Ricky Blue's Other Life
Ricky Blue
Ricky Blue
is a Montreal-based humorist, singer, and writer. He and partner George Bowser are the famous Bowser and Blue comedy act. Here's his bio from their Bowser and Blue website.

Ricky Blue was born in Liverpool, England, but raised in Maine, New Jersey, and Toronto. He has an MA in English from Concordia University. He has been involved in bands and media music in Montreal for over twenty years. In 1981 he won an international 'Clio' award for excellence in advertising.

He once appeared on television naked.

His life had no real meaning, however, until he began to play with Bowser and Blue. Rick plays guitar, mandolin, and harmonica, and sings in a rather pleasant baritone when George will let him.

His columns are archived here

Posted 08.30.04


Golf à la Marquis de Dorion Rules

Last week my 14-year-old son and I played golf together for the first time. We played at Club de Golf Vaudrueuil, a very reasonable little course in the country.

There was a cornfield on one side and a pasture of cows on the other.

I said to the starter: "There's nothing like the sweet smell of pig manure to get a man into a golfing mood."

He sniffed the air and said: "Today it's sheep manure."

I said: "You're a farm boy, aren't you?"

My son had been trying to get me out on the links for weeks. He had been playing Tiger Woods Golf on his Nintendo Game Cube and so he thought: "This is easy!"

Wrong. That's virtual golf. We were about to play real golf. On TV the pros hit one down the fairway; two onto the green; and three is a beautiful putt. It's as much like the golf we played as reality TV is to, well, reality.

And we were not the only ones. It wasn't long before I heard the yell: "Fore," as a ball whizzed by me from another fairway. They say that the only time you have to worry is when you hear the "fore" and don't hear the ball whizzing BY. That's because it has hit you on the head.

More than once we stood at a tee waiting for other guys to play their way out of the middle of our fairway. And they were hitting toward us. Because the course was built like a two-lane highway they were playing the holes beside ours -- going the other way.

Recently my son had become very interested in the game. Grandpa had given him an old set of clubs. But the drivers were made of wood. Can you imagine? That is so 20th century.

So we had stopped at Sports Experts at Fairview where owner Steve Spore helped him pick a nice modern driver. Then I had taken him to the Golf Dome to hit buckets of balls. His swing was improving. He was ready to play. I couldn't put it off any longer.

You see, I am not a good golfer. Once a summer, a friend or acquaintance might invite me out for a round perhaps thinking I'm going to be like Bob Hope and keep everyone in stitches while I wow them with my golfing prowess.

Wrong. They never ask me twice. Not only because I'm not funny. Watching me play golf must be painful. For me a bogie would be a step up. I only get a birdie when I knock one out of a tree. With me it's all: Whack! Whack! Tabernac!

Maybe you should not play golf when your drive doesn't even make it to the ladies tee. Maybe you shouldn't play golf when you spend more time looking for your ball than hitting it.

While studying the diagram of the next hole on the map he said: "It looks like the first nine are all straightaway."

"Wrong," I said. He watched me magically turn them into dog's legs as my ball sailed into the trees.

I say to my son: "Why don't we play Marquis de Dorion rules?"

"What's that?" He asks.

I say: "We play until we run out of balls."

So that day I played a nine. But look at the bright side. Like my friends, my son probably won't ask me again.