A Bad Sport

                 A Bad Sport

Yi should see the motors in the car park – thirs a Bentley, a Porsche and an Aston Martin. Am sittin’ on the wee knee-high wall opposite the parkin’ spaces reserved for The Secretary, Club Captain n other important people. Man, am pure buzzin’ … me ... a member ae the best golf course in the entire county. Ma auld man is shellin’ oot big bucks fir mi tae play here n av joost broke 90 strokes fir the first time so a cannae wait ti get up the road n show him ma scorecard. A cannae stope starin’ at the fancy bag ma parents’ bought mi a couple a months back for ma 16th. An auld guy interrupts ma daydreamin’ by invadin’ ma personal space n sittin’ oan the wall next ti me despite there bein’ hunners’ ae room elsewhere. A reckon he’s in his forties. Huffin’ and puffin’ as he takes hiz plastic lookin’ Dunlop shoes aff  afore stuffin’ thim intae an Aldi polly bag.

‘Alright soldier, how’d yi get oan the day?’ he asks.

A take ma scorecard fae ma back pocket n haund it ti him.

‘Good shootin’ soldier, yid’ve humped me the day,’ he says afore geein it back. ‘Another fuckin’ Paul Merton fir me.’

Av nae clue wit a Paul Merton iz but a need ti learn aw the mad golf lingo. ‘Wits a Paul Merton?’ a ask.

He laughs. ‘A Paul Merton. Room 101. A hunner n wan…that’s wit a shot the day. Couldnae concentrate mind yi…kept hinkin’ aboot the nite. She’s gon oot,’ he says, flickin’ his heid to the side like ‘she’ was standin’ a few feet away. ‘Av got an empty. A fuckin’ love an empty,’ he says, rubbin’ hiz hauns thi gither. ‘This is the plan … bang an Admiral’s pie in the oven…45 minutes an it’ll be pipin’…polish aff a few cans...then a wee bit o’ fun wi this,’ he says, pulling a newspaper fae his polly bag n hawdin’ it up. The Sunday Sport.

A hit a total riddy at the sight ae a wummin wi enormous bazonga’s and the headline, I was captured by an Alien and we had sex for 24 hours solid.

The auld perv starts commentatin’ oan different wummin an the sizes ae thir chists as he flicks through the newspaper, periodically shovin’ it inches fae ma face n askin’ fir ma input. Aw a kin think aboot is whether or no ti tell ma da aboot this madman. He’s no payin’ top dollar fir this kinda nonsense.

‘Ooft…wid yi look at that,’ he says, winkin’ and elbowin’ wae too much force fir ma likin’.

A expected this kind ae behaviour fae characters at the local municipal –  no a private club like this. A concentrate on ma scorecard n hope he’ll dae wan.

‘You waitin’ oan a lift, soldier?’ he asks.

‘Taxi,’ a answer.

‘Where d’yae live,’ he asks.

Am pure panickin’ noo. He’s gonnae ask ti share a taxi.

‘Grumpy drawers will be here in a few minutes, she’s been ti the hairdressers, wait ti yi see the nick ae her wi the daft curlers’ in her barnet. Save yirsel’ a few quid … al get her ti drap yi aff, soldier. It’s ma duty. No problemo.’

Am tryin’ ti think ae a suitable excuse when a notice a big belter ae a red Tesla come purrin’ in n parkin’ opposite. The windae iz lowered an a female leans oot. ‘Did you get my text, babe,’ she shouts.

He frowns as he says, ‘Naw, yi know the rules. A switch ma moby aff when am at the course. Wit is it?’

‘Kimberley couldn’t do my hair, she’s not well. I’m not going out anymore babe so I thought we could have a quiet night in and watch this,’ she says thrustin’ a DVD oot the windae an holdin’ it up like a ref dishin’ oot a red card. ‘Marley and Me. Kathy told me it’s really good.’

A hav a wee fly look ti the side n see hiz nostrils flappin’ as he mumbles, ‘A don’t fuckin’ believe this.’ He rolls up his newspaper an pokes mi oan the arm wi it. ‘Here’s yir dirty rag back, soldier, it isnae fir me, am mare ae a Guardian man masel. Yi still wantin’ a lift?’

A point in the distance. ‘A think that’s ma taxi comin’.’

He places the newspaper on the wall next ti mi, gets ti hiz feet n stretches oot a haun, ‘Kenny Urquhart, Club Captain, pleased ti meet yi soldier, a didnae catch yir name?’