Scotland: National Rural Network
Connecting Rural Scotland - Promoting Rural Growth

By Patrick Vickery

I stepped outside my life for a moment to score a goal against Germany in the 2014 World Cup Final in Brazil. Glory days, eh? The oldest player ever to score in a World Cup Final. Although in reality, of course, it was lunchtime.

I was between gardening jobs and sitting in the Citroen Berlingo by the golf course eating a pate sandwich and day dreaming about football. Another goal scoring opportunity was thwarted when I was distracted by the sight of a golf trolley stuffed with golf clubs traversing the green under its own steam.

I had seen something like this before, not on the golf course but in town - a self-propelled golf trolley trundling along the pavement in the direction of the golf course. An extraordinary sight. It was followed closely by a man in multi-coloured trousers operating a remote control device from within his enormous trouser pockets. How many golf balls can you fit into those pockets, I wanted to ask, but instead opted for a safer conversation about remote controlled devices.

Apparently such trolleys are not uncommon in the world of golf, he said, although they can be difficult to manoeuvre with precision and many of them end up ‘bunkered' which is golf terminology for being up-ended in the bunker. So there you are, an excellent example of a golf accessory spawning a new word. A bunker in golf terminology, by the way, for those who don't know, is a sunken sandpit and has absolutely nothing to do with Germans. It's also one of those words that makes for a good swear without the swear element. ‘You Bunker!' Yes, it has an ambiguity about it that could be useful.

I was further distracted from my football fantasies by a loud ping at the back of the Berlingo. The suspension does this on occasions, you know, quite out of synch with any pot holes in the road, often when stationary, very odd, must get it looked at. The ping was followed by a random shout of "Four in the van" from the golf course which meant nothing to me.

Some 48 hours later it dawned on me that what I had actually heard was "Fore in the van" which is shortened golf speak for "Oy, you in the van eating pate sandwiches - golf ball heading your way!" This would explain the loud ping. No doubt there was a dent in the Berlingo too.

It's a pretty ineffective early warning system, that, if you ask me. The speed of sound (768 mph in good air) is faster than the speed of a golf ball (between 100 and 180 mph perhaps, depending on your swing) but by the time the ball has been struck, it's trajectory plotted, the warning shouted, the sound travelled and the hapless target has processed this information, it's too late. It's just a polite way of saying sorry after the event, don't you think?

My lunchtimes are rarely punctuated by random golf balls. More often than not I listen to Tom Morton on Radio Scotland if it's a late lunch, or Jeremy Vine on Radio Two if it's an early lunch. Sometimes I have two lunches and listen to both. Self-employment has many temptations.

Following on from my golf ball incident I may vary my lunchtime routine next week and take sustenance (egg mayo with home grown parsley) by the bowling green. No chance of a randomly thrown bowl heading in my direction, is there? Not unless it's delivered by a visiting German who's decided that the possibility of me scoring the winning goal against Germany in the 2014 World Cup Final is simply too great a risk to take. In which case there will be less of a ping and more of a thud, possibly followed by my retort of "You Bunker!" from between mouthfuls of egg mayo sandwich.

If you enjoyed this, read more from Patrick Vickery in the Rural Ramblings Archive.

Copyright Patrick Vickery 2010