White men can't jump.

You know that white men can't jump. I for instance can only leap about two inches off the ground despite having legs like steel springs. Another man who had some serious aerial issues was Corey McKernan. This is important because this very discussion was the catalyst for the biggest coincidence seen since coincidences were invented by Homo erectus in around 120000 BC. Before leaving for St Andrew's we had a casual discussion about how Corey McKernan (Kangaroos/Carlton ruck-rover) couldn't time his jumps at the end of his career. Didn't think much of it, but the Chicken-Hawk (always a detail man) commented that he was also a good golfer. End of discussion. We headed to St Andrew's in the newly acquired Renault Megane (I take back everything I have ever said about Renault). 6 gears of motoring smoothness. It is truly the E.L.O of hatchbacks.

Arriving in St Andrews was like a religious awakening for the Chicken-Hawk. He went through various stages of awe. Starting with silence, then a sort of dull squeal, culminating in a long straw of drawl emerging from his mouth and dangling from his chin like a shoe-lace. It was a touching moment and one that the wee Chicken-Hawk will never forget. We then did a tour of the old course which was a boredom competition between the tour guide's ramblings, a old Canadian gent, and the Chicken-Hawk who regaled us with continuous British Open stories. At one point I tried to impale myself of a bunker rake to escape this water torture. However, unbelievably, we ran into who else but the leper of leaping Corey Mckernan. We couldn't believe, he couldn't believe it, I still can't believe if it, and if you can believe it then consider my friendship officially terminated. It is diconbobulatingly ridiculous. He loved, we loved it, I wanted a group hug, but we did get a cracking photo, which will be uploaded as soon as I can get the photos off my phone.

So that was St Andrews. Great part of the world. Wait for the photos, genius.

e-spent.

e-out