Peter Bromhead: Sporting misfortune

My metamorphosis from stuck-up Pommy bastard to blossoming into some sort of Kiwi has gathered speed lately.

After arriving in this gawdforsaken country in the mid-1950s, I concluded that survival depended on grasping the great outdoors, so I tried my hand at golf.

Golf-nut acquaintances introduced me to a charming course at Hanmer Springs, and after a quick lesson we enthusiastically teed off. I immediately went down in local history by breaking the clubhouse window behind me with a wild erratic swing.

Instead of heading down the fairway, my ball spun sideways, striking a nearby tree and ricocheting back through the club's window.

Setting off again, we finally reached the third green, where to everybody's astonishment I holed in one. Apparently, this is regarded as the supreme moment in a golfer's life.

Sensing I had reached the zenith of my golfing career, I retired from further play and haven't touched a golf club since.

My second unexpected opportunity to become a real Kiwi occurred when attending a charity dinner and discovering I was sharing a table with a number of former All Black captains.

During the evening, I had to confess I'd never watched a rugby game. I was immediately cajoled into accepting a seat in their hospitality box for the following Saturday's test match.

Now at last, as a weary old octogenarian, I've reached another iconic milestone on my journey to acceptance.

Although I own a lakeside property, I'm unenthusiastic about trout fishing, partly because I have no desire to catch that which I regard as inedible.

However, after being invited by friends who generously wished to take my family fishing, I agreed to a recent excursion, guessing there would be plenty of alcohol on board to anaesthetise the experience.

Once afloat, I prudently retired to the comfort of the cabin, from where I could pityingly observe my companions on the rain-swept deck, flicking rods back and forth in acts of forlorn futility, while I enjoyed guzzling back my host's excellent pinot gris.

At one stage I was invited to join the lunacy and experience holding a fishing rod.

Apprehensively, I agreed, uncomfortably aware I was standing in the presence of one of New Zealand's most experienced anglers. To everybody's surprise, I immediately hooked the first catch of the day.

Having now played golf, viewed a rugby match with former All Blacks and landed a classic rainbow trout, what further credentials do I need to become a genuine Kiwi?