December 16 2013
Well, I was up with the lark this morning (not that we get many larks around here, mind you) to meet up with Frosty at the pitch-and-putt for a quick nine before going into the workshop. We were supposed to be playing a four ball with the abominable snowman and the ghost of Christmas past but GCP didn’t show up because he’s got a gyppy tummy. I think he was just too idle to get out of bed, if I’m honest, ‘cos as far as I know ghosts don’t get gyppy tummies, do they? I mean, whoever heard of irritable ectoplasm syndrome?
Anyway, we get there and Abominable has only brought along that horrible little nerk from the cracker factory, Dara O’ Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen. Now, as you know, I’m a pretty easy going bloke most of the time and I certainly wouldn’t make snap judgements about anyone purely on the basis of race, but I do find leprechaun’s to be a bit up themselves generally. and that O’Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen fella particularly gets up my nose. As soon as he open’s his gob he winds me up, because – let’s face it – nobody is that Oirish, are dey? Now don’t get me wrong; I love the Irish brogue. It’s a beautiful, lilting, lyrical thing that can warm the cockles of the hardest heart (so it can!), but dat fella turns it into an offence. It’s like being beaten repeatedly around the head with a shitty shillelagh, and it’s completely bloody bogus in my opinion. Even the rest of the leprechauns wince when he opens his gob (so they do)!
Well, as you can imagine, I’m none too pleased with Abominable, and my usually impeccable game suffered accordingly. You need to be in your Happy Place for golf, and there was as much chance of that this morning as there is of Heather Mills winning a knobbly knees competition. I was livid, but had to keep my gob shut for Abominable’s sake.
The other thing I was annoyed about – it turns out O’Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeen is a bit of a bandit. He’s playing off 23 and pretty much taking par on every hole. Oh, dat’ll be me lucky shamrock he says, and Oh, beggorah, it’s der luck of der Oirish, so it is… Luck of the bloody cheat more like – I dunno how I kept my hands off of him.
Now, old Abominable, he’s a different kettle of fish entirely. You know what you’re up against with him. He’s got one hell of a drive (I don’t go that far on my holidays!) but can’t putt for toffee. Got the touch of a 50ft gorilla, which, let’s face it, isn’t that far off the mark, and while that’s okay for the long game it’s no good for putting whatsoever. And he gets distracted by all the rabbits on the course; keeps picking them up to hug them and pet them and love them and kiss them and name them George and… You get the picture.
Anyway, cutting to the quick, we lost by two holes. It was all Frosty’s fault: he was putting for the half on the last hole and one of his eyes fell out ‘cos he was sweating after the long walk. Now anyone else would have let him take a mulligan, but not that bloody O’Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen. See, I’m always right about people.
Oh, everything’s going great guns at the workshop, by the way. Full steam ahead. Should be all set for the 24th, touch wood 😀