I have a four-year-old son who I co-parent with my ex. I pick him up from his mother’s house and decide mini golf would be a fun activity for us and my girlfriend to do.

Ex: “Are you sure mini golf is a good activity? I’m concerned [Son] might hurt himself, you, or [Girlfriend] swinging that putter around.”

Me: “It will be okay. I’ll be sure to tell him not to swing hard, and I’ll carry the putter to each hole.”

We get to the course and [Son] is excited to see the obstacles. He listens to me perfectly until we get to the fourth hole, which is dinosaur themed.

Son: “T-REX!”

I put his ball down, hand him his putter, and step to the side. He then screams a little battle cry and swings back as far as he can, and before I can stop him, he hits the ball, which ricochets off the T-Rex and hits me in the side of my head near my eye.

[Girlfriend] and I decide it’s best to take [Son] back to his mom while I recover from a possible concussion. [Girlfriend] drives us while letting out little giggles. We both walk [Son] to the door. [Ex] sees the large bruise on my face.

Ex: “Are you okay?”

Me: “I’ll be fine. I’ll see what my doctor has to say and go from there.”

Ex: “You know, it has been a long time since I’ve said this to you…”

I think she’s going to say something reassuring.

Ex: “I told you so.”

[Girlfriend] collapsed to the ground with laughter, and I grimaced, knowing [Ex] was right.

Content Warning: Gross

I used to work at a mini golf course. It had little houses with doors that opened and closed that people would hit their balls into.

Someone took a gallon-sized bag full of diarrhea, opened it up, and threw it inside there. People started coming up to the counter with golf balls covered in diarrhea.

The golf club where I work is hosting a dinner dance for a local businessman, with lots of very well-off guests.

A man comes to the bar and orders a fairly large round of drinks. His total comes to about £100.

I tell him the price, and his demeanour flips from cordial to furious.

Guest: “£100?! Do I look like I can afford to buy £100 worth of drinks, huh, fella?”

I give him a once-over, taking in his midwinter tan, designer suit, expensive watch, and gold jewellery, not to mention his wallet that is on the bar in front of him with half a dozen £50 notes visible.

Me: “Er, yeah. You do.”

He locks eyes with me for about five seconds, then his angry expression splits into an enormous grin, and he bursts out laughing.

Guest: “Well played, fella, well played!”

He hands me a credit card and pays for his drinks.

Guest: “I’m sorry for messing with you at first. That was mean of me. Here, this is for you guys behind the bar; you’re doing great!”

He then handed me three of those aforementioned £50 notes, gave me the double finger guns, and headed off with his drinks.

It’s a rainy Tuesday in December, and as such, the golf club bar is completely deserted and has been for a while.

In between bouts of chatting and chilling out, my coworker, our manager, and I have been doing various administrative and cleaning tasks around the place. Currently, we are just finishing with cleaning the lines to the beer taps.

As the keg is reconnected and we begin to pull fresh beer through the newly clean pipes, I notice that a fixing on the tap is loose and begin to tighten it up.

Anyone who has ever tightened anything with a threaded bolt has likely heard the helpful phrase “righty-tighty, lefty-loosey,” which lets you know which way to turn the thing depending on what you want to achieve.

Unfortunately, this particular fixing is reverse-threaded. I twist it a quarter turn to the right, which is enough to completely undo the fixing, and the top of the tap falls off.

The section that falls off contains the valve that stops the beer from flowing unless the tap is opened. This becomes apparent when a geyser of lager sprays forth from the remaining section of the tap, covering me, the ceiling, the bar, and the floor in amber goodness.

I yell for my colleague to first pass me several jugs and then to run upstairs and disconnect the keg while I catch the fountain in the jugs I’ve been given.

Eventually, the keg is disconnected and the torrent subsides. So, I’m standing there, shirt transparent with beer, with more of it puddling around my feet and all over the bar, when our first golfers for several hours enter.

“So, the beer’s off, then?” one of them asks.

Happily, my sense of humour hasn’t completely deserted me, and I’m able to chuckle in response, before the manager comes back into the room to relieve me to go home and change my clothes.

When I return, the tap has been reassembled and a sticker has been applied to the main section, just above the offending fixing, reading:

“Caution: unscrews to the right!”

I work at an adventure golf course in a highly-populated city. We’re based in a fairly upmarket area, and it’s common that people use their postcode as an excuse to be snooty.

For current health reasons, the building we operate from has closed the toilets to customers for their safety as we don’t have enough staff to always be monitoring and cleaning the stalls in a way that complies with health and safety requirements. It lists this fact in big, bold, red writing on our website TWICE, one of which is a notification you have to close before you can proceed to booking.

A lady with her young son comes to check in and collect their golf clubs and balls. She is dressed in clearly expensive clothing, holding an expensive brand bag and the latest iPhone. She talks like she’s full of self-entitlement and superiority, but is otherwise mostly pleasant.

Customer: “…and where are your toilets?”

Me: “Unfortunately, as mentioned on our website, they are closed due to the current health situation.”

Customer: *Suddenly angry* “What do you mean, they’re closed? This is an outrage! Why weren’t we warned?”

Me: “Like I said, it is displayed on our website twice. My apologies if you missed it.”

Customer: “Where? It doesn’t say anywhere! I demand to see this notification. I’m not stupid. I know what I saw and there was nothing about this displayed.”

I oblige and spin round my tablet-monitor displaying our site. As expected, the pop-up window is there. I close this and then show the second toilet notification on the booking page. The lady looks stunned for a second, before thinking she’s got me.

Customer: *Very snide and snooty* “I didn’t book it with an iPad; I used my phone! It doesn’t say anywhere!”

I turn to look at my coworker, who shoves his phone into my hands. He’s loaded up the site there, too. I show it to the lady.

Me: “Forgive me, miss, but the desktop, tablet, and mobile phone versions of the sites are all exactly the same. They all display the toilet notification here. You will have seen it.”

Furious, the lady smacks my coworkers phone from my hands — luckily, I catch it — and yells, so full of anger yet pride and self-importance:

Customer: “WELL, I CAN’T READ!” *Storms out*