My work colleague/mate told me a story whereby he rocked up to his local golf course for a round one afternoon, he got onto a tee, the third tee I think, and settled into his pre shot routine, it just happend that a row of rather snazzy houses and their rear gardens back on to the course just off this tee.
Unfortunately for my mate, his concentration on the shot kept being taken away by a bald middle aged man BBQing in one of these said snazzy and probably expensive gardens, and what was worse for my friends concentration was the hairless al fresco chef was blasting out some banging Ibiza club classics.
Usually my mate is one for a good session, however not when he is about to tee off on the third after a rather lacklustuter first two holes. Not one to hold back, the main protragonist in this story politely shouted towards the Hester Blumenthal lookalike to turn his anthems down.
Unfortunately the strains of Ecuador by Sash were too loud and the apron wearing meat cooker didn't hear the polite cries for silence. It was at this point my friend dropped his 3 Wood back into his bag and waltzed up to the low Chatsworth style fence seperating the garden from the course in order to gain attention of our chef.
As my friend got within a few meters of the fence it was then he realised it was none other than Sean Dyche, who had a pint of ale on the go and was evidently reliving his past ecstasy fuelled holidays.
My friend gained Dyches attention and asked him if he could turn his music down whilst he took a shot, to which Sean obliged and apologised for the loudness of his reminiscing.
He then took his shot and creamed it straight down the fairway, to which Mr Dyche then shouted 'Great Shot Sir' and raised a pint in one hand, spatula in the other and promptly proceeded to turn his tunes up again and carry on his BBQ.
