Currently this board.
I wasn't going to register. I was going to spend my time efficiently, purposefully and gainfully but I couldn't let it lie.
Also, I work in commercial property. Given the state of the market very few commercial property agents are ironing more than one shirt at a time right now and I've been forced to actually work for a change. Well, when I say work I don't mean really grafting like a sheet metal worker or a nurse although I don't think there are many of them on here. I mean working like a music journo whos slept through thursday and wakes up at 8 am Friday with a noon deadline. Every b*stard day.
But I couldn't resist. I mean ffs, of course fat people are fat because they eat too many kettle crisps and don't move about enough. Well, thats why I'm currently a bit 'bigger boned' than normal. I'm just not prepared to accept there are any excuses. TG is correct on this one, as ever. I'm sure if I'd been able to get my post in quickly on that thread it would have nipped that rather silly arguement in the bud. Oh yes.
Anyway I haven't been spending all my time working. My wife has taken up golf and I've been spoiling a few walks myself recently.
What with the Olympics and the Russians flexing their muscles and the footie on again, you may consider my tenth anniversary golf weekend to be a trivial subject for my first new board post but it is, in my opinion, exactly the the kind of thing Norman Mailer made his rep reporting on so here we go.
The Garralloched Stag Hotel in Ballater was base camp for last years first Deeside Cup, more of which later, and we arrived in lovely winter sunshine. We had a much nicer room than last year with a big four-poster bed which was enthusiastically pressed into service on the Friday night. My partner (both playing and luuuurve) claimed I'd worn her out as she struggled to a two hole loss on Saturday and was fast asleep by 10 pm on the Saturday night. The downside is obvious but the bonus was I got to watch MoTD in peace. Well until I fell unconscious somewhere between Stoke V Aston Villa and WBA v Everton. Must be the bracing country air.
Amazing I can sleep at all what with the state of the economy and f*ckwits like Darling and Brown in charge.
It didn't help her golf much though. Best round of my life on Sunday. Thrashing mammoth drives up the fairway (thats not a euphemism btw) sending soaring approach shots to the heart of the green and sinking even the most Salman Rushdie* of puts. Six pars and a birdie. The end result, 91, remains a piss-poor score in any club house not catering exclusively for the blind but it represents a huge improvement for me. I have calculated that if I continue to improve at this rate, having struggled to crack 100 in May, I will be wiping Tiger Woods off my Footjoys by 2011.
* (Impossible reads)
It bodes well for the upcoming Deeside Cup. My wife & I take on Erchie & Deedee in this exciting event, a veritable cornucopia of bad golf and worse shirts played over Ballater & Banchory in two weeks time. He isn't called Mr Gadget for nothing and has all sorts of gizmos to tell him exactly how far he is from the hole. The kind of hi-tech gadgetry that the US air force should be employing in Iraq. It might cut down on the number of innocent (in as far as any Arab can be termed such) deaths as a result of missplaced missiles. Doesn't seem to help him much though.
They have to be closely watched. Deedee gets confused easily when counting her strokes but she is a teacher so I suppose you can't expect much more. But Erchie undoubtably pulled a fast one last year. The hotel does a fabulous breakfast of cereal/yoghurt + porrige with honey, cream & whisky + a Highlander cooked breakfast. Imagine a plate that Geoff Capes & Ian Botham, working together, would struggle to polish off and you have the Highlander. We had built up a big lead on day one and approached the porrige and Highlander with gusto, confident that by the tee time of 12 noon it would have settled nicely. I did think it strange that Erchie restricted himself to muesli & fruit but he is a fat b*stard (kettle crisps and coke) and assumed he was thinking about his arteries. He waited until I'd crammed the last piece of fried egg soaked hash brownie into my gob before hitting us with the bombshell that the tee time had been moved forward to 10 am.
It was a struggle. There is a reason why pregnant ladies don't play much golf. We just managed to stumble round, picking off the odd hole here and there, sweating and straining and desperate for a sh*te as team "cheatingb*stard" skipped along, full of vim and vigour whittling away at our lead. We just held on to win by one point. But we'll be ready for this year, oh yes.
We have an 'Eighties' fancy dress party at the weekend. The Eighties are pish for fancy dress. Please give me any suggestions for suitable easy to assemble costumes. My next door neighbour was doing something involving hula hoops and power tools yesterday as part of his preparations. His wife says he's made scale models and a'thing but they won't say what they're going as. I guess this means we won't be winning the prize for best costume. Not unless my good lady lets me go as Sir Les Patterson, Cultural Attache to the Court of St James and Chairman of the Australian Cheese Board. And, most importantly, go in full character which would involve me getting horrible drunk, staining my powder blue lounge suit (size v large), and touching up the more attractive female guests.
The problem is that she is just not competetive enough in these situations. I've told her I wouldn't enjoy backscuttling any of the Milltimber mums over the buffet (although the one she runs with is tidy and the one who gets really pissed would be passable face down and the birthday girl herself will almost certainly be wearing something that gets the old pom-scarer engorged....where was I......) but of course some party pooping pom would be bound to complain. Do the dirty deed with a 16 year old work experience waiter in the country club toilets and you're a hero and in line with EEC Guidelines, I know, I've checked with Peter Mandelson, but stick the old rocket in the punch bowl and tell the Sheilas to form an orderly queue, big tits to the front, and next thing you know you're in the pokey, rather than, well you get my drift.
But is it wiser to just put on a double breasted suit and some big glasses and actually make it to my eleventh anniversary?
