Mr. & Mrs. Murphy
I am willed to discuss with you the strange phenomenon we call ‘Sod’s Law’. The general principle behind the law states, quite simply — if it can go wrong, it will. The reason I now talk about it, if you’ll allow me, is that I’ve never heard of anyone who can reasonably be called a perfectionist in this field, not at least before me. I know plenty of people who have days called — ‘butter-side up’ and then there is the hardened public transport user, the internationally acclaimed mumbler, who tells himself not to walk… because the bus will surely come. There he stands at the appointed stop, waiting an unreasonable time, but he won’t walk…he just won’t. Then there is the woman who times her bath to coincide with the phone ringing. Or the draughtsman who drops his pencil on the lead end, and because he loves using this rather remarkable law to its full extent, he watches the pencil role through a crack in the floorboard.
These, I assure you, are all experienced amateurs. But, me, well I am something entirely different. I am a complete professional. Did you know, for example, that ‘Sod’s Law’ was founded in a remote corner of the world by a Patrick Murphy, an Irish scientist who studied the strictest scientific conditions. Mrs. Murphy, having been influenced by her husband, was also made famous for saying — If it can go wrong it will, and Mr. Murphy won’t be at bloody home. Which should have made her famous, but she hadn’t anticipated the comment of Patrick Murphy Junior, who stated one day — It works better if you plug it in.
It wasn’t just an Irish phenomenon, it has its own international fan club. Take Cardinal Sin, a French priest, who determined that he only ever got the flu when he was due to go on holiday. But as I said, even eminent people run a poor second to me.
My flight is delayed twenty-four hours, so Steve suggests a round of golf at the Zagreb Country Club, four miles outside the city limits. The reason I bring this up is because, with one-hundred-and-forty-seven acres of open golf course, you’d think it impossible that one fiercely struck hooked shot could find its way to my right buttock without ever finding some other obstruction before it reached me.
The man who hit this incredibly desperate shot was most concerned. He felt it would have reached the fairway, all be it the wrong one, had I not obstructed its path. Whilst I rubbed my rump in an attempt to restore some blood flow to my fleshy region, he persisted in his annoyance by asking me if he was — entitled to a free drop — as he felt my body was not a legitimate penalty obstruction. I forget my exact remark, but it was based on a well-known French proverb about leaving home. He dropped the ball from shoulder height, still mumbling something about people who always find themselves in the wrong place.
By now I was beginning to adjust to my pain threshold and turned it down to simple agony. I may be able to walk, with a little discomfort, when my assailant swung his club again, this time shanking the ball sharply right, at a speed it was blurred, and it didn’t stop until it met up with my shin! I collapsed, writhing pain; my pain threshold had once again been severely tested. The bloody maniac then exclaimed that he couldn’t believe it, damn you man, are you determined to stop me reaching the green, he yelled.
Pain has a way of making me see things very clearly. I rose like a demon and grabbed him by his Alpaca sweater with one hand and switched his electric trolley to full speed with the other, then watched it, with its cargo of clattering clubs, make a straighter drive down the fairway than this dick-head could only dream about. The man screamed his abuse which gratified me somewhat. I released him from my rather aggressive hold, only to watch him bolt after his golf trolley.
Seeing a golf club he’d left glinting in the grass, I picked it up and sent it flying, like a low flying helicopter, into the middle of the lake. It entered with a wonderful silver splash. That simple action had me feeling much better. Seriously, had the pathetic git of a golfer made me a simple apology, nothing like this would have happened. I walked back to my playing partner and friend, still chuckling at the episode.
Did you enjoy that, Steve? I asked, resenting his amusement to my suffering.
I wasn’t laughing at what you were doing to that idiot, Harry, but you split my sides when you threw your own golf club into the lake!
I look into my golf bag….
aaaggggghhh!
