10 It does not have to happen every time you have a romance
9 It does not have to happen every time you fall in love
8 It is not a game
7 Your marriage is more important to your loved ones than you might imagine
6 Your wedding is your wife’s most special day ever (other than childbirth) and she must be the star – willing or not
5 Don’t invite anyone you don’t want there, no matter what the fallout may be
4 There will always be someone who is not happy about it
3 It should be for ever
2 It doesn’t have to be for ever
1 Wives are sexier
WITH THINGS ON THE PITCH HOTTING UP, as it were, it was time for things off the pitch to get cracking.
I hadn’t had a steady girlfriend since I separated from Billie and frankly it was getting to me. I was running out of places to look until those two lovely telly favourites Ant and Dec came up with the bright idea of putting celebs playing golf back on the box.
The All*Star Cup, as it was to be called, would be an amateur golfer’s dream come true; three days of televised competition with two teams – one from Europe and the other from the USA – battling it out head to head, Ryder Cup-style, at the Celtic Manor Golf Resort in Wales. There would be team outfits and team bags, crowds of tens of thousands and ultimately victory, not once but twice, for Team Europe.
Already good but what Ant and Dec didn’t put in their programme proposal was that this golf-fest would also introduce me to the goddess who would become my wife.
Other than my mum and radio, golf has been the longest and most positive force in my life. My cousin Brian competed in the Open Championship and was my hero as a kid. He looked like a surfer, had a car I’d never even heard of before and was always somewhere else in the world other than Warrington, where I was.
Brian gave me my first half-set of clubs when I was nine, along with a few old, scuffed balls, and I played for four years on the field at the back of our council house before I could even think about affording to play on an actual course.
I can’t tell you how much I still look forward to a game of golf. I remember the time when losing the ball was not an option as it was the only one I had, and I am constantly aware of how lucky I am when striding out on to courses like St Andrews and Wentworth with as many brand new balls as I need, which is usually quite a lot. So having been asked to join the European team – the term ‘bit their hands off’ would not be out of place in describing my reaction – I was asked if I could spare the time to play a few holes at a course near London a few weeks before the tournament, so that the production company could make a short promo film.
This I was more than happy to do. I was always glad of any excuse to get out on the course, especially when they told me the filming would take place at the magnificent Stoke Park Golf Club in Buckinghamshire, a stunning course, and the location for James Bond’s infamous match against Auric Goldfinger.
When I arrived I was told that I would be joining my All*Star team-mates Jodie Kidd and Ronan Keating to make up a friendly three-ball. We played nine holes all in all, with lots of stop-starting and interviews. It was all about the telly programme rather than the golf, with the three of us laying down a challenge to the Yanks to ‘Come and get us if they dared!’ After we’d finished, Jodie flew off in a helicopter – she does that kind of thing a lot – while Ronan and I ordered a sandwich and a soft drink on one of several colossal terraces that flank the majestic clubhouse.
Whilst we awaited our order, Ronan looked up and did a double-take.
‘Here, Chris, come and meet a friend,’ he announced, jumping up.
I followed him to an ornate, low stone wall behind which, teeing off, were two men and the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, dressed in a skimpy pink top along with an almost illegally short black skirt, white ankle socks and a pair of super-cool golf shoes.
Who the bejesus is she? I wondered. She’s bloody gorgeous. And she was. Dark skinned with long, slender legs, so toned they looked as though they’d been carved, rather than grown, and a classically pretty Persian Princess face, with brown eyes and masses of thick brunette hair gathered cheekily into two bunches.
This, it turned out, was Natasha Elizabeth Annahid Shishmanian, or the Golf Nurse as she was known to thousands of readers of Golf Punk magazine. The Golf Nurse was a fictitious character that Natasha had brought to life as every male golfer’s fantasy; a beautiful woman who not only played golf, but who was on hand to help the ever-frustrated reader with his golfing worries. All this I was yet to learn. For the moment I just stood watching her, filled with wonder.
‘Hi Ronan,’ she said, seeing your man on the other side of the wall, before running over to give him a kiss.
‘Hi Tash,’ he replied. ‘This is Chris, we’ve been filming for the Ant and Dec golf thing.’
‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that,’ she said.
‘Hello,’ I gestured.
‘Hi, pleased to meet you,’ she returned politely.
After this brief exchange, Ronan and Natasha shot the breeze for a few more moments before one of Natasha’s playing partners called her over to take the shot.
