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Catch 22
HAVE you been hit by any golf balls lately?
Nope, I haven't either, but after an extremely unlucky meeting between one and the front of my car earlier this week I imagine it probably really hurts. I know Southport is meant to be the golfing capital of the North, but I still felt the odds of colliding with an errant golf ball rather than another car was ridiculous to non-existent.
I suppose it could have been worse - it could have smashed the windscreen rather than a headlight - but what worried me most of all was the odd response I got from the golfing fraternity itself.
One of the golfers I quizzed immediately after the accident demanding to know why I was daring to drive past their club, on a main road, when clearly I was in the way of them teeing off. Another couldn't understand why I hadn't memorised exactly which hole on the course I was passing at the time, and said I must have been making it up as a result.
"Funnily, I wasn't looking at the course when it hit me," I replied. "Given I was doing 30mph, my eyes were on the road instead."
What amazed me even more was the conversation I had with the council department which owns the club, who said they might be able to offer me compensation, but only if I drove my now unroadworthy and smashed Mini all their way to their offices. In Bootle.
The conversation was something along these lines:
Poor reporter: "The car's got a smashed headlight, so it's illegal to drive it, and I'm in Southport. Can't I send you some photos instead?"
Council: "No, we have to see it in person, otherwise there's nothing we can do to help you."
Poor reporter: "Well, given that it's illegal to drive, how I am suppose to get it down there?"
Council: "You could repair the damage and then bring it down to us?"
Poor reporter: "But then there won't be any damage to inspect..."
And so it goes on. Admittedly, it's only a set of headlights I have to get, but I'm still claiming it off the golf club's own insurance people.
It's not that I don't like golfers - some of my best mates are golfers. It's bureaucrats who dream up Catch 22 scenarios that really get my goat.
Nope, I haven't either, but after an extremely unlucky meeting between one and the front of my car earlier this week I imagine it probably really hurts. I know Southport is meant to be the golfing capital of the North, but I still felt the odds of colliding with an errant golf ball rather than another car was ridiculous to non-existent.
I suppose it could have been worse - it could have smashed the windscreen rather than a headlight - but what worried me most of all was the odd response I got from the golfing fraternity itself.
One of the golfers I quizzed immediately after the accident demanding to know why I was daring to drive past their club, on a main road, when clearly I was in the way of them teeing off. Another couldn't understand why I hadn't memorised exactly which hole on the course I was passing at the time, and said I must have been making it up as a result.
"Funnily, I wasn't looking at the course when it hit me," I replied. "Given I was doing 30mph, my eyes were on the road instead."
What amazed me even more was the conversation I had with the council department which owns the club, who said they might be able to offer me compensation, but only if I drove my now unroadworthy and smashed Mini all their way to their offices. In Bootle.
The conversation was something along these lines:
Poor reporter: "The car's got a smashed headlight, so it's illegal to drive it, and I'm in Southport. Can't I send you some photos instead?"
Council: "No, we have to see it in person, otherwise there's nothing we can do to help you."
Poor reporter: "Well, given that it's illegal to drive, how I am suppose to get it down there?"
Council: "You could repair the damage and then bring it down to us?"
Poor reporter: "But then there won't be any damage to inspect..."
And so it goes on. Admittedly, it's only a set of headlights I have to get, but I'm still claiming it off the golf club's own insurance people.
It's not that I don't like golfers - some of my best mates are golfers. It's bureaucrats who dream up Catch 22 scenarios that really get my goat.
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