A.G.R.O.

One of the fabulous things about being sober is that I can follow the plot of 24. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night is prime sorrows-drowning time, so much of the first series was me going 'why did he do that?', 'is she the one that did that thing with the guy from earlier?' and 'have we seen him before is he a terrorist?'.

This series it's all different. I can even remember some of their names. That Kate Warner really gets on my nerves. (See?) And it's a race against the clock to get into bed by 10 on Sunday nights, to watch on the portable that's balanced precariously on the laundry basket for just this purpose.

So imagine my horror and disgust when this week there was no 24 because of the fucking GOLF. Is there *anything* sadder than watching golf on television? I once found myself watching an angling competition on television, which is probably even sadder than watching the test card, but then I was pretty stoned at the time -- and it was 3am. It was not 24 time.

This is not the first time golf has disrupted my life. In 1988, the Open was held at Lytham, where at the time I was an 18 year old with a lot of attitude. The whole town was taken over by large cars and wealthy people in bad clothes, you couldn't get into places or park anywhere and everything was reserved for someone who wasn't you.

It did bring some work with it, and I spent some evenings washing up in the kitchens of large houses being run for the duration by ex-chalet girls who brayed at the sight of the boy Glen, who I took with me a couple of times. They sent him straight off to do the barbecuing -- a man prepared to get his hands dirty was a wonderful find. Meanwhile I hacked at strawberries and avoided the wandering hands of clean on the outside filthy on the inside rich kids. And their dads. Nice.

Clearly, a statement had to be made. I had just got my 2cv, the first piece of the world to belong to me me me, and the boy Glen and I came up with A.G.R.O. -- the Anti-Golf Residents Organisation. We made signs with golf balls turned into CND signs and feminist symbols (as I recall, it's a touch hazy), stuck them to the car windows (not the safest move I have ever made) and drove round town with the roof off punching the air and shouting 'AGRO!'

I did feel a whole lot better.

I saw my little 2cv the other night. She lives about ten minutes walk away now, but it's the first time I've seen her since I sold her. She was all clean and shiny and had a new set of seats. My heart ached, but I know I did the right thing. It's hard being a grown up.

joella