.

Medal Day? You need one for playing in it.

They're not fun.