Hangover Golf

Bogey and Nassau rub salt in the faughching wound.

On the sultry afternoon of July 24th, eight joyous golfers set out across the verdant fairways of Lorraine. Bogey, Caddy, Chip, Divot, Duffer, Eagle, Karry and Nassau were quivering with anticipation of the golfing delights ahead of them. What would the day bring to these two frolicking foursomes – birdies? eagles? the occasional anguished cry of momentary defeat, or jubilant shouts of triumph? Whatever may come their way, the happy eight knew that they would share an afternoon of blissful camaraderie.

But far, far away from the emerald greens, and in stark contrast to these cheery comrades, sat the lonely figure of O'Faughch.

Imprisoned in her professional (yet stylish) garb and spike-less footwear, she gazed over the drab concrete towers of the city centre. "No golf for me," she mused, inconsolably. "No faughching fun for this bitter birthday babe."

The despondent damsel felt as if she had just aged a year.

© 2007, bitterly submitted by o'faughch.