No.144

They’re the scourge of every coastal town. Wielding putters of all sizes they shuffle up and down the promenade with only one thing on their mind — their next fix of high-action crazy golf. For most people it’s just a bit of light relief, a way to wind down on holiday, but for these unfortunate souls, it’s the reason to live. Homeless, they sleep in droves under the comfort of the windmill on the third hole, sheltered under their waxed Barbour golf jackets, living only on the occasional stray can of 7 Up from the nearby vending machine. Sure, it’s no way to live, but when it all comes together and the ball effortlessly glides over the bridge, around the corner, through the tunnel and into the dinosaur’s mouth, it suddenly all seems worth it.