“Parp, parp, parp, parp, f*cking parpy parp parp” I grumbled as I shuffled quickly away away from the corpse with the three quarters bottle of Morrisons French brandy in my hand. Old John Teetering on the Edge MucPoorly has passed away in the night after a long illness and a short battle with me trying to wrestle the bottle from his grasp. I wouldn’t normally kill my friends in cold blood like this but I was bl*ody thirsty and anyway John’s repeated gasping for breath gets on my t1ts when I’m trying to sleep.
As I approach the clubhouse I am weighed down by the existential pointlessness of the activity. I know already what I’m about to get – another parp – so what’s the bloody point? And it points me to the greater pointlessness of all of our existences – we’re all going to die, probably horribly, so what’s the point of going on?
One minute later, I throw the newly drained bottle into the hedge and I feel great. Bring on the tournament!
“Watch out” moaned Crash. “Bacon is top when placed in town stunner. Yop”
“You’d better believe it baby” I trilled and walked into the clubhouse bar. “Pint of the usual please darlin’”
“You would say that wouldn’t you, you’re just a simple pawn in the globalist Marxist agenda that will soon dominate all our lives. Wake up you leftard, you’re just unthinkingly reinforcing the master plan to insert obedience into us via vaccinations and make us all into sandal wearing, salad munching, humous smearing, leftie, ****ing, lefty leftard commie wommie f*cktard lesbian homo tran***ual worshipping socialist namby pamby gaylords”.
I must say, Great Fire isn’t anything like I expected. Great boobs.
I downed the pint of Voddy she smashed on the table in front of me, and off I went happy as Larry, whoever the f*ck that is.
I noticed in front of me that Howdy was about to serve up, but was distracted mid swipe by someone in the distance carrying out a charitable act. In fury, Howdy strode off to gleefully dispense with a volley of homespun wisdom towards the transgressor when an idea occurred. I wrote ‘Pup’ in tiny letters on my ball and switched it with Howdy’s which he had left on the penalty spot. Talented smug ******* can play my match for me!!
Taking to the shadows swigging from my hip hot water bottle filled with medical alcohol, I watched Howdy, adorned in colourful chequed pants and Edinburgh Woolen Mill sweater, with vulgar moccasins swipe off and with untold smugness, and saw me home with a Bird, one better than my habitual Parp.
Couldn’t leave it there though could I? I had to in turn play Howdy’s match and what do you know, I seemed to lose all my rhythm, hammering drunkenly around the pitch and finishing with a 35 over Parp. A chicken I believe.
Get that down CT! Bird for me – f*ckin’ chicken for Howdy.
And now. Gonna get a sh@g off Fire.
As I approach the clubhouse I am weighed down by the existential pointlessness of the activity. I know already what I’m about to get – another parp – so what’s the bloody point? And it points me to the greater pointlessness of all of our existences – we’re all going to die, probably horribly, so what’s the point of going on?
One minute later, I throw the newly drained bottle into the hedge and I feel great. Bring on the tournament!
“Watch out” moaned Crash. “Bacon is top when placed in town stunner. Yop”
“You’d better believe it baby” I trilled and walked into the clubhouse bar. “Pint of the usual please darlin’”
“You would say that wouldn’t you, you’re just a simple pawn in the globalist Marxist agenda that will soon dominate all our lives. Wake up you leftard, you’re just unthinkingly reinforcing the master plan to insert obedience into us via vaccinations and make us all into sandal wearing, salad munching, humous smearing, leftie, ****ing, lefty leftard commie wommie f*cktard lesbian homo tran***ual worshipping socialist namby pamby gaylords”.
I must say, Great Fire isn’t anything like I expected. Great boobs.
I downed the pint of Voddy she smashed on the table in front of me, and off I went happy as Larry, whoever the f*ck that is.
I noticed in front of me that Howdy was about to serve up, but was distracted mid swipe by someone in the distance carrying out a charitable act. In fury, Howdy strode off to gleefully dispense with a volley of homespun wisdom towards the transgressor when an idea occurred. I wrote ‘Pup’ in tiny letters on my ball and switched it with Howdy’s which he had left on the penalty spot. Talented smug ******* can play my match for me!!
Taking to the shadows swigging from my hip hot water bottle filled with medical alcohol, I watched Howdy, adorned in colourful chequed pants and Edinburgh Woolen Mill sweater, with vulgar moccasins swipe off and with untold smugness, and saw me home with a Bird, one better than my habitual Parp.
Couldn’t leave it there though could I? I had to in turn play Howdy’s match and what do you know, I seemed to lose all my rhythm, hammering drunkenly around the pitch and finishing with a 35 over Parp. A chicken I believe.
Get that down CT! Bird for me – f*ckin’ chicken for Howdy.
And now. Gonna get a sh@g off Fire.

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