Good Fore it.

Yesterday I noticed a bump on my tire. I do remember slamming into a pothole a few days ago, so I have probably buckled the rim. Darn.

I am off down to Cork for the weekend so I decided to change the tire as Sinead will I have the car and I am a good caring conscientious husband. Easy peasy. You’d think.

Got the tire out from under the car? Check
Loosen nuts? Check
Jacked up car? Check
Took off nuts? Check
Took off tire? Nope. That fucker’s stuck fast.
Yanked at tire? Check
Kicked tire? Check
Yelled at tire? Check
Pulled tire? Check
Kicked tire? Check
Rang Dad? Check

The conversation with Dad was a good one.

"Do you have a sledgehammer?"
"Nope."
"Well, get something heavy and hit the back of the wheel and should pop off. It’s stuck on the rim."

Just then my neighbour Simon passed by.

"Hey Conor"
"Hey Simon. Got a sledgehammer?" I hope that this is the most surreal question that he has been asked today.
"Nope."
"Ask him if you can use his wife," says Dad’s voice in my ear. I don’t ask Simon this, he’s my neighbour. I not sure Dad knows Simon’s wife, she’s very nice. It appears that finding a sledgehammer in suburbia is no easy task. I hang up on Dad.

I go to my shed, to see what I can use to hit the back of my wheel. The previous occupants left a set of golf clubs.

I choose the three iron. A couple of good tee-offs later and the wheel is loose. The three iron can no longer serve its primary function.

No punch line here, except that I hate fucking golf.