I must confess that each year beginning in April, and then once more each during June, July and August, I begin to grow in anticipatory blush as the major professional golf tournaments known colloquially as the "Grand Slam" re-set to play out once more across the elitist goat pastures of the US and the UK.
No, it's not that I like to play golf. Not at all. In fact I rather despise the game, actually. I can think of little that is more boringly useless in life than the waste of five-six good waking hours hacking up a perfect lawn when I could be doing something much more stimulating like sitting in front of the keybooard LMAO over Socrates's Twitter feed.
And puh-leeze. I also simply can't be bothered dahlink to watch TV in any of its debased, postmodernist forms, but most especially following those yuppiefied walking advert boards adorned in polyesther slacks and white belts as they rake in millions playing with their putter shafts.
Nay, what truly pickles my tiddler in a pint draught about the great
The once storied empire may long since have shrunk into the rather nasty, brutish little US protectorate we know and larf at today, a colony of Jim Fowlers to our Marlon Perkins, yes, ah, but that purely self-deprecating low wit lives on within descriptions of the always humbling often humiliating circumstances wrought on its participants by the quintessential
1. Yes, this is a mailed-in entry.
2. G'night Mr. Thomas