The "Dead Mans Thunk".
It seemed like such a good idea.
We would go to a barbecue at Cranfield Caravan Park. It was beside the sea, so
why not bring along a few golfballs to do some driving. That would be fun,
right?
Right?
The Kolonel and I turned up for the bbq, coming to a rest in the gravel carpark
with the obligatory hand-brake turn.
We unloaded the goods, which consisted of 2 crates of drinks and 2 wood drivers.
Oh, and 120 golf balls.
It was going to be quite a night.
As in most of our exploits, the success of the night revolved around us
getting drunk enough, or "Suitably Blasted" (© J-man 2001). We
decided to film the J-man having a shot of Choc Pop to get in the swing of
things, but he had to keep redoing it due to a sound fault in the laptop.
By the time we got the film, he was on his eighth shot. And it was no longer
nicely mixed Choc Pops: it was some bizarre concoction of creme de month and
rum. Nice.
Here is the J-man's final attempt. Several things are notable: He looks rather
worse for wear by this stage, he is getting pissed off at having to drink so
many (horrible) shots, and he has for some reason acquired a flat cap.
Click here to see the video of J-man drinking. Awesome.
(J-man several shots down the line, but still looking sharp as ever. Notice the
Kolonel in the background limbering up for golfing, with the facial expression
of a man gone completely insane.)
So, now that everyone was Suitably Blasted©, we decided it was time for the golfing to begin. Firstly we began by having an animated discussion over who was using which of the golf clubs:
(A normal White Russian production meeting in action.)
We were ready to golf, but unfortunately only had a few tees between us.
DOV's alternative suggestion was turned down after safety concerns were raised,
namely what would happen if the Kolonel damaged his uncles golf club on DOV's
thick head.
(Kolonel: "Just try and go limp, this won't hurt a bit. Well, at least not
in any serious way. Ah shit, it's gonna hurt. FORE!!!!!!")
Now. The problems started.
It's 1.30am, and you are drunk. You need to find somewhere to hit golfballs
from, but it is absolutely pitch black - you can't see more than a few feet
ahead.
We eventually find a likely looking spot:
Beautiful, isn't it?
We were standing where the line of the sun hits the shore; where there is a
small cliff leading down to the sea.
The only problem with the above is that there was a 2 foot high fence
around the cliff edge.
Think about this for a moment: we were trying to hit golf balls over a 2 foot
high fence maybe only 10 feet in front of us with 1 wood golf clubs. In the
pitch darkness. Drunk.
For the most part there was no problem; the ball would clear the fence and soar majestically
into the sea. But not always.
Occasionally, you would here a thunk. The thunk of a golf ball hitting a wooden
fence. The thunk of a golf ball hitting a solid object at over 120 miles per
hour. Ten feet in front of you.
This thunk is the Dead Mans Thunk; because when you hear it you know that a golf
ball is going to be ricocheting back out of the murky darkness, straight at you,
at over 100 miles an hour.
Giving the luck of the Drunk, none of us got pelted by it. We decided it would
make a good article though, so we went back the next day to get some footage.
Click here to see DOV hit a
massive drive, which missed seagull by about 6 inches. You can hear the Kolonel
saying "Jesus Christ! You almost knocked out a bird" in the
background.
You can see from this clip just how close we are to the fence, and how fast
the ball is shifting!
Imagine how you will laugh when you download the next clip, when the ball hits
the fence, ricochets straight back, and hits DOV in the right shin. He
has just enough time to hop onto his other leg as the golf ball bounces off his
shin to hit his left heel.
Watch his mad dance of pain:
Click here, and listen carefully for
the Dead Mans Thunk. This is the only clue that you are about to enter a world of pain.
(The same view, after 120 golf balls have been driven off the cliff. At this
rate here is a strong chance that the local marine life will have to evolve to
deal with the sheer number of them!)
As usual, we got in trouble for our comedy hi-jinx. The next day, a general
meeting of the caravan owners took place. They were not terribly amused by the
fact that we had dug huge clods of earth out of our "driving range",
and were less amused by DOV's attempt to save the grass by using empty Smirnoff
Ice bottles as makeshift (albeit very fragile) tee's.
There's just no pleasing some people.
(The White Russian team hide from angry caravaners. Again.)
