A Jaundice Streak

My voice was hoarse from screaming obscenities during a relaxing game of golf. I wouldn't have minded so much if I hadn't been manhandled off the course by a group of elderly members propelled by a collective will that more than compensated for their frail frames. The kick up the arse and my golf bag thrown onto the train tracks that curled round the course was, perhaps, a touch unnecessary, but then it was naïve of me to underestimate the swift exaction of golf etiquette.

And so it was that I made my way to a second date with a girl. I couldn't stand the sight of her but others didn't mind which was good enough for me. It had been a while after all and I was in no mood to quibble with my instincts.

What I usually consider annoying and unattractive became her saving grace during dinner. She chirruped endlessly and insipidly, occasionally pausing to take great lungfish gulps of air, which meant that I could soothe my throat with wine and not strain it further. I finished my raspberry crème brulee and decided there and then that I was going to kiss her once my food had digested a little.

We alighted onto the cold streets of Soho. Vomit bubbled and gargled on the pavement and we were borne into the air by the winches of our sexual tension. As we approached Charing Cross Road I turned towards her. I then drew her close to me and felt her stiffen. Remembering the effect it had on a squash ball, I squeezed her until she became supple. She flopped heavily onto my lips and we embraced. A tornado of passion whipped around us pulling in with greater intensity all the sounds, textures and smells of the free-standing urinal next to us. "Go on my son, yeah!" touchingly encouraged a young man, his drunken enthusiasm causing him to completely miss the urinal and splash yellow the girl enthroned in my mouth.

I tried to convince her that being covered in a strange man's piss wasn't that bad. She disagreed. I wandered home in the grip of a deep reverie. In the end I decided I was chagrined more by what had happened on the golf course than with the girl. The recollected pretension and churlish fury of the old golfers maddened me so much that I kicked a tree.

The cosy amber glow of the streetlamps outside the apartment nursed my temper. I had softened greatly by the time I reached the front door. The key rattled obstinately in the hole until finally it succumbed. The wine had reached my bladder and I hurried in. A great sigh filled the bathroom and for the hundredth time I idly surveyed the pictures hanging on the wall. A favourite Wodehouse quote stood out: Nothing brings two men together more surely than a mutual inability to master golf. It was as I watched the last drop plunge towards the bowl that I thought of the girl and realised what fate awaited those members.