Here’s the thing about being an over-50 golfer with a wife: you’re not just playing golf anymore, you’re running a full-time political campaign for Permission To Swing. Every round requires negotiation, strategy and the sort of diplomacy the United Nations would be jealous of.

At 25, you could disappear to the course for six hours, crawl home sunburnt and smelling like stale lager, and nobody cared. At 55, if you’re out for six hours and didn’t tell her exactly where, when and with whom, you’re one missed call away from a missing person report and a passive-aggressive Facebook post.

So, can you mix wife and golf? Yes. Should you? That’s… complicated.

First, let’s talk about The Points System. You know the one. Not written down anywhere, but it rules your life. You want 18 holes on Saturday? That’ll cost you: one midweek supermarket run, a DIY job you’re going to bodge twice before paying a professional, and at least one night of watching a TV series where absolutely nothing explodes and nobody sinks a 20-foot putt. You’re not a husband anymore, you’re a loyalty card.

And then, one day, you make the ultimate rookie mistake: you say the words, “Why don’t you come with me, love? You might like it.”

Congratulations. You’ve just opened a portal to an entirely new level of chaos.

If she doesn’t play golf, the first thing she’ll notice on the course is not your swing. Oh no. She’ll notice the pace. “Why are we waiting again? Didn’t you just wait?” Try explaining handicaps, etiquette and fourballs to someone who thinks Ready Golf means “hurry the hell up, Brian, I’m cold.” By the fourth hole she’s asking why you don’t just “go round the slow group” as if it’s the M6 and you can just nip into the fast lane.

Then there’s the commentary. You’ve spent 30 years perfecting your shot routine. Deep breath, couple of waggles, eyes on the ball, gentle practice swing. You step up to the tee and just as you’re about to pull the trigger you hear: “Why do you stand like that? You look like you’re trying not to fart.”

Shot destroyed. Ball in the trees. Marriage hanging by a thread.

Of course, some wives decide to “give golf a go”. This is both brilliant and terrifying. Brilliant because it’s now a joint hobby and you’ve technically won the argument that golf is a proper sport. Terrifying because within six months she’s got better clubs than you, a coach on Instagram, and is suddenly “just popping down the range” without you.

The first few times you play together are crucial. You rock up looking like a crumpled extra from a Sunday league match. She arrives in fresh golf gear, coordinated from hat to shoes, and actually reads the scorecard.

You’re there muttering, “If I can just keep it in play today…”
She’s there asking, “So, is it strokeplay or Stableford? And what’s the slope rating again?”

You haven’t thought about slope rating in your life. You pick tees based on how close they are to the car park and whether your back can handle the walk.

Then you get the classic couples dynamic on the course. She hits a decent drive straight down the middle:
“Oh my God, that’s awful, I thinned it.”

You, meanwhile, have just launched a majestic 230-yard slice that has crossed two fairways, a hedge and is now somewhere near a dog walker in a different postcode:
“Yeah, struck that alright.”

And now we come to the “Golf Holiday That’s Not A Golf Holiday.” You know the one. “Let’s do a little break, just the two of us,” you say, casually. “Somewhere nice. Bit of sun. Maybe… I don’t know… somewhere with a spa. And… completely randomly… a championship golf course.”

She spots it instantly. “We’re not going away just so you can play golf.”

You deny it, obviously. “No, no, it’s for us. Romance. Quality time. Thought we could… reconnect.”

Fast-forward three months and you’re stood in reception of a “luxury resort” where she’s being handed a spa brochure thicker than the Bible, and you’re getting a tee time, buggy key and a quiet nod from the golf pro that clearly means: “We both know why you’re really here, mate.”

Here’s the catch: once she’s seen what golf resorts are like, she starts enjoying this little arrangement far too much. While you’re grinding over a 5-footer for bogey, she’s having a facial, a massage, and a Prosecco, and posting “recharging with hubby” on social media when you’re actually on the 13th swearing at your wedge.

Mixing wife and golf also gets dangerous around your golf mates. There’s always that one guy whose wife plays off single figures, hits it past him, and “never moans about his golf” – which means the rest of us have to pretend that’s normal while our own wives are texting, “Are you still there? It’s been four hours. You said NINE holes.”

If your wife comes to watch you play, it reaches new levels of pressure. You’re already over 50, your back sounds like bubble wrap when you bend down, your knees creak on every tee, and now your wife is stood by the green while three strangers and a dog look on as you attempt the world’s worst chip shot.

You blade it across the green, nearly decapitate the flag, and she loudly says, “How is that the same sport you watch on TV?”
Because those guys don’t have to put the bins out on a Thursday, that’s why.

And yet, for all the whining and chaos, there’s something brilliant about it. Because mixing wife and golf forces you to grow up a bit. You can’t stomp around the course like a toddler because you’ve duffed your 7-iron if she’s there watching. You can’t pretend it’s all “serious practice” when you’ve also booked a couples massage at 4pm. You’re over 50 – you’re allowed a soft robe and a steam room as well as a three-putt.

Somewhere between the bad backs, lost balls, spa breaks and arguments over who left wet towels on the bathroom floor, you realise that mixing marriage and golf isn’t about perfection. It’s about compromise. You give up the odd Saturday, you do the DIY, you sit through the crime drama she loves where nobody smiles for six episodes, and in return you get your little four-hour escape with a bag of sticks and a vague belief that “this year I might actually get down a shot.”

And when she does come along, it’s not the worst thing in the world to have someone there who laughs when you whiff it, takes the mick when you talk to your ball like it can hear you, and reminds you that it’s supposed to be fun. Over 50, you’re not chasing the tour, you’re chasing a half-decent swing, a pain-free round, and a bacon butty that doesn’t taste like regret.

So yes, you can mix wife and golf. Just accept a few basic truths.

You will never win the argument about how many clubs you really need.
You will never convince her that that hideous shirt was “on sale so basically free.”
You will never explain handicaps properly.
You can, however, build a life where she gets her spa, you get your tee time, and you both get a story to tell over a drink later.

And if you’re lucky, one day you’ll both be out there together: you, creaking your way down the fairway with your “classic” clubs that went out of fashion in 2009, and her, striping it down the middle while you pretend you’re “just working on something”.

That, my friend, is the over-50 dream: happily married, occasionally forgiven, permanently confused by your own swing… and still chasing that one pure shot that makes all the negotiations worth it.