When it comes to golf, there is a lot that affects the ability and possibility to improve your game. Specially for the great people of the Vikings. Who the hell decided that moving up here to Norway was a smart move?  Dark halv the year, not to talk about the snow that pretty much makes us destined to claim that we are born with skies on our feet. Who the hell was it … I will throw that black banana right at him or her. I will actually make an effort to pinpoint that motherfucker right now ….

Ok, I have done some research, and there is nobody that wants to take the questionable honour of moving to Norway. They claim to be European and there is evidence of “buildings” dating 11500 years back. But these people where probably forced to move during the Icetime. There was nowhere to play golf up here during time for sure, well unless you had colourful balls that is. So after that someone took us back, but it was not until the Viking period that Norway became Norway. During that period Europe also knew who Norway was. We had been put on the map. Well actually we also managed to put ourselves on other maps as well, when we were out conquering land, women and swinging our Iron.

Anyway …. one have to take advantage of the surroundings. This winter has made us almost feel like french painters with baguettes on the mild winter breeze at Champs-Elysees. This winter has been taken advantage of so far. January has not only given us grass to train at, but also to play a round or two on as well. That is taking the advantage of the global warming. I, for one, like to train on the tough shots as well. Not only the ones that lay flat on a perfect green surface, but the ones that are buried i the sand tr hanging in a three. Yesterday I took advantage of the fact that my daughter rides her horse inside a house with sandlike filling. What a perfect place to swing my sandwegde at some balls. Upon doing so I also relized that the dog we were borrowing, Wii, was an excellent train partner. There was no need for crawling around in the woods, getting dirty and cold in the hunt for train balls, like Mr I, the professor did Saturday. One ball is plenty … together with the mans best friend.

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