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Ahh. Saturday. The day where I have a proper drink.
After disposing of the body from the clubhouse into the local reservoir, I load up the bat carrier with Smirnoff and, lacking in room, just carry a couple of bats by hand. Here we go again.
At the Golfle court, I drain my first bottle and am about to first serve when I hear a disturbance in the hedgerow.
“Watch me Likk on Tv Spad”
“Excuse me?”
“Watch out lecc cars on body fog toneet”
“Ah hello Crash. You’ve started early. I’ve clearly got some catching up to do”
“Reet town in freezer mac bah, mark my words Putin dee dar pang”.
“Exactly pal. Have a good day mate. Watch your step when you climb out of the hedge”.
Some people think that I have a drink problem. *******s to that. They should go see the Master.
So – on we go. Out comes the fat bat and I smash the ball straight down the Fair Lay for my first reasonable serve in a few days (0g 3 y). Happily I skip down the pitch twirling my second Smirny and doing the little Morecombe and Wise hop-skip. I am the business today.
“W@nker” calls out Lol from his Golf buggy. He accompanies his insult with a predictable coarse gesture before driving off guffawing. Typical Lol - always on my case. Has to use his buggy as he's too fat to walk.
Anyhoo – ignore him. I look se*y and that’s all that matters. I shuffle up for my follow up shot and thwack, off it goes into the distance, a brilliant shot! Surely? I squint hard through my standard haze into the distance but see no ball. Look left. Nope. Look right. Nada. Look down – there’s the fekker. It’s moved inexplicably barely 1 and a half Andy Roscoes forward from the shot. What the…? How the…? I am little better off from my great start (0g 3y)
Still a strong position though thanks to my s*xy first serve, so confident I can turn this round. Just need focus. After another half a bottle of focus, I used my old faithful slanty bat and once again, the ball majestically levitated onto the grassy green thing with flag, pulling close to hole in ground (1g 3 y).
Not wanting to lose my record of not getting lower than a Parp like those other losers, so I focused good and proper, so much so I threw up in by bat carrier. This is a magnificent day. Some young girls were walking by and stopped to watch with open mouths. Yes, Pup. You’ve still got it. I smiled, winked as off they went, a bit faster than I would have expected or liked.
Here goes. Distance to hole in ground approx. two Des Hazels and a crouching Paul Hurst, but in my breezy, smirnoffed fervour, I turned back to hole in ground and shot home through my legs without even looking. Straight in without kissing the lips. Third Parp in a row and plenty of day left to throw my shapes with my friends on the town centre benches.
After disposing of the body from the clubhouse into the local reservoir, I load up the bat carrier with Smirnoff and, lacking in room, just carry a couple of bats by hand. Here we go again.
At the Golfle court, I drain my first bottle and am about to first serve when I hear a disturbance in the hedgerow.
“Watch me Likk on Tv Spad”
“Excuse me?”
“Watch out lecc cars on body fog toneet”
“Ah hello Crash. You’ve started early. I’ve clearly got some catching up to do”
“Reet town in freezer mac bah, mark my words Putin dee dar pang”.
“Exactly pal. Have a good day mate. Watch your step when you climb out of the hedge”.
Some people think that I have a drink problem. *******s to that. They should go see the Master.
So – on we go. Out comes the fat bat and I smash the ball straight down the Fair Lay for my first reasonable serve in a few days (0g 3 y). Happily I skip down the pitch twirling my second Smirny and doing the little Morecombe and Wise hop-skip. I am the business today.
“W@nker” calls out Lol from his Golf buggy. He accompanies his insult with a predictable coarse gesture before driving off guffawing. Typical Lol - always on my case. Has to use his buggy as he's too fat to walk.
Anyhoo – ignore him. I look se*y and that’s all that matters. I shuffle up for my follow up shot and thwack, off it goes into the distance, a brilliant shot! Surely? I squint hard through my standard haze into the distance but see no ball. Look left. Nope. Look right. Nada. Look down – there’s the fekker. It’s moved inexplicably barely 1 and a half Andy Roscoes forward from the shot. What the…? How the…? I am little better off from my great start (0g 3y)
Still a strong position though thanks to my s*xy first serve, so confident I can turn this round. Just need focus. After another half a bottle of focus, I used my old faithful slanty bat and once again, the ball majestically levitated onto the grassy green thing with flag, pulling close to hole in ground (1g 3 y).
Not wanting to lose my record of not getting lower than a Parp like those other losers, so I focused good and proper, so much so I threw up in by bat carrier. This is a magnificent day. Some young girls were walking by and stopped to watch with open mouths. Yes, Pup. You’ve still got it. I smiled, winked as off they went, a bit faster than I would have expected or liked.
Here goes. Distance to hole in ground approx. two Des Hazels and a crouching Paul Hurst, but in my breezy, smirnoffed fervour, I turned back to hole in ground and shot home through my legs without even looking. Straight in without kissing the lips. Third Parp in a row and plenty of day left to throw my shapes with my friends on the town centre benches.
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