Presently, I find myself 'pon hands and knees, snuggled beneath a gorse bush. The bush that offers substantial shelter from the most harsh of elements.
It is the annual under-Twenty One's golf tournament, hosted at Hampton Court Palace, that spells the beginning of the explanation as to why I'm located thus.
James Peterson, Under-Twenty One's champion began his Eighteen-hole set when, suddenly, I was overcome with the urge to satiate myself with His Majesty's London Dry, conveniently located on my person.
What ensued, however, was the most unintended of consequences.
Mr Peterson, obviously not an object of particular interest in my prior state, began to take a marked dislike to my golfing hints and tips (to his loss, I believe).
Being quite insistent on the factual grounding of my advice, I retorted with.. language of which I forget the specific nature..
The consequence of this ill-judged advice is that I sought refuge from both physical harm and for the further consumption of London's finest.
Mysteriously, my purse and its contents seem to have become misplaced somewhere during this episode, along with the contents of my bladder into the ground around me.
Ever the chap to get the job done regardless, I can quite confidently brand Mr.Peterson's golfing performance as "Underwhelming" and cause for further consumption.
No comments:
Post a Comment