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Anxiety & Depression Golf

Started by Shoulders?-Stomach!, May 07, 2019, 10:11:03 AM

Previous topic - Next topic

Shoulders?-Stomach!

18 emotionally draining holes set across the lurid vistas of suburban Prestatyn

'Oh no I still have 17 more holes to go'

Funded and maintained by the Department of Work & Pensions.

Norton Canes

I've got an albatross

Let's talk about it

Glebe

"I must do hole in one three more times from the same angle or something bad will happen OCD."

BlodwynPig

Trevor hunkers in the bunker as dusk settles over the course

Norton Canes

It's not even real golf it's locked in syndrome golf

Just need to sink this one and I'm done. 3 over, my best score yet. Think I'll treat myself to a pint in the clubhouse. Best ignore that pretty girl over there. Why's she just standing there? Is she watching me? Does she fancy me? Fucking hell, she's watching my every move, judging my stance and swing. Come on, you've played this hole a hundred times. Why am I standing like this now? I never stand like this. Shit, I can't get the right stance. Should I use this iron? Will she judge me? Should I use a more manly club? No, just focus. Ignore her. Why would she fancy you anyway? It's just a girl come to the golf course. She's probably waiting for her husband or something. Christ, I'm sweating now and, yep, fucking sliced it. Fuck's sake. Best go over there and try to laugh it off with some self-deprecating comments. Ah, turns out it was a jacket someone left on a fence post all along. Wait, that's my jacket. I left it there last week. Got bird shit on it too. Bet they won't let me in the clubhouse with a shitty jacket. Might as well forget that pint. Ah well, I'm driving anyway. Perhaps it's for the best. Shit, did I leave my car keys in the bag?

alan nagsworth

Quote from: Huxleys Babkins on May 07, 2019, 05:09:26 PM
Think I'll treat myself to a pint in the clubhouse

Who the fuck drinks pints in the clubhouse? I bet they don't even have draught beer, you common bitch. No wonder you're anxious you keep fucking up your life like this. But at least you've got me to thank for saving you from getting LAUGHTER in your FACE by the MINIMUM WAGE BAR STAFF when you waltz in, chest puffed out in your shitty jacket, and asked for a fucking PINT IN THE CLUBHOUSE.


petril

brown envelope with a letter, it reads:

"We have received evidence that you were at the municipal golf course on Thursday, 02 May and as such you are no longer eligible for PIP or ESA. Your claim has been stopped"

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Hole 9 is one you have to do in your pants with everyone watching and pointing.

In terms of the layout of the hole, in golfing parlance it's a dogleg, and also in actual parlance.

BlodwynPig

Quote from: alan nagsworth on May 07, 2019, 06:15:52 PM
Who the fuck drinks pints in the clubhouse? I bet they don't even have draught beer, you common bitch. No wonder you're anxious you keep fucking up your life like this. But at least you've got me to thank for saving you from getting LAUGHTER in your FACE by the MINIMUM WAGE BAR STAFF when you waltz in, chest puffed out in your shitty jacket, and asked for a fucking PINT IN THE CLUBHOUSE.



Walked past the clubhouse last night, "grill and beer" - Moosehead lager. Refreshing.

Didn't go in.

BlodwynPig

This birdie putt for the local Rutland championship...tricky downhill 5 footer...down it trickles...picking up speed...down it continues...now you are following it, head over tits, rolling and tumbling...picking up speed....down you go...past the patrons, faster and faster...down, down, down towards the gaping hole in reality.

A smattering of applause as you leave this realm and enter a terrifying new dimension filled with fear, embarrassment and self-loathing.

Quote from: alan nagsworth on May 07, 2019, 06:15:52 PM
Who the fuck drinks pints in the clubhouse? I bet they don't even have draught beer, you common bitch. No wonder you're anxious you keep fucking up your life like this. But at least you've got me to thank for saving you from getting LAUGHTER in your FACE by the MINIMUM WAGE BAR STAFF when you waltz in, chest puffed out in your shitty jacket, and asked for a fucking PINT IN THE CLUBHOUSE.



No need for shouting, buddy. Just wasting a few hours on the links. Wasting a few hours. Wasting.

Wasting.

Wasting.

BlodwynPig

Michael has landed in the rough.

He's still 3 hours from the municipal golf course, the arranged meet for Alan's stag weekend. Stuck in a Hungry Horse on the A0 to Fuckingham, bashing some toilet attendants head in with a five iron.

Shoulders?-Stomach!

Hole 3

Your father berates you for doing everything wrong. The spokes of the windmill cut the threadless circles of your unfulfilled existence. Darren got a par on it though.

petril

the All Comers Classic is played this year, as ever, under scheme rules: 17 hole course, skip on at the second, and the clubs are communal: dirt encrusted putter that's too short, sand wedge with a dent, seven iron, five iron and what's left of Uncle Mick's old driver, the one with the leccy tape spiral keeping the grip attached to the shaft.

Glebe

"It's your turn."

"Why bother?!"

GMTV


Glebe

"You gunna take that shot?"

"Not arsed, mate, anxiety."