Vroom vroom

The Whistler... I'm changing him to The Boy Racer (aka complete twat!).

Seriously, this guy was a complete and utter knuckle scraper. I'm still lost for words on how much of a waste of time he was.

Firstly he needed about twenty texts worth of directions to find my place. That doesn't bode well. I mean, it's a big building in a big street... if you need that much instruction to find somewhere, what does that say about you?

So, when he finally gets here, one of his first comments was on the quality of my clubs. OK, they're not Pings, but they work.

Not a good start :(

I'm now sitting in a (souped up) crap car with a neanderthal who some some reason can't look me in the eye, and has only been able to criticise me because I (his words) 'can't afford the best'!

Despise my urge to bail out (I couldn't... my crap clubs were in his boot) we carried on to the range. That's where the fun started.

As I've said, I can actually swing a club, so when I lined myself up I imagined his squat retarded little head was the ball and swung my little heart out. Wallop!!!

Beautiful shot! His reaction was priceless... 'F***ing hell, you've got power, for a babe'.

Sweet :)

You can safely assume we skipped tea. I picked up Voice of Reason early, and played at being guitar hero's instead.

Online dating... swings and roundabouts.