Every summer for the past six years we’ve been a group of tight friends who are traveling south to Marbella, Spain. We enjoy the sun, a few drinks perhaps, each other’s company, all masqueraded behind a huge golf competition, Lé Tour Du Bock, that everyone actually really tries to take seriously. Although the constant intakes of drinks and beer usually fucks that up. Well.
This was the first year we didn’t go. Marriages and babies being born got in the way so we set up the competition at Frössåker Golf Club, in Västerås, Sweden. Not your Los Naranjos, Marbella, Spain, so to speak, but sufficient I guess. I wouldn’t know, since I don’t play. I’m the designated driver and caddie on these trips. So we met up later at the winner banquet Saturday evening and it was… different.
The usual craziness was gone; instead a much older and mature vibe set the mood for the evening like a big plaid. All nice and good. But that was exactly it. Kids obviously have its rightful turn on your energy-reserve, but it was just so apparent. Or as super-drunk Josefine, whom later arrived with her girl-posse, said: “it’s rather tedious here”.
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