‘Time penalty, nursey, if you’re not quick,’ quipped one of them.
‘I have to go Ronan, please don’t look, I’m bound to mess it up with you watching,’ she said, before skipping back to join her game.
Alright, I thought to myself. She’s stunning, but is she any good?
After carefully selecting her club of choice and standing back to eye up the challenging par three hole, Natasha the Golf Nurse paused before taking her practice swing. Focused, she took the club head back and powered through on the down swing, her hips perfectly locked into place to create maximum power. As she made contact with the ball it rocketed skywards.
I was in love.
‘I love golf,’ I mouthed. ‘She loves golf.’ I suddenly came over all queer, as if I had five lottery numbers with only one to go for a £14 million jackpot. I tried to keep my cool.
‘Ronan,’ I whimpered.
‘Don’t say it, we’re all thinking the same thing,’ he interrupted.
And with that we walked back to our seats and our sandwiches.
I never expected to see Natasha again. I’d never met her before, so I could only assume we moved in different circles, but I was wrong.
The night before the first day of Ant and Dec’s tournament there was a huge party and guess who was propping up the bar with the best of them? As good as she’d looked on the golf course that day, the Golf Nurse looked even more sizzling when she had her fun boots on.
‘Oh hi,’ she shouted over to me. ‘Nice to see you again.’
She talked with a permanent smile, a big, wide, diamond white smile. I still hadn’t actually said anything.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she offered.
Not only would I like one, I needed one. I wondered if she was aware of the effect she had on the male species.
‘Yes please, what are you having?’
‘Champagne and shots!’ Natasha declared triumphantly.
‘Guinness instead of champagne for me,’ I said.
‘But you’ll have the shots, right?’
‘Right!’
I spent the rest of the evening attempting to stay glued to her side, exclude everyone else from the conversation, go to the toilet as few times as humanly possible, and be funny and engaging while trying to keep up with her on the drinking front.
All of the above I did reasonably successfully – successfully enough to find myself, at the end of the night, in the lift with Natasha. She had agreed to come to my room.
‘I cannot believe this’, I thought to myself, fearful my thoughts might be heard out loud. This woman, this creation of perfection, with all the right bits in all the right places, this woman who is fun and smiley and energetic and generally wonderful, is gonna be in my hotel room in less than a minute from now, providing there isn’t a fire or a war or some such disaster in the next few seconds.
The lift doors opened.
‘Don’t turn the wrong way out of the lift and forget where your room is,’ I was telling myself. One drunken slip now could be crucial in the grand scheme of things.
But I needn’t have worried.
‘I’m sorry Chris, I can’t do this,’ Tash said suddenly. ‘I don’t do this. I’m not doing this.’ And with that she ran off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs.
‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooo!’ screamed the voice in my head.
That was so close to being one of the best nights of my life, right there, right now, yet, with Natasha’s swift exit, I had been transformed into no more than a lone and drunken ginger man merely swaying back and forth in an over-carpeted hotel corridor, pathetically waving my room key around like a magician whose wand no longer worked.
The next morning seemed to arrive in a second. I opened my eyes to see the thick brown goo of hangover dribble that was currently sticking my right cheek to the pillow.
As I staggered across the room and opened the curtains, the last thing in the world I felt able to do was swing a golf club. Then I remembered I was here to play golf, and according to my watch I was due to tee-off in fifteen minutes.
This was not a casual game on a Saturday morning with a couple of pals, this was a multi-million pound television production and I could already see the crowds gathering down below from my window.
My heart pounding, after half brushing my teeth and barely saying hello to a shower, I made it to the tee box with seconds to spare. All thoughts of what had gone on the night before would have to be put on hold, for the time being.
‘Ah, Mr Evans,’ said one of the organisers. ‘I believe you know two of your playing partners. However I am delighted to introduce you to the fourth in your group, Natasha the Golf Nurse.’
‘You have to be joking’, I almost said out loud, hoping this was some kind of sick joke set up by the other lads.
But no, there she was, all golfed-up again, except this time with knee-length tartan socks into the bargain, and managing to look miraculously as if she hadn’t been anywhere near a bar in years, let alone drunk me under one just a few hours before.
What could I do but take it on the chin and attempt to clear the air.
‘Hi, I’m the loser who tried to get you into bed last night,’ I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
‘Hi, I’m the loser who almost said yes,’ she whispered back. I was in love all over again.
