Originally Posted by
ragingpup
The day started badly when I was evicted from my home. I only realised when the skip hire company arrived and started lifting my home in the air. Luckily I jumped out and bunked off down the street ripping my shirt as I leapt out.
No money so robbed the offy again and pernod in hand (it’s all I could rob before the little girl behind the counter started shouting at me) I went to the clubhouse to get my bats for the tournament.
Unusually there was a band on. Quite unusual eclectic mix, that seemed to indicate that the band had absorb a multitude of world cultures.
“Hi everyone, that song was about the time that I was in Malaysia, before going to Paraguay, Cuba and Alaska. I then absorbed some tunes on my travels to Kuala Lumpa, Indonesia and short venture into Space”
They launched into some quite upbeat bossanova punk before the singer slammed his ukulele into the Marshall stacks. “My name’s John2” he yelled “And we’ve been the Champagne Socialists. Goodnight!”.
Champagne Socialists? Not really sure what the name means. But I bought a tee shirt.
And on we go with the match. I’d finished the pernod and had bought a nice bottle of Bells to keep my pecker up during the match. And off we go, big slam with the fat bat and – oh sh1t, straight into a bugg@r (0g 1y).
“Oh haaaa ha ha ha haaaa. Wa ha ha ha ha haaaa. Wot a ****aaaaaaa” a shrill voice mocked from up a nearby tree. I ignored Howdy and prepared my trump card: my new bat – what Clinically Insane Sid in Spoons called an ‘Iron’. Having purchased it from him in exchange for a quick blowie in the lavs, I lined up the Iron and hacked away at the ball. Nothing. I hacked away again, finding it really difficult to get purchase on the ball whilst slicing away with the Iron on my knees. Again and again, the ball staying resolutely put in the sand. Eventually I gave in and threw the Iron to one side. Maybe Morphy Richards just don’t make very good golfle gear…
Ah well **** it. I picked the ball up and hurled it out of the bugg@r. What do I care – this is all a stream of p1ss anyway. I swig and few fingers of Bells and take stock of the next shot. I’m still on the Fair Lay, some way from the grassy green thing with flag (0g 3y) so fall back on my trusty slanty bat and hack away. That’s more like it, up up and away landing on the green grassy thing with flag and only the distance of the collective Rotherham United forward line from the 78-79 season (3g 1y). So I can see a couple of possible shots to choose from but again, choose Bells and haughtily kick the ball which rolls happily into the hole in ground (5g). Another Parp. I am the Parp specialist. Come and see me if you need a Parp. Parp, parp, everywhere a f*cking parp parp.
I call out towards a thick, empty, meaningless void.
“Yes?” said Grist.
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