18 May 2004

Bruce has been interminably busy this last week. Busy in the pursuit of pleasure. This has taken many forms and always, unless in reference to the nighttime pursuits, under the golden auspices of a blazing Cornish sun. Indeed, Bruce is a little crisp around the edges. The was a five and a half hour game of golf in the green and hilly surroundings of Trethorne golf club, replete with babbling brooks and lily ponds, consumers of my balls. I lost balls in the jaundiced gorse bushes, in the poppified meadows, over fences and amidst copses. I lost balls in the rough and on the fairway. I paid more for the balls than I did for the round of golf. Worth every penny.

The only thing that marred the whole experience was when Jason’s trolley handle came away from the trolley with his golf bag on. It just would not stay firmly stuck where it should. This meant that for the last couple of miles Jase had to shoulder his bag, carry the handle in his hand and the metal trolley in the other. It was entirely hot and got warmer for Jase as he lurched about the course. I only saw him almost crack when the seventh person we passed gaily pointed out to him, for the seventh time that day, that the trolley was to ease the weight of the golf bag and was not intended to be carried separately. Jason didn’t even reply but I could see his jugular pulsate. Of course, I was in continual hysterics being the considerate chap that I am.

O hang on, I don’t have time for this right now. Unfortunately, despite the sun being out in force, I do have to do a little work. The sea is calling to me ,”Bruuuce, Beruuceeee, come to me, come to the sea, I’m not chilleee, come and dance in my waves and be free, like a jellyfish, or a collective of plankton. Yes, chuck in your job for the summer and Ahoy!”

What a total load of bollocks. I fucking hate it when I end up writing trash, forced from my cranium like I might a particularly difficult stool from my arse.

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