After the high emotions of last weekend, things didn’t exactly pan out as expected.
Tetley’s heartfelt, Oscar-worthy speech was ultimately all for fuck all, as Mags’ operation was cancelled at the last minute. This was obviously frustrating for the Dark Lord, but there was one enormous silver lining: it meant he was able to attend the away day at Tilney on Saturday.
The downside?
Tetley might make another fucking speech.
Let’s all pray the NHS sorts its shit out quickly.
Anyway, I’ve got a fucking mountain of stuff from this week and weekend, and I hope you cunts appreciate that I’m sacrificing an entire evening of my life to type this load of bollocks up, purely so you can sit on the toilet, have a fart tow shit into a pool of water and enjoy ten minutes of reading about other people’s misfortune.
Right, let’s get into it.
TILNEY PARK — THE ANNUAL AWAY DAY
This weekend saw the annual Fat Mates away day at Tilney Park GC.
Firstly, a massive thank you to Bumpy and his mate Ian, Chalky, Pip, Spicey, Griff, Mags and myself for helping organise the day and keeping everything running like a reasonably well-oiled machine.
You cunts probably don’t realise just how much work goes into organising one of these days, so you should be fucking grateful.
Well done and thank you to everyone who made the effort to turn up, play, drink and then head to the pub and curry house.
It was a fucking great night.
And yes, I know we went to Tilney last year, but it was the first time I’d played it and, to be honest, it was pretty much perfect for this bunch of reprobates.
* Good course.
* Good layout.
* Not too difficult.
Basically, somewhere where even the Fat Mates’ golfing equivalent of a neurological patient could potentially make it round without shooting 160.
But obviously…
This is Fat Mates.
So the day wasn’t exactly incident-free.
THE 10AM MEETING TIME
Let’s start with something simple.
Meet time: 10:00am.
So please explain to me, in what fucking universe does that mean 11:15am?
Not only did two particular cunts turn up an hour and fifteen minutes late, but they also had the audacity to turn up wearing a top that wasn’t the designated Fat Mates shirt of the day.
£5 fines were handed out.
£5 fines were duly paid.
Justice was served.
But it didn’t stop there.
I’m not sure the Fat Mates mantra is:
“Turn up, play golf, fuck off.”
Especially not on an away day.
Apparently that was exactly the philosophy adopted by the second-last group.
They arrived, played golf and fucked off.
Fucking poor show lads.
Still, thanks for coming.
As Apu Nahasapeemapetilon once famously said:
“Please come again.”
THE WINNERS
I won’t bore you with all the results because, frankly, most of you played like you’d never seen a golf club before.
But in a nutshell, cry-baby Noz won the day with around 40-odd points.
Not bad for a bloke who, only a week earlier, was apparently about to book a fishing trip with Scouse.
Scouse was understandably gutted.
He genuinely thought he’d made a friend.
Bless him.
Scouse — injured, but apparently still mobile
Talking of Scouse, he couldn’t play this weekend due to a bad ankle.
Fair enough.
He did, however, manage to make it down for a beer on Sunday.
Now, I’m no medical expert, but I’m not sure a bad ankle has ever required a man to wear a pair of lesbian sandals.
As you can see from the photo, he’s definitely got a certain look about him.
Although the funniest thing is that he’s somehow managed to acquire a handicap more suited to playing off the reds.
Maybe the ankle injury is actually a blessing.
BABS HAS ACTUALLY WON SOMETHING
Another surprise winner on the day was Babs.
Yes.
That Babs.
The bloke who looks like he should be intercepted by Border Force as he had 2 kilos of coke up his arse rather than be on the first tee.
The bloke whose golf swing appears to have been assembled from spare parts.
The bloke who makes you wonder whether he’s actually ever held a golf club before.
Yep.
Nearest in 2 on the 18th.
Fucking hell.
If that doesn’t give hope to all you genuinely shit golfers out there, nothing will.
There is now irrefutable evidence that even Babs can occasionally hit something resembling a golf shot.
Once every geological era, apparently.
🚨 THE TILNEY PARK WINDSCREEN INCIDENT 🚨
Right.
Now we get to the main event.
We’ve all done things in life we shouldn’t have.
We’ve all made mistakes.
You might regret taking a job.
You might regret a bet.
You might regret something you did after twelve pints.
You might even regret shagging your mate’s wife.
The important thing is that you own it, accept responsibility and move on.
Unfortunately, what we had at Tilney was less “taking responsibility” and more “Murder on the Orient Express.”
A proper fucking whodunnit.
Was it Colonel Mustard in the sex den with the enormous black dildo?
Was it Professor Plum in the kitchen with a stuffed badger?
Or was it simply another day at Fat Mates?
For those who weren’t there, here’s the short version.
The first five tee times got away without incident.
Everyone played their round.
Everyone eventually arrived back at the clubhouse.
Beers were ordered.
All was well.
Then the main committee group — myself, Mags, Pip and Mouse — arrived.
Within approximately thirty seconds of taking our first sip of a well-earned beer, we were informed there had been an “incident.”
