“Bloody hell, Norman, that were a crap shot.”

“Crap!?…it’s going miles.”

“It’s going miles out of bounds.”

“It’s just a bit of a slice.”

“A bit of a slice? That golf balls swinging further right than Genghis Khan. Hang on! There’s a chap down there.”

“Where? A chap down where?”

“There, look. It’s gonna bloody hit him, Norman.”

“Oi! Look out, mate!”

“I think the word is, Fore.”



Please god, don’t let it hit him. Don’t let it hit him.

“It hit him.”

“Shit, Is he ok?”

“It’s hard to tell, he’s quite a way away.”

“Blood good hit though, eh?”


 “Come on, even Tiger Woods would be pleased with a drive like that.”

“Norman, that chap could be seriously injured.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s hard to make out from here.”

“Is he lying face down in the short rough?

“No, Norman, he’s not…

“Thank god. Thank god.”

“He’s lying slumped across his bag and trolley.”


“Let’s go see if he’s ok.”

“Can’t we just pretend we never saw him.”


“OK, I’m coming. Keep your bloody hair on.”


“Is he alright?”

“Hard to tell. You’ll have to roll him over.” 


“You hit the bugger.”

“He’s a bit of a lardy arse, Derek. He’ll take some rolling.”

“You grab his legs, I’ll get his shoulders.”

“OK, ready? After three: one, two, three and roll”

“Oh shit, Norman.”

“What is it? Is he dead?”

“Not dead. Worse than that…You’ve only gone and clobbered the Club Captain.”

“Do you think I’ll have my handicap adjusted?”


“Sorry. Sorry…Well, is he dead or what?”

“How would I know if he’s dead? I work in ALDI, not A and bloody E.”

“You don’t have to be a doctor to see if someone’s dead. There must be some sort of sign.”

“His chest’s not moving.”

“Oh my lord, Derek, we’ve killed him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, we haven’t killed him.”

“Oh thank god!”

I’m not saying ‘he’s not dead’, I’m saying we didn’t kill him; you, killed him, Norman. Not me.”

“For god’s sake, Derek, check him again; is he breathing?”

“His chest isn’t moving.”

“Put his putter to his mouth.”


“You know, his putter, put it to his mouth and see if it steams up.”

“It’s steaming up, Norman…It’s steaming up.”

“Thank the lord! Thank the lord!”

“We have to get him back to the clubhouse.”

“How the hell we gonna do that, look at the size of him?”

 “I’ve got it! We’ll make a stretcher out of golf bags and carry him back.”

 “He’s the size of a London bus.”

“Then, we’ll have to run back to the clubhouse and bring back help.”

“He might not last that long.”

 “Then…there’s always that, there.”

“Always what, where?”

“That…his fancy new trolley and look what’s clutched in his in podgy fingers.”

“A remote control?”

“He’s got a brand new powered remote-controlled trolley. Derek, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably not. What I’m thinking right now is that I could quite easily murder you in cold blood, Norman.”

“Come on, mate.”

“Blunt force trauma with my seven iron, I think.”

“We’ll take him back on the trolley.”


“It’s a good plan.”

“It’ll never bare his weight.”

“It’s worth a go.”

“He’ll fall off.”

“I’ve got bungee straps.”

“You can’t bungee strap, Mister Captain, to his golf trolley.”

“Oh, we can, Derek. We so can.”


“There we are, job’s a good-un. All strapped on and good to go.”

 “This is not happening.”

“Now, let’s see how you work this damn remote. There, that makes it go and that… whoops…. It’s a bit difficult to steer.”

“Is it meant to be jerking about like that?”

“I’ll just have to drive him up and down a bit, ‘till I get used to it.”

“It’s not a bloody toy, Norman.”

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Hey, you want a turn, Derek?”

“No, I don’t want a bloody turn.” 

“Right! Let’ go…Wagons Roll. Wow, look at him go.”

“Not that fast, Norman, slow it down. Slow the bloody thing down, Norman.”

“The sooner we get him back the better.”

“Hang on. Wait… he looks different.”

“Different from what?”

“Different from what he looked like before…I think he’s brown bread, mate.”

“Do something…can’t you resurrect him or something?”

“What you on about?”

“I don’t know, QPR or whatever it’s called.”

“Queens Park Rangers?”


“Oh, CPR you, dozy bastard. I can’t do CP bloody R.”

“We’ve got to do something for him.”

“Norman…He’ gone, mate!”

“I know he’s gone and it was me that killed him.”

“No, he’s gone. He’s disappeared! Look behind you, the bloody golf trollies gone.”


“He’s shooting off down the eighteenth-fairway.”

“Stop him. Press stop. Press Stop!”

“It’s not responding…it’s not responding.”

“We’ll have to catch the bloody thing.”

“You’ll never do it, he’s going down there like shit off a shovel, he’s about to break the sound barrier.”

“The fairway levels off down there, he should come to a stop at the bottom.”

“Talking of Bottoms, Norman…Who the hell is that bending over in the middle of eighteenth green?”

“My god, it’s the Lady Captain.”

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s picking her ball out of the hole, right in the path of the runaway trolley.”

 “I can’t watch this. I really can’t watch.”

“Warn her.”


“I can’t look.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright. She hasn’t been wiped out, she been sort of scooped up and is sort of straddling Mr Captains head, 

“This can’t be happening.”

“Both captains and the trolley are careering, hell for leather, towards the clubhouse.”

“There goes my membership down the bloody Swanee.” 

“And there goes the two captains, arse over tit into the ornamental fish pond.”

“Hang on. Where the hell do think you’re off to? Norman? NORMAN?”

“I’m not hanging around here, pal.”

 “What about your clubs?”

“Do you really think I’m playing golf again? Not on your Nelly, Derek, my old son. Not on your bloody Nelly. 


June 15, 2023 23:26

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