I wasn't going to register. I was going to spend my time efficiently, purposefully and gainfully but I couldn't let it lie.
Also, I work in commercial property. Given the state of the market very few commercial property agents are ironing more than one shirt at a time right now and I've been forced to actually work for a change. Well, when I say work I don't mean really grafting like a sheet metal worker or a nurse although I don't think there are many of them on here. I mean working like a music journo whos slept through thursday and wakes up at 8 am Friday with a noon deadline. Every b*stard day.
But I couldn't resist. I mean ffs, of course fat people are fat because they eat too many kettle crisps and don't move about enough. Well, thats why I'm currently a bit 'bigger boned' than normal. I'm just not prepared to accept there are any excuses. TG is correct on this one, as ever. I'm sure if I'd been able to get my post in quickly on that thread it would have nipped that rather silly arguement in the bud. Oh yes.
Anyway I haven't been spending all my time working. My wife has taken up golf and I've been spoiling a few walks myself recently.
What with the Olympics and the Russians flexing their muscles and the footie on again, you may consider my tenth anniversary golf weekend to be a trivial subject for my first new board post but it is, in my opinion, exactly the the kind of thing Norman Mailer made his rep reporting on so here we go.
The Garralloched Stag Hotel in Ballater was base camp for last years first Deeside Cup, more of which later, and we arrived in lovely winter sunshine. We had a much nicer room than last year with a big four-poster bed which was enthusiastically pressed into service on the Friday night. My partner (both playing and luuuurve) claimed I'd worn her out as she struggled to a two hole loss on Saturday and was fast asleep by 10 pm on the Saturday night. The downside is obvious but the bonus was I got to watch MoTD in peace. Well until I fell unconscious somewhere between Stoke V Aston Villa and WBA v Everton. Must be the bracing country air.
Amazing I can sleep at all what with the state of the economy and f*ckwits like Darling and Brown in charge.
It didn't help her golf much though. Best round of my life on Sunday. Thrashing mammoth drives up the fairway (thats not a euphemism btw) sending soaring approach shots to the heart of the green and sinking even the most Salman Rushdie* of puts. Six pars and a birdie. The end result, 91, remains a piss-poor score in any club house not catering exclusively for the blind but it represents a huge improvement for me. I have calculated that if I continue to improve at this rate, having struggled to crack 100 in May, I will be wiping Tiger Woods off my Footjoys by 2011.
* (Impossible reads)
It bodes well for the upcoming Deeside Cup. My wife & I take on Erchie & Deedee in this exciting event, a veritable cornucopia of bad golf and worse shirts played over Ballater & Banchory in two weeks time. He isn't called Mr Gadget for nothing and has all sorts of gizmos to tell him exactly how far he is from the hole. The kind of hi-tech gadgetry that the US air force should be employing in Iraq. It might cut down on the number of innocent (in as far as any Arab can be termed such) deaths as a result of missplaced missiles. Doesn't seem to help him much though.
They have to be closely watched. Deedee gets confused easily when counting her strokes but she is a teacher so I suppose you can't expect much more. But Erchie undoubtably pulled a fast one last year. The hotel does a fabulous breakfast of cereal/yoghurt + porrige with honey, cream & whisky + a Highlander cooked breakfast. Imagine a plate that Geoff Capes & Ian Botham, working together, would struggle to polish off and you have the Highlander. We had built up a big lead on day one and approached the porrige and Highlander with gusto, confident that by the tee time of 12 noon it would have settled nicely. I did think it strange that Erchie restricted himself to muesli & fruit but he is a fat b*stard (kettle crisps and coke) and assumed he was thinking about his arteries. He waited until I'd crammed the last piece of fried egg soaked hash brownie into my gob before hitting us with the bombshell that the tee time had been moved forward to 10 am.
It was a struggle. There is a reason why pregnant ladies don't play much golf. We just managed to stumble round, picking off the odd hole here and there, sweating and straining and desperate for a sh*te as team "cheatingb*stard" skipped along, full of vim and vigour whittling away at our lead. We just held on to win by one point. But we'll be ready for this year, oh yes.
We have an 'Eighties' fancy dress party at the weekend. The Eighties are pish for fancy dress. Please give me any suggestions for suitable easy to assemble costumes. My next door neighbour was doing something involving hula hoops and power tools yesterday as part of his preparations. His wife says he's made scale models and a'thing but they won't say what they're going as. I guess this means we won't be winning the prize for best costume. Not unless my good lady lets me go as Sir Les Patterson, Cultural Attache to the Court of St James and Chairman of the Australian Cheese Board. And, most importantly, go in full character which would involve me getting horrible drunk, staining my powder blue lounge suit (size v large), and touching up the more attractive female guests.
The problem is that she is just not competetive enough in these situations. I've told her I wouldn't enjoy backscuttling any of the Milltimber mums over the buffet (although the one she runs with is tidy and the one who gets really pissed would be passable face down and the birthday girl herself will almost certainly be wearing something that gets the old pom-scarer engorged....where was I......) but of course some party pooping pom would be bound to complain. Do the dirty deed with a 16 year old work experience waiter in the country club toilets and you're a hero and in line with EEC Guidelines, I know, I've checked with Peter Mandelson, but stick the old rocket in the punch bowl and tell the Sheilas to form an orderly queue, big tits to the front, and next thing you know you're in the pokey, rather than, well you get my drift.
But is it wiser to just put on a double breasted suit and some big glasses and actually make it to my eleventh anniversary?
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