Apparently, the pro shop had been out to have a word.
For fuck’s sake.
Immediately the questions began.
Had Grootz stolen a club?
Had Griff crashed a buggy?
Had Griff crashed a buggy into Grootz with the intent of killing him?
Nobody knew.
Apparently, one of the last two groups had managed to snap-hook a tee shot so violently left that the ball ended up heading towards the road.
Unfortunately, there was a car coming along.
A woman was apparently driving along the road when a stray golf ball decided to introduce itself to her windscreen.
And, because this is Fat Mates, the car was reportedly on its way to a dogging location.
Obviously.
🕵️ THE SUSPECTS
After a thorough investigation by Inspector Fluff, the suspect list was narrowed down to two men.
Big “FORE LEFT KEV” Kinsella
and
Glyn “SNAP HOOK” Jones
It was a difficult investigation.
Nobody wanted to talk.
Nobody wanted to be labelled a grass.
Everyone suddenly developed the memory of a goldfish.
Then an anonymous source from Ladygrove — who apparently plays most days and had been in the second-last group — came forward.
His statement was:
“I don’t think it was Kev, he’s my mate. So it must have been Glyn because he’s shit.”
Case fucking closed.
Almost.
Another smiling member of the last group was quoted as saying:
“It was someone in the group ahead of us. You know, the ones who look like applicants for the Undateables.”
Helpful.
Another witness, who wished to remain anonymous, stated:
“There is no way my brother-in-law hit that woman’s windscreen. His shot was only head height.”
Which, if anything, makes the situation considerably worse.
Nobody admitted anything.
Nobody took responsibility.
Nobody grassed.
And, after another few beers, nobody gave a flying fuck anymore.
Peak Fat Mates.
Thankfully, Tilney were good enough to donate a fourball and as a gesture of goodwill
We’ll be covering the insurance excess and sending the woman a bunch of flowers.
Although, being brutally honest, there are still a few questions that need answering.
Firstly, what the fuck was she doing driving near a golf course?
And secondly, why didn’t she react quicker and avoid the ball?
Fucking useless.
🍛 THE EVENING
The evening was always going to descend into chaos.
Pre-drinks were held at the Mulberry and Mags arrived wearing what appeared to be an orange Guantanamo Bay prisoner outfit.
Or possibly his hospital gown.
Nobody was entirely sure.
Then it was off to the curry house.
By this point the beer was flowing nicely and, as usual, the Fat Mates collective IQ had dropped to single figures.
MOUSE — THE MAN WHO REFUSES TO PAY
Mouse didn’t like his starter.
So he simply fucked off without paying for it or anything else.
A bold financial strategy.
If every customer at the pub adopted the same approach, Mouse would be bankrupt by Tuesday.
🌋 JOHN HALL — THE HUMAN VOLCANO
Within Fat Mates we have a wide range of characters.
* Different skills.
* Different abilities.
* Different disabilities.
And then there’s John Hall, who apparently has the internal plumbing of a fucking asbestos-lined sewer.
John has a hidden talent.
He can apparently eat curry so hot that it would cause most humans to call the emergency services, yet he sits there looking like he’s just had a bowl of Ready Brek.
The man calmly ordered the hottest curry the restaurant could produce.
Then proceeded to demolish it.
I tried the sauce myself.
Within about a minute my face had dropped on one side like I’d just been to the dentist and they’d removed half of it.
John?
Not even a twitch.
Impressive.
Although there were some concerns.
Tetley, ever the responsible member of the group, warned John about the potential consequences later that evening.
Specifically, if he had any plans that involved close personal contact.
The advice was simple:
Proceed with caution and use cling film.
John, however, assured us he was a seasoned professional and had already prepared himself with a large tub of chilled Greek yoghurt for the following morning. According to John a nice smothering of the yogurt in the right area has a nice soothing effect.
Apparently, every day really is a school day.
BARRY’S WEEKLY PILGRIMAGE
I’m pleased to report that the rest of the evening passed without any major incidents.
Our late-night reporter Barry, however, carried out his usual weekly pilgrimage to the promised land in the hope of securing some smelly fingers.
Sadly for Barry, the mission was unsuccessful.
Another week.
Another rejection.
Another furious four-finger fanny frap left unclaimed.
🍗 SUNDAY
And so, onto Sunday.
Nothing particularly exciting happened.
Apart from Tetley apparently tuning into Jonathan Wross after having ordered wailway chicken the night before.
At this stage I’m not sure whether Tetley was watching television or suffering a stroke.
Then there was Rocky.
Rocky did what Rocky does best.
Fucked off without buying his playing partners a drink.
This was despite the fact that he had just picked up £60 for winning the back nine and overall.
Absolute fucking tight cunt.
To make matters worse, he managed to win with a pathetic 33 points.
Honestly, Rocky.
If you’re going to win £60, the very least you can do is buy the lads a drink.
Although, thinking about it, perhaps he simply didn’t want to dilute his winning performance by drinking too much.
Which would explain why the rest of us were hungover, dehydrