Golf is for bastards.


You dress like a bastard, act like a bastard and by the very fact you wander around an artificial field of spunk with a bag of sticks stuck to your head, you area complete f*cking bastard.

Let’s clear this up, no more mincing around, let’s really clear it up; golf is primarily for bastards. Fact. Of course not everyone who plays golf IS a bastard, but it’s utterly clear that it is FOR bastards.

Right? Yes. Of course I am.

So imagine my utter internalised dismay this afternoon when I was told I should play a round of golf.

To be frank, I was less dismayed than the person that had just said it to me, because I inadvertently replied: “thanks but no thanks – golf is for bastards” before walking away rudely. But that’s just how I rollercoaster.

What is it with golf and golfers?

So many f*cking ways to dress like a complete FANNYCANNON and then trot about in public looking like a a f*cking clown but irrelevantly believing you are somehow brilliant or clever or good or important?

And all that sh!t about swing dynamics, posture, technique – f*ck OFF, nobody believes a word of it. Just tw@t the ball hard and stop making sh!t up you horrendous cat raping LIAR.

Golf is basically a fat man’s excuse to walk carefully around a field and then drink cheap beer with people you don’t like at all but somehow feel that you need to try and like. Clubhouses are always full of old weird sh!t so the socially inept “couple” that run the place can pretend they are some kind of f*cking important museum.

A museum of sticks and balls.

f*cking great, humanity is forever indebted to you. Well done.

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