OPINION

Normally, in the week before Christmas I’ll bash out a few words for you, Dear Reader, relating to what I’m going to get Mrs P for Christmas.

I sat down at my desk the
other day with exactly that in mind.

But as I went through my two-finger typist stretching exercises – which basically means I pushed “enter” on the keyboard with my right-hand pointer and scratched my nose with the left one – the phone rang.

It was No.2 Son, the Banker Boy, in the region doing a bit of “networking” and wondering if I’d like to assist.

Now, to the uninitiated among you when a banker says he’s “networking” it usually means he’s out having coffee with a client or just chewing the fat over lunch somewhere. With that in mind I momentarily wondered how I could assist with his networking. Perhaps he wanted me to stir the coffee or take away the plates?

It soon became apparent when he added he was in the area “on a course”. Which is business code for playing golf (get it?), with some clients.

Long story short, the end-of-year game had been arranged for four people which is perfectly, two versus two etc. One had had to cry off at the last minute so Dad, who as it turns out was only 20 minutes away, was offered the chance to help.

As a keen golfer, which I’m sure you will have worked out after all these years, I was only too happy to assist and as quick as I could shout out “I’ll do those many and varied jobs which I’m really aching to do later” to She Who Must Be Obeyed, I raced out the door.

Naturally, having been given precisely 15 minutes 33.26 seconds to get to the course I didn’t think too much about what I needed to take.

I stuck on a fresh shirt, grabbed my golf shoes and got to the course with minutes to spare.

As No.2 Son came over to welcome me in the car park I busied myself with putting on my shoes while he went to the boot to get out my clubs.

Problem. I’d completely forgotten them in the haste to get there.

It was then that I realised I’d raised an individual who could immediately take stock of the situation and come up with a solution that would ensure the day’s forward momentum was not halted and the clients would not be inconvenienced any further.

Through bouts of laughter and headshaking, he gave me his bag and clubs and strolled off to go hire another set for himself.

Anyway.

We eventually get started. I’ve been introduced to the other two members of our foursome. Two blokes who, like me and the boy, enjoy a laugh and don’t take things too seriously.

And that was us for the next nine holes. Enjoying a game. Having a laugh. And basically just “chillin” which my 14-year old nephew tells me is like “chilling”, spelt with a ‘g’ which I’d just got used to, but is considered much cooler.

Never let it be said I ain’t cool, man.

Right. So there we are and midway round I’ve gone to the shop and bought a banana and a bottle of water which I’ve shoved in the boy’s bag and made my way to the next tee where the other three are about to tee off.

In fact, one of the clients is going through his pre-swing routine, ball already on the tee, as I creep up, quietly so as not to disturb his concentration.

That’s when it happened.

From out of nowhere comes a screeching voice.

“Yo, asshole!!”

I half choked on the banana I was eating and looked around.

The others had heard it too and we all stood there looking at each other, mildly bemused.

“Yo, asshole!!!”

There it was again.

This time we were prepared for it and four sets of eyes immediately focused on the golf bag sitting next to me minding its own business.

Just to clarify. That’s my son’s golf bag that I’m using for the day. Got it?

“Yo, asshole!!

This time there was no mistaking it. The voice was coming from the bag but how it got there was a complete mystery. I mean, unless some person of minimum proportions had managed to climb into the bag while I was buying my banana and water I was a bit stumped.

Luckily, Banker Boy had the answer. And another laugh for the four of us once he explained.

It seemed the last time the bag had been used had been at another networking occasion on another course – where can I get a job like that? – which had been, shall we say, rather informal and involved a prizegiving at the end with novelty items handed out to participants.

I’m sure you know what I mean.

Anyway. His prize turned out to be a plastic, trumpet-shaped oddity which, if you pressed a certain spot, yelled out a certain phrase. No prizes for guessing what it was.

It seemed in the wash-up from the previous round of golf he’d simply thrown his prize into his bag and forgotten about it. As I’d shoved my bottle of water in I’d somehow managed to turn the damn thing on.

As Banker Boy rummaged through the debris in his untidy room, oops I mean golf bag, force of habit (once a teenager and all that) the phrase happily rang out becoming clearer and clearer as he removed stuff from on top until he eventually got to it at the very bottom and turned it off.

The rest of the game passed without incident and a good laugh was had by all.

Back home later, Mrs P didn’t exactly meet me on the doorstep with her hair in curlers and holding a rolling pin but as I came through the door she did have an expression which suggested racing off to golf when there was a lot of pre-Christmas chores to do around the house was a questionable decision to say the least.

Had it not been for the fact the novelty object had gone home with the winner of my golf game I wondered if I might have had it played to me a few times over the following few hours instead.