Fukt

Today's round of golf played like one (or more) of the forty thousand PG Wodehouse golf stories (each a perfect gem and perfectly amusing to boot) with E@L as the hapless twit who inevitably bungles both the golf game AND the romance.

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But first let me tell you how fucked I am. I am fucking fucked. The fuck with that, I am way fucking fucked beyond simply fucking fucked. In fuckt, the fucknicity of my befuckedness fuckers belief. I am so fucked, the fucktoids of my fucktedenal gland have become refuckulous. It is prefucktosiously imfucktable for me to go to fucking work tomorrow, that's how fucked I am. I am fucknaceously and efucktably fuckdeded.

To quote Lily Von Stupp, I am gefückt.

Everything below the ears ist KAPUT!

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Here is an example of the Wodehouserliness® of my game today. For the sake of being stuck between two fours and still with unending flights of fours up ahead, E@L has joined a group of local Thais who are pretty good golfers. There is one guy (let's call him ThaiHat) who has exceptional local knowledge and experience of the course. He's over fifty, semi-retired, very fit and strong, and plays this course every week. He doesn’t play textbook golf at all, his swing is short and choppy with no follow through, etc, etc, a million faults… yet he always out-drives, out-chips, and out-putts the others (but he doesn’t outdrive E@L! Not today he doesn't!). The skill with which he uses the weaknesses in his game, on this course, is such that they seem like strengths. You know the type. The local amateur champ. He swings like the owner of the course in Caddyshack, he really does, yet takes pars consistently and if often putting for birdie! He walks off the green and gets into his cart before others have finished putting, he drives his cart to his ball far beyond where others are still hitting, yet he is affable and pleasant to talk to. Like a true arsehole. Lke E@L thought later, a cop.

Well anyway, E@L had finally worked out what was wrong with his short game - he had only brought his sand-wedge in the traveler's half-set and he had been playing it like it was, and thinking it indeed was, in reality, his pitching wedge. Fucking idiot. That explains why he was playing so well from the bunkers, yet coming up 15 yards short on his approach shots. Also, as he'd put only an 8 iron as his next club down, there was this glaring gap in firepower whenever he was between 130 and 90 yards from the green… (which all golfers will knows is about the second most common distance from which one approaches the green).

Yes, so E@L has finally realized his club selection error on the par five 17th and is feeling much more confident, so much so that he is on in regulation, though his sand-wedge from 70 yards (How hard to hit it? He can't work it out now) has left him on the lower end of the green with a 30ft uphill putt for birdie.

As E@L is lining up for the putt, ThaiHat seems fit to remind E@L that this is a, "Birdie putt!" E@L chuckles and says, "Yes, it is." He resets his stance and lines the putt up once more. "Uphill," says ThaiHat as E@L is just about to take the head of the club back. "And for a million dollars," quips E@L who then finally makes his stroke, pissweakly, like he had no fucking breakfast, and way off to the fucking right…

It was like that pretty much AAAALLLLL day. Apart from off the tee, where E@L was slamming it brilliantly, straight and long, down the middle of the fairway - about 80% of time.

Which is why the romance part of this blog post has to wait, because just now,

E@L

is fucked.

[Addendum: just had a brilliant soak in the tub. Massage (gentle) tomorrow. And, damn: Forgot to check the final score; 48 out, probably close to the same coming in - two pars and one 8. Six balls lost to watery graves for the day.]