The summer has seen us spend more days out in the UK than usual, and we have taken the frustrating step of deciding everything by committee. Like democracy proper, this means we often end up on a day out that the majority of the car are not in favour of. You might consider our day trip to Legoland a metaphor for the government’s dealings with NHS staff, in that, unbelievably, you also have to pay for parking.
My wife and I have been looking for things that unify opinion in the run-up to the “Where are we going for our day out?” elections. We have been surprised to discover that one of the biggest drivers in where we decide to go is whether or not the attraction has crazy golf or mini golf. Crazy golf is much better than mini golf, but many places are now calling themselves crazy golf, without showing the slightest hint of lunacy. After many disappointing visits to what is in fact a very boring mini-golf course with some toy dinosaurs duct-taped to it, I am a strong advocate for regulation in this area.
Anyway, it turns out we are addicted to crazy golf, despite some empirical evidence suggesting that we hate it. It always starts very well, with the selection of clubs and coloured balls, and who is going to keep score. We have even come up with a hard and fast order of play, going up by age. The kids think they are getting the better end of the deal in this, but it allows me to have observed exactly how the ball bounces off the diplodocus four times before I have to step up. The kids have also often moved on to the next hole by then, so my scores are whatever I want them to be, based on who in the family needs to be taken down a peg or two.
The first couple of holes are always great. We all take turns, compliment each other’s stroke play, and move on to the next hole commenting on how wonderful family time is. By the third or fourth, somebody may be struggling to hole their ball, and frustration is starting to creep in, perhaps to the level where I might throw in a “We’re having a nice time here, guys, let’s not ruin it,” like a desperate supply teacher.
By the sixth hole, things have usually fallen apart. One of the kids has thrown his ball across the course in frustration; we have given up on keeping scores because it’s causing arguments; and my wife and I have snapped at a family playing behind us for making sarcastic comments about how long we’re taking. We move around the rest of the course simply trying to get through this as quickly as possible, while creating some space between us and them.
It is about then that an elephant’s scrotum will prove particularly tricky to get a golf ball past, and one of the kids will try and fail to break his club over his knee, which makes us laugh, enraging him further, to the point of smashing the club repeatedly into the ground just as we are caught up by our tormentors. My wife or I will then take him out of the game, and the remaining members of the family will force themselves through the rest of the course, as if there is some law against just admitting this was a terrible idea and leaving immediately.
The truth is, golf is never really that crazy, or much fun. They need to rename it “rage golf”. And I think the family are slowly beginning to realise that we might not actually enjoy it as much as we think we do. We haven’t reached full epiphany yet, though, and tomorrow we will go to Pirate Adventure golf in Weymouth. Apologies in advance to any families behind us.