We enjoyed our round together, playing to the crowds and cameras whilst clearing our hangovers. But alas, I would come no closer to securing the affections of this golfing goddess during my visit to Wales. For the second time Natasha disappeared back to wherever it was she came from, whilst I returned to my usual pattern of going out and staying out in the hope of coming across someone equally gorgeous who might also like the odd round of golf and who would be prepared to put up with a geeky, slightly pink and podgy ginger bloke for the rest of their lives. Natasha had raised the bar.
Time now to tell you about the Once a Month Club. This little ruse involved me and two pals meeting up once a month to discuss anything that might be on our minds, whilst enjoying a few decent ales. Our get-togethers would often be infiltrated by guest members, either invited or chanced upon as we visited various pubs and bars.
One such night, following my return from Wales and the golf, we bumped into a couple of girls, one of whom was single, and I found myself buying a drink for her at the long bar in London’s Soho Hotel.
I was waiting to order when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I assumed it was one of the others requesting further refreshment, but I was wrong. It was Natasha.
‘Oh my goodness, hello to you,’ I guffawed.
‘Well, hello to you too,’ she said. ‘Is that your girlfriend?’
‘No, I’ve just met her tonight.’
‘Good.’ ‘Why?’ ‘No reason.’
Within five minutes Natasha had joined us, whilst also making it very clear to the other two girls that they might want to move out. Half an hour later they were gone, and a couple of hours after that, Natasha and I found ourselves in the back of a taxi, on the way to my flat in north London. Three strikes and I was in? Please God.
The first night Tash stayed she slept on the sofa – Scout’s honour. The next morning when I woke up, the Girl on the Sofa had vanished into thin-air.
‘Not again,’ I mused through bleary eyes. I hadn’t even managed to acquire her phone number.
This last fact hit me as I staggered back to the bathroom.
‘She was gorgeous, you idiot,’ I said out loud whilst taking a pee with one hand against the wall to provide much-needed balance. Things had calmed down on the drinking front but I was still happy to put a few away if the occasion called for it.
As I gently swayed back and forth, whilst also humming – something I do a lot when I’m in love – I could have sworn I heard the familiar creak of my front door opening. I looked up and cocked an eye. Next there was a loud clunk followed swiftly by the thud that always shook my walls as if they might fall down at any moment. Someone had gained entry to my humble abode.
‘Hiya,’ piped up a crisp, energetic voice.
No, surely it couldn’t be.
Hastily I threw on my dressing gown and stumbled down the three stairs which led to the kitchen. The Girl on the Sofa had returned, and not only had she returned but she had brought gifts of fresh milk, orange juice and other very welcome consumables that come criminally over-priced from the 24-hour shop round the corner.
Within seconds the kettle was boiling, bacon was sizzling under the grill and the toaster was whirring away in the corner. Not since I’d taken up residence had my city-slicker kitchen seen such a frantic assault before midday.
‘Plain bread or toasted, red or brown sauce?’ enquired the chef.
‘Er, plain always – and red please.’ ‘Red always?’ Almost always. You?’
‘Both, red and brown, on the side – always.’ This response alone prompted me to consider a proposal of marriage.
As much as I adore bacon sandwiches and fry-ups generally, I couldn’t remember the last time I had enjoyed such a treat midweek.
‘You go and sit in the front room, and I’ll bring it through.’
This was contentment porn.
I lay on the sofa and clicked on the telly.
Within seconds a mug of strong tea was plonked in front of me.
‘Won’t be long, just waiting for the bacon to crisp up.’
Crisp up? Yeeeeeeeees. This got me thinking about whether we should have a big or a small wedding.
There’s making bacon sandwiches and then there’s getting them right; an entirely different discipline.
After joining me to eat these masterpieces Tash disappeared back into the kitchen and began tidying up. I lay in the living room, listening to the sound of dishes being rinsed, wondering if all this was a dream.
‘Oh Lord, please tell me this is really happening and I promise to be good for the rest of my life.’
I waited with bated breath. Footsteps were heading in my direction. I could hear bare feet on the oak floor.
‘May I have a shower now?’
We were married eight months later, in August 2007, on top of a mountain in Portugal.
I hit the jackpot when I met Tash and with God’s good grace I hope I’m going to be counting my winnings for years to come.
For some reason Tash loves me to death. She’s my biggest fan, my fiercest defender and my most candid critic. She also has me by the balls on a daily basis which, quite frankly, is exactly what I need.