Two Sides. (worth reading)
Your sitting there, your bulbous burberry clad arse squelching outwards, cutting off the oxygen to the wads of cash stashed inside your now sealed off pockets, the imprint of the cutout middle section on your pole seat creating a kidney mark over the centre of your bum crease.
Tipping the hip flask back, you slug another shot of Jamesons, then follow its bitterness with a wedgelike bite of the sandwich your maid... made... for you earlier in the day. The heat of the whiskey is extinguished by the cold, salty tang of mayonaissed tuna on rye.
Your similarly burberried fellow golfer lines up for his shot, his tennis visor hiding his eyes while he scrutinizes the green. The caddy stands to one side, picking the dirt out from under his nails, rolling it into sizable chunks then squashing it onto his forefinger, before sniffing it, only to eventually flick it away.
The sun beats down and your arse stings from the bite of the kidney indent.
Your fellow golfer gives up, and short temperedly fumbles for his glasses. He finds them and jams them on, returning to his legs apart, hole-in-one inspiring stance. The scrutineering recommences.
You wipe your forehead, having pulled the neatly folded handkercheif out of the slit pocket in your trowsers, then you uncomfortably try to jam its newly crinkled mass back into the slit.
Dropping the hip flash onto the ground you impatiently sigh...
In your line of direct sight is your slow-as-a-dehydrating-dog-shit fellow golfer and behind him is one of the numerous golf course lakes. Sweat pools above one of your greying eyebrows, and you close your eye as it drips down onto the wrinkled lid below. Closing one eye, your vision (which despite having seen as many years as your fellow golfers has survived with much more accuity) focusses past the fellow golfer and onto the lake.
You sit there, the one open eye locked at its default focus point, with only your peripheral taking in the blurry profile of the fellow golfer, who, thank God, has finally arched his feet into a stance that befits his raised arms.
The waters of the lake ripple gently and you absorb the gentle rythum as the fellow golfer swings his $800 Bettinardi towards the ball.
Thwak!
The ball goes flying.
But you arent at all, not in the slightest, remotely interested in its destination...
You're sitting there, sweating buckets, creasing your butt crease, waiting for your geriatric fellow golfer friend to take his shot and when he finally does make a connection between iron and ball all you see is a duckling launch 30 foot into the air from the surface of the lake.
You stand up, the seat pole toppling to the green and as your fellow golfer leads out of his shot and turns towards you. You wander incredenculously(sic) towards the lake.
The duckling lands with a splash and bounces, quacking and carrying on.
You're five metres from the edge of the lake, your fellow golfer calling to you, asking whats wrong, the caddy flicking another chunk of fragrant undernail flak away to follow you unthinkily over to the waters edge.
Suddenly, out of the centre of the lake shoots another duck, turning head over tail, its legs flailing, its beak yapping open and closed 'Quack, Quack, Qu-Quack'. This one isnt a duckling, and mid arc it finds its wings and lands with a little more grace than its flailing, flightless predecessor.
You get to the edge of the lake and place your hand over your brow, pressing the two together to cease the flicker coming down from an arthritic wrist. You peer over the lake at the recovering birds, and seeing no other disturbance in the lake, you shake your head and about turn, the indignant quacking of the mystery birds drifting out of your conscious hearing.
The caddy stares out at the lake and with his younger eyes, sees the odd shape, indiscernable as anything recognisable. He frowns, having only seen the second bird land, and turns around and heads down the slope to were he's earning $6 an hour watching old carnts ruin decent golfing equipment with bad techniques.
SIOLOGENS DAFT DUCK DRAIN RESCUE:
I went and explored a drain today, by myself (sorry mum, it was a nice short, easy one with no big pits for me to drown in and i was shit bored and couldnt get anyone to go with me).
While i was in there i found three ducks.
I rescued them, by capturing them, one at a time, then with both hands, hurtling them like AFL footballs out of the huge, 5m deep basin that drains the middle of a golf course lake. As i drew back i intoned to the daft little buggers, in true Star Trek Form, 'Fly Goddamnit, Jim, Fly', and sending the duckling off first i flung with all my might, launching the hapless little avian dill... well, not quite 30 metres... into the air.
Next i grabbed the fully grown duck and gave it the big heave-ho away from certain death. It launched and mid air, caught itself, its wingspan silhouetted in the sun and the bright blue sky and it landed with an audible splash, quacking its disdain back at me as it went.
I got fucking soaked doing this, as water was gushing down the sides of the basin (nowhere near as badly as the waterfall i nearly drowned in tho mum, dont worry) and everytime i hurredly ran thru the shower separating the basin from the main drain it was like id been under a normal household shower for 3 minutes.
I retreived my camera, which was tied by its case strap to a manhole rung further downstream and from there headed back towards the exit, catching up to the third duck, which id past as id been carrying the first duck to the pit infall (id found the duckling in amoungst five other dead ducks at the base of the pit.) This one was also a youngin' and was a lot faster than the lethargic adult, but i managed to grab it and like its ancestor, i held it to my chest with one hand, my other hand acting as a platform for its big webbed puds.
It struggled a bit more than the worn out adult had and i held on, telling it that everything was gunna be all goodah.
So theres me, sploshing 500m thru an 8ft rectangle, thru two weirs to the outfall at an inlet off the River Bow, with a duck craning its neck forward, its crop(initial neck stomach for the plebs) squidging under my fingers. The whole time it looked like it was flying(cos of the craned neck, like it was in flight) and i was following above. Once at the outlet i let it go and hoped that it'd be ok (its feathers had come in, with the exception of its flight feathers, so hopefully its not too young to survive without its mum).
