Last week I did a job for a mason...plumbed 'is secret dungeon for 'im what 'ee 'as in 'is cellar...an' got me own ticket f'r the local club'ouse! It cost me an arm, a leg and one testicle mind, but stone the crows I love me golf!
"Whack that ball with your number eight iron y' lanky streak of American piss! Go on my son...in the drink so you'll 'ave t' ruin y'r fuckin' stupid Rupert Bear trousers climbin' in after it! Oy! On y'r bike Sambo! Y' couldn't win the British Open could y', y' thick wog? We don't want your sort round 'ere, ta very much!"
No bleedin' manky ol' bitches t' give you ear ache 'cos you 'ad a bit too much t' drink the night before and left a present in the bed. No bleedin' screamin' kids arguin' over which satellite channel t' watch an' wakin' me up when I'm tryin' t' kip on the settee.
Just yourself an' your mates anna couple o' metal sticks anna ball an' an 'ole t' knock it into! Then it's into the club house for sixteen Boddys, steak pie and chips and a slash up the caddy shed, or through the keyhole if your aim is good, like what mine is. Then another eighteen pints and a rousin' contest of 'Squeeze your Turd into the Eighteenth 'Ole for when that stuck up old cunt 'oo thinks 'ee's a comedian plays 'is round'.
And on Saturday afternoons we get the strippers in. Right dirty old whores an' all they is. All red and white with plasters on their ankles and tits they could tuck int' their socks if they was wearin' any. For an extra fiver they'll give you a blow job an' swallow the result so the missus doesn't find any stains when she's doin' the laundry, like she's always tryin' t' do the suspicious old sow.
That's what I love about golf...the sophistication and comradeship and the smell of old spunk in the snug.
Monday, August 04, 2003