BASTARD SYSTEM MANAGER FROM HELL #16 - The Corporate Golf Day
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In the vain hope of getting some business from me, one of our potential
suppliers has invited me to their corporate golf day.  The idea is something
like this:  We (customers) roll up, get fed and especially alcoholed well.  We
go out swipe a few inoffensive little balls around and then return to the
clubhouse where we are again grandly fed and alcoholed (well, you can hardly
call it fed and watered can you).  After this, we are supposed to be so
impressed with the supplier that we buy vast amounts of kit from them.

I, on the other hand, think these days are more to do with entertainment than
business.

Upon parking in the car park that is masquerading as a combined Jaguar,
Mercedes and BMW showroom, I notice someone has the audacity to turn up in a
soft top Ferrari.  In a guesture of solidarity with the masses, I sprinkle a
few of my golf tees about the car park.  My tees are not the usual plastic or
wooden variety, but made of steel with very sharp points.  A surprisingly high
number of the tees seem to make their way into the shadow of the tyres of a
particularly annoying piece of italian junk.

I stroll on down to the club house to be greeted by the sales flunky who has
arranged this day of joy for me.  He looks like he's about to launch into a
sales speel.  I select a seven iron.

"Ah, glad you could come.  We're on a little later.  How about a drink first."
He says the magic words, so I file the seven iron.

Thirty minutes later the salesman is starting to sweat.  He's not a whisky man,
but he has some idea of the cost of half a bottle of 25 year old Macallan by
the shot in a very expensive club.  He has a word with the sales director, who
is organising the day and we get promoted up to first group out on the course. 
What the hell, I grab the rest of the bottle to help me get through the round.

Next stop is call into the Pro-Shop to collect our complimentary set of three
balls.  Attention is focused very strongly on ensuring that nobody takes more
than one set of balls, so I help myself to a complimentary set of clubs on the
way out.

Out of the clubhouse, I get to examine my new clubs.  My old ones certainly
didn't have titanium this and carbon fibre that on them, not did they cost
several thousand pounds.  Being a generous chap, and seeing as I've now got two
sets of clubs, I donate my old set to the poor sod with the Ferrari.  I even
leave them in the car for their new owner.  It would have been easier to do if
the car had been left open, but the soft leather hide opens up very easily
under my Stanley cabriolet master key.

Back at the course, I discover that we're being let out in little ten mph
electric golf carts.  Wooooo, will my pulse never come down.  Hang on a minute. 
We're soon going round the course accompanied by the wail of four litres of
Maranello's best.

Of course, the course marshall's get a little miffed, particularly after I
practised my hand brake turns on the fourth green.  By the time we come to
tenth and my emergency stop on the green, I'm in need of a new seven iron and
my wedge has seen better days (it was needed for get at a marshal lying buried
in the long grass off the fairway).  I'm getting very worried about the quality
of these clubs; it took me three swings to knock the last marshall unconscious. 
True, he was hiding up a tree.  Maybe I'm losing my touch.

After a nasty accident on the second tee, my partner wisely puts me down for a
birdie on every hole, which given my handicap means I score many more points
than the second placed man and scoop a rather nice set of gore-tex waterproofs
to fit in my new bag.  Longest drive of the day yields a new set of shoes and
nearest hole gives me a new sweater.  You know how I feel the cold.

Whilst we're having a glass to celebrate my success, some poor soul comes in
blubbering about their car.  Seems their bright new Ferrari has gained a few
scratches and big hole in the roof whilst we've been out playing.  Wait till he
tries to start the thing and hears the state of the engine, not to mention the
suspension problems caused by jumping bunkers in a sports car.

My playing partner looks as though he is going to make a risky decision and say
something.  I select my six iron.  He hesitates, but does not cower enough, so
I change my mind and take out the driver.  This is enough and he is last seen
sprinting down the outside lane of the M40.

Finally, after a couple of bottles of vintage Krug, which seemed to be served
to me instead of the run of the mill Heidseck that everyone else has, I call
into the Pro-Shop to complain about my damaged clubs.

The Pro doesn't want to give me a refund on the poor quality clubs he's
supplying.  In the narrow confines of the shop, I select a sand wedge for a
very tricky shot.  I make one final appeal to his good sense:  After all, the
clubs were in the shop this morning, not there in the afternoon (he'd realised
this) and I had them now, so I must have bought them.  Not wishing to examine
my sand wedge too closely, the Pro doesn't ask for a receipt, but does issue a
refund.

Finally, I collect my old clubs from the front seat of a personally imported,
limited edition, super fast version of a boring japanese car, where I'd left
them whilst I took the Ferrari for a test drive.