ALL of us downtrodden dads need an escape from the noise, the pressure, the crushing burden of expectation.

For me, it's golf. Every Sunday morning, me and two other ageing dads get up at the crack of dawn in the vain hope that all our dreams will come true and we'll perform like Tiger Woods.

Father-of-two Dave takes it very seriously. A stickler for etiquette and desperate to be the best he can, we've learned not to talk to him if he's having a bad round.

Once, when he missed an easy putt, he blamed a bird which had twittered at precisely the wrong moment in a tree above his head: "Will you ******* shut up!" he screamed.

Just last week, he shouted at an ambulance that went past as he was in mid-swing: "And I could do without the bloody siren!" he bellowed after it.

His ball landed in the light rough - heaven knows how rough the poor patient was feeling as the ambulance hurtled towards hospital.

Father-of-four Mike is at the other end of the scale. It doesn't matter how badly he plays, it's still "fantastic". Everything's fantastic for Mike. You can hit a shot in completely the wrong direction, bounce off several trees and land in the river and he'll still say: "What a fantastic connection."

A goat on the run from a nearby allotment once trotted across the fairway just as we were about to tee-off. Dave wasn't best pleased but Mike said: "What a fantastic goat."

I swear he once disappeared into a copse in search of his ball and we heard him say: "What a fantastic ring of mushrooms."

Mike's a fantastic bloke. So is Dave. Me? I'm wedged between the two of them. Not too intense and not too laid-back.

Anyway, there we were as usual on Sunday, three dads happy to get up at 6am just to escape. No wives, no kids, no telephones ringing. Just peace, quiet and a little white ball to try to get into a hole 400 yards away.

Desperate Dave had a good round - one of his best. Mild-mannered Mike had a fantastic round, even though he'd lost seven balls.

We were on the 18th and Desperate Dave was putting for a crucial par when, unforgivably, my mobile telephone went off in my bag.

You're not supposed to carry a mobile phone on the golf course - it's definitely not etiquette - but I had it in case of emergencies. My wife knows not to ring me unless it's a matter of life or death.

Desperate Dave sighed, impatiently. Mild-mannered Mike smiled, understandingly. Hesitantly, I answered the call.

"Sorry to bother you," said my wife, who'd just got up. "Could you bring in the Auntie Bessie's for Sunday lunch?"

"Auntie Bessie's?" I asked.

"The Yorkshire puddings - the kids want the big ones this week."

"She wants me to bring in the Auntie Bessie's - big ones," I explained to my playing partners.

"Auntie Bessie's are fantastic," said Mike.

Desperate Dave missed his putt and went off in a huff. Mild-mannered Mike knocked his 12 feet past the hole but he was as happy as Larry.

When it was all over, I called in at Safeway, eventually found the Yorkshire puddings after my usual aimless search round the aisles, and duly delivered them back to the cook.

"I asked for the big ones," she hissed. "Can't you get anything right?"

I was baffled. I had documentary proof. It said large on the packet.

"No, I meant giant ones - these'll have to do now," she snapped.

How was I to know there are small, large and giant Yorkshire puddings? I'm just a dad.

During the silence over Sunday lunch, I tried to imagine Tiger Woods standing on the final green at The Open, answering his mobile phone, being asked to bring in the Yorkshire puddings, and then landing in the rough because he brought home the wrong size.

Somehow I couldn't.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

THE Dad At Large Roadshow continued the great trundle around the region and ended up at Ingleton Village Hall, not far from Darlington, for a meeting of the Women's Institute...

A LITTLE boy walked into Ingleton Post Office with a note from his mum. Jean Whitehead - now Ingleton WI member Jean Forbes - was running the Post Office at the time and shouted out the list to her assistant Betty Hird: "Two pounds of sugar, half a pound of butter and a tin of pumping peas," shouted Jean, before she had time to stop herself and not realising the vicar had come into the shop.

JACKIE Bateman, another member of Ingleton WI, recalled the time she was teaching at Stokesley Comprehensive School and had taken a party of children to London.

One child, gawping through the railings at Buckingham Palace, shouted: "Miss, miss, she's in, she's in."

Jackie looked to see if the Royal Standard was flying but there was no sign of it.

"Yes, she's definitely in," the child went on, "look - the light's on."

THE THINGS THEY DO

IT was my duty at Ingleton WI to judge the teddy bear competition.

Had I known its history, the bear which came third would probably have won.

Brought along by Eileen Tallentire, he once belonged to her son Christopher.

Christopher is now 54 but was only three when he took Ted to bed with a pair of clippers and left him balder than Bobby Charlton.

"It makes him look distinguished," said Eileen.

Indeed it does.