BEWARE the sick golfer is a time-honoured adage we've all heard at some point in our golfing lives. Like me, you've probably discovered it's a truism based on absolute fact, endorsed when you've drawn the short straw in a four ball and found a crock in opposition.

Given a minor injury of a nature which is no barrier to playing -- a fractured fibia, perhaps, or a severed cartilage -- any golfer worth his corn will invariably produce close to the best form of his life. Anything less -- double pneumonia or acute denghi fever spring to mind from personal experience -- will have him beating his handicap by a handsome margin, leaving the others trailing in his wake of soggy tissues.

A devout toper will tell you that a simple brink-of-the-grave hangover is worth three holes start any Sunday morning, providing your partner is drilled to pick the ball out of the hole, thus nullifying the danger of your head falling off as you bend to retrieve the happy outcome of your third successive sixty foot putt.

There are drawbacks, though, to this form of self-inflicted debilitation. It seldom persists for the full 18 holes, particularly on a bitingly brisk, hoary February morning when the combined effects of a Force Five wind off the Irish Sea and a walking rate only marginally slower than that displayed by the winner of the Olympic 400 meter final works wonders for the old brain box, surging the blood around the body in the fast lane and sweeping away the debris from last night's debauch.

Before you know it you've regained consciousness and, contemplating your card in the cold light of a winter's morn, realise with a jolt that you're four under par after eight holes, at which point the wheels fall off and you play the remaining 10 in 27 over!

After many years of research, not least in the field of self-inflicted injury, I have reached a conclusion on the odd state of affairs where a sick golfer will leave a healthy one feeling worse than when he started.

It is this: I think a sick man, or one recovering from a recent illness, is simply glad to be out on the course, grateful for small mercies and not expecting much in the way of reward.

Relieved of the ritual, self-imposed pressures of attempting yet again to better the course record, he plays well within himself and swings the club easily. This serves to keep everything in its prescribed place and the ball flies down successive fairways as straight as frozen rope.

The end result is usually in the order of two bogeys, ten pars and six birdies, including a pair of twos, for a net 62 and a bulging wallet.

Consider the reverse: how often have you arrived at the club feeling full of the joys of Spring and eager to consummate your well-being with a good score, only to play at your worst?

Why? Because you expected too much; you tried too hard. You began badly, tried harder and became progressively worse. Your day was doomed from the outset.

Meanwhile, your opponent, hung over to the point of being terminal, couldn't give a continental. He doesn't expect to live much beyond lunch, anyway, and the end can't come soon enough. He swings slowly, simply because of the pain he's enduring, and his tempo, positively funereal, becomes established from the start.

He misses a couple of four footers due to the fact that he can see two balls and his hands are shaking something awful, but that apart he can't put a foot wrong and wins in a canter. He heads for the bar contemplating a hair of the dog as you ponder upon opening your veins in a warm bath....

Now, a hangover is more pleasurable pain than a fractured fibia, though it may not seem so at the time, but I'm sure that not all of you would care to get tanked up every night before golf simply as an aid to form. That would incur too many penalty strokes at home and adversely affect the old connubial bliss, if you're fortunate to enjoy that happy state.

By chance I stumbled across an alternative recently, one that has similar effects but is marginally less painful than a hangover or a broken whatsit and is appreciably easier on the liquidity: ie; it's less expensive.

It came about, indeed, because of a certain paucity of funds -- a quite temporary state of affairs, you understand -- at a most unpropitious moment. It was during the Cheltenham Festival race meeting, to be precise, and my Irish connections had advised of a good thing going in the 2.40.

"Don't make it favourite," I was told, "but if you have a few spare bobs this is money in the bank, each way."

Well, I had just returned from Hawaii and the spare bobs I had at that moment wouldn't have bought a cup of cold water from what these days passes for British Rail but I happened to know that Miss Fitch, who runs our office, had refilled the petty cash box the day before. It now being Saturday she was away, engaged in a spot of arm wrestling, perhaps, or playing hockey with the boys, and it took but two minutes to locate her cunningly contrived hideaway.

The smile on my face dissipated when I also discovered that, being of a suspicious nature, she'd taken the key with her and probably had it stuffed down her shin guards even now!

There being only 40 minutes to post time I went at it with a hammer and chisel but such was my haste that I gashed my right hand on a jagged edge and was forced to seek solace at the local hospital's out-patients department where a sadistic Scot with halitosis cracked equally bad jokes as he engaged in a little embroidery with a blunt needle.

I missed post time, which was just as well because the nag was still running the following day, but a bonus ensued quite unexpectedly and I managed to replace the damaged petty cash box before Miss Fitch twigged, substituting the new one from my golf winnings.

How could he win at golf with his hand stitched? I hear you ask.
  That's the bonus. Plagued by a life-long hook I discovered that my wound negated the strong right hand grip that causes it. I simply let the left hand do all the work, taking its mate along for the ride.

The consequence was that, not expecting a score worth a crumpet, I played well within myself, hitting the ball like an arrow for 18 holes and putting like Phil Mickelson.

I cleaned up, I can tell you, showing a handsome profit even after buying drinks for the vanquished and a replacement cash box.

That was some weeks ago. My first wound has healed nicely and the stitches from the second will come out soon, fortunately not before the final of the club foursomes championship in which I am involved, thanks to my new-found system.

For those similarly afflicted who don't cavil at the sight of a drop or two of blood and a modicum of pain, an old fashioned razor blade does the job nicely.

You should start the incision on that bit of loose skin between the right thumb and the forefinger and gently work around....