And that was my good deed for the day...
I drove home soaked, with the heater on full, hoping id not picked up any mites or suchlike from hugging the grubby little bastards.
Tipping the hip flask back, you slug another shot of Jamesons, then follow its bitterness with a wedgelike bite of the sandwich your maid... made... for you earlier in the day. The heat of the whiskey is extinguished by the cold, salty tang of mayonaissed tuna on rye.
Your similarly burberried fellow golfer lines up for his shot, his tennis visor hiding his eyes while he scrutinizes the green. The caddy stands to one side, picking the dirt out from under his nails, rolling it into sizable chunks then squashing it onto his forefinger, before sniffing it, only to eventually flick it away.
The sun beats down and your arse stings from the bite of the kidney indent.
Your fellow golfer gives up, and short temperedly fumbles for his glasses. He finds them and jams them on, returning to his legs apart, hole-in-one inspiring stance. The scrutineering recommences.
You wipe your forehead, having pulled the neatly folded handkercheif out of the slit pocket in your trowsers, then you uncomfortably try to jam its newly crinkled mass back into the slit.
Dropping the hip flash onto the ground you impatiently sigh...
In your line of direct sight is your slow-as-a-dehydrating-dog-shit fellow golfer and behind him is one of the numerous golf course lakes. Sweat pools above one of your greying eyebrows, and you close your eye as it drips down onto the wrinkled lid below. Closing one eye, your vision (which despite having seen as many years as your fellow golfers has survived with much more accuity) focusses past the fellow golfer and onto the lake.
You sit there, the one open eye locked at its default focus point, with only your peripheral taking in the blurry profile of the fellow golfer, who, thank God, has finally arched his feet into a stance that befits his raised arms.
The waters of the lake ripple gently and you absorb the gentle rythum as the fellow golfer swings his $800 Bettinardi towards the ball.
Thwak!
The ball goes flying.
But you arent at all, not in the slightest, remotely interested in its destination...
You're sitting there, sweating buckets, creasing your butt crease, waiting for your geriatric fellow golfer friend to take his shot and when he finally does make a connection between iron and ball all you see is a duckling launch 30 foot into the air from the surface of the lake.
You stand up, the seat pole toppling to the green and as your fellow golfer leads out of his shot and turns towards you. You wander incredenculously(sic) towards the lake.
The duckling lands with a splash and bounces, quacking and carrying on.
You're five metres from the edge of the lake, your fellow golfer calling to you, asking whats wrong, the caddy flicking another chunk of fragrant undernail flak away to follow you unthinkily over to the waters edge.
Suddenly, out of the centre of the lake shoots another duck, turning head over tail, its legs flailing, its beak yapping open and closed 'Quack, Quack, Qu-Quack'. This one isnt a duckling, and mid arc it finds its wings and lands with a little more grace than its flailing, flightless predecessor.
You get to the edge of the lake and place your hand over your brow, pressing the two together to cease the flicker coming down from an arthritic wrist. You peer over the lake at the recovering birds, and seeing no other disturbance in the lake, you shake your head and about turn, the indignant quacking of the mystery birds drifting out of your conscious hearing.
The caddy stares out at the lake and with his younger eyes, sees the odd shape, indiscernable as anything recognisable. He frowns, having only seen the second bird land, and turns around and heads down the slope to were he's earning $6 an hour watching old carnts ruin decent golfing equipment with bad techniques.
SIOLOGENS DAFT DUCK DRAIN RESCUE:
I went and explored a drain today, by myself (sorry mum, it was a nice short, easy one with no big pits for me to drown in and i was shit bored and couldnt get anyone to go with me).
While i was in there i found three ducks.
I rescued them, by capturing them, one at a time, then with both hands, hurtling them like AFL footballs out of the huge, 5m deep basin that drains the middle of a golf course lake. As i drew back i intoned to the daft little buggers, in true Star Trek Form, 'Fly Goddamnit, Jim, Fly', and sending the duckling off first i flung with all my might, launching the hapless little avian dill... well, not quite 30 metres... into the air.
Next i grabbed the fully grown duck and gave it the big heave-ho away from certain death. It launched and mid air, caught itself, its wingspan silhouetted in the sun and the bright blue sky and it landed with an audible splash, quacking its disdain back at me as it went.
I got fucking soaked doing this, as water was gushing down the sides of the basin (nowhere near as badly as the waterfall i nearly drowned in tho mum, dont worry) and everytime i hurredly ran thru the shower separating the basin from the main drain it was like id been under a normal household shower for 3 minutes.
I retreived my camera, which was tied by its case strap to a manhole rung further downstream and from there headed back towards the exit, catching up to the third duck, which id past as id been carrying the first duck to the pit infall (id found the duckling in amoungst five other dead ducks at the base of the pit.) This one was also a youngin' and was a lot faster than the lethargic adult, but i managed to grab it and like its ancestor, i held it to my chest with one hand, my other hand acting as a platform for its big webbed puds.
It struggled a bit more than the worn out adult had and i held on, telling it that everything was gunna be all goodah.
So theres me, sploshing 500m thru an 8ft rectangle, thru two weirs to the outfall at an inlet off the River Bow, with a duck craning its neck forward, its crop(initial neck stomach for the plebs) squidging under my fingers. The whole time it looked like it was flying(cos of the craned neck, like it was in flight) and i was following above. Once at the outlet i let it go and hoped that it'd be ok (its feathers had come in, with the exception of its flight feathers, so hopefully its not too young to survive without its mum).
And that was my good deed for the day...
I drove home soaked, with the heater on full, hoping id not picked up any mites or suchlike from hugging the grubby little bastards.