Saturday tea time adventures.
Loopy swung his club back in a majestic, powerful arc. At the top of the backswing the club performed a graceful loop and then another and another. His colleagues gasped and wrung their hands in horror. He had that most dreaded of golfers afflictions. Worse than the yips, worse than the shanks, worse than severe flatulence; the never ending circle, the perpetual loop which destroyed the careers of those great unknowns, Eric and Thelma.
It went and went again (IWAWA to his friends, although he prefers those not close to him to use the full title) was the first to react sidling to his bag and quietly selecting a club, which he slipped deftly up the left leg of his shorts, inadvertently clattering his left bollock. Ignoring the pain he edged stiff legged but almost unnoticed towards the tee.
“Look” came the shriek from the two remaining players “He’s got the magic club, the magic club!” and then collapsed in uncontrollable laughter.
Loopy’s trance was broken by the racket and his exhausted arms dropped the club, barely managing to knock the ball off the tee.
“I’m really grumpy”, said Loopy.
IWAWA was also grumpy at having been discovered using the magic club. He swung at the ball like the grim reaper and scythed it majestically into the adjacent undergrowth.
“Where did it went? I know it went but I don’t know where it went!” he cried.
“*!** off and watch your own ball” said Loopy, still grumpy but feeling better already.
J2Ts was quietly standing to the side, smiling enigmatically and enjoying the sensation of a trickle of sweat running down his spine and between his buttocks. IWAWA grasped his sweat sodden shoulder. “Did you see J2T, did you see?”.
J2T was startled and somewhere deep in his subconscious a disturbing memory stirred and pushed to the front of his mind. The horrors of Pau!
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” he screamed “Don’t touch me!” and grabbing his bag galloped off into the distance, the cries of “Don’t touch” me persisting until he was completely out of breath after about 50 yards.
“Is it my turn? Shall I tee off?” said What Are These Guys Talking About, mildly and reasonably.
“You can *!*! Roy Hattersley’s dog for all I care” said Loopy, his good humour now fully restored.
In the distance Fire Hose appeared from the bushes, being propelled backwards like a deflating balloon, hanging desperately onto his wildly gyrating todger.
“He should have a reduction valve or sprinkler head fitted “ said WATGTA quickly assessing the situation. But no-one was listening.