By Jack
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Golf. A game invented by the Scottish, when some cocky bastard decided it would be fun to hit a small, hard ball with a stick. Aiming to get it in a small hole, hundreds of fucking yards away. But he wasn’t content with the game at that point. So he decided to place obstacles in your way, like long grass, sand pits and lakes. Fucking lakes! Then, as the final nail in the coffin, Cocky McArsehole thought that there should be 18 of these holes to conquer.
I played golf yesterday, one round of 18 holes with my Dad. The weather was pleasant, the scenery – picturesque, the golf, was a full on hammer-ride of ball-crushing competition. In my lifetime I have not played much golf, I play occasionally with borrowed clubs, playing a friendly game with my Dad. Yesterday, the club was busy; my competition was not against my Father – a seasoned player, but against the other groups of golfers. The sweater-wearing, Titleist-sporting veterans, who power through that course, like a white man through Salford.
My golfing talents allow me to play a mean round of the gentleman’s sport. If you imagine the fairway as a bowling alley, mine is the ball that manages to bounce off every single section of the bumpers, before flopping impotently into the pins, slightly disturbing the air around them.
That’s right. My ‘golf-penis’ is small and insignificant. It awkwardly fumbles around the course, throwing fleeting glances, as the thunderous erections of the veterans stride past, it bashfully averts their judgmental gaze. We were passed by numerous groups of players during our game. My Dad played well, but he was hindered by my incompetence, or to stick to the golf-penis theme, my incontinence. Every golfer that passed us, marched by smugly, their golf-penis swinging around their knees. Whereas theirs had ‘Titleist’ tattooed down the length, mine just had ‘Tit’.
On one such occasion, two golfers were stuck behind us for several holes. Halfway through the hole we would see them wander up to the tee, waiting indignantly for us to finish the hole. Eventually we relented, letting them pass. The smaller of the two met my eyes as he walked. His piercing glare said so much, to put it in pastry terms; his eyes were pies of pity, but they were glazed with malice. It took every fibre of my being not to punch him right in his 8-year-old face. Anyway, I don’t think his Grandpa would have liked that.
