‘It’s a reference to golliwogs, like you get on the Robertson’s jam jars. The black-faced dolls. You know the ones. No, they didn’t come straight out and call me “golliwog” or “wog” but you know what it means, you know what they’re getting at: it’s a degrading term for a non-white person. A belittling. A put-down. Thatcher said it, so why wouldn’t they? And you know what? I actually accepted it for a while, just decided that shrugging it off was part of getting by, getting by around here, where there are so few black faces, just like my mate Rob who was the only black kid in his town and started calling himself “Chalky” just so he could get in there quickly before anyone else started doing the same thing. It could have been worse. And it was only a few of them. It was mostly just ignorance and repetition. But then I started thinking a bit more deeply about it, a bit more about what I was endorsing with my silence and acceptance.’ I was struck by just how differently he now spoke, just how much more than me he was, just how much, again, his time at that magic castle had changed him.

‘I’m sorry. I fucking wish I’d known. I don’t go up there any more, if it’s any consolation. Haven’t in a long time.’

‘Bunch of wankers,’ interjected Christine, wanking off an invisible cock (small) with her hand.

‘It wasn’t all of them. Not even most. Some decent people play golf. We both know that. It happens everywhere, not just on golf courses. But it just so occurred that when I was having this revelation I was also having a revelation about golf itself, what it is, what it does to the environment. The amount of weedkiller that gets poured onto that course every month. The insects it kills. The waste it is of natural habitat for any number of creatures. All because some well-off people want to hit a ball around. A lot of them don’t seem to even enjoy it. Do you know how many golf courses there are just in England? Over two thousand. Do you know how many acres of wasted wild space that is?’

‘I see what you mean.’