by Henry VIII plays a round of crazy golf and discovers a course with rules considerably stricter than most of his own laws
I once had an entire garden designed and redesigned entirely to my own personal whim, no committee, no consultation. Crazy golf would not let me skip the windmill hole, no matter how firmly I explained my rank.
The Scorecard
My playing companions, Dev included, insisted on keeping an actual written score across all eighteen holes, a level of accountability I found genuinely oppressive, having spent most of my original reign existing entirely outside any system capable of formally recording my own failures for later, unflattering discussion.
The Windmill
The windmill hole required timing a shot precisely between the rotating blades, a challenge I approached with genuine confidence, having once timed considerably more consequential manoeuvres against considerably more dangerous moving targets, and I still required four full attempts before the ball finally passed through cleanly, to muted, insufficiently impressed applause from my companions.
The Water Hazard
A small water hazard claimed two of my balls entirely, sinking without ceremony into a shallow pond decorated with plastic lily pads, and I stood over the water for a genuinely uncomfortable length of time considering whether retrieval was possible before Dev gently informed me that additional balls were available at the front desk for a small fee, a fee I paid with visible reluctance.
The Scoring Dispute
A genuine dispute arose on the fourteenth hole over whether my ball, which had bounced off a plastic dinosaur before landing in the cup, counted as a legitimate hole in one or a fluke requiring replay, an argument I settled decisively in my own favour by simply recording the score myself before anyone could object further, a technique that has served me reliably across two entire centuries.
The Verdict
I finished the round eleven strokes over par, comfortably last among our group, and genuinely delighted regardless, having discovered that crazy golf represents one of the few remaining pursuits in this country where losing badly causes no genuine damage to reputation, treasury, or marriage. I once lost entire wars with considerably worse grace than I lost this round, and I fully intend to return next week for a rematch against the windmill specifically.
The Following Round
I returned to the course the following week determined to beat the windmill on my first attempt, and succeeded, to genuine applause from an entirely unrelated family playing the hole behind us. I have decided crazy golf may be the single most honest sport I have ever played, in either century, purely because nobody involved takes it remotely seriously except, briefly, me.
I have also started bringing my own scorecard now, purely to avoid any further disputes over questionable dinosaur-assisted holes in one. Small wins, I have found, still count for something, even against a windmill. The windmill rematch continues, in full, over in the chapters. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: London’s ongoing talent for charging you simply for looking, the original account of my own return to Britain, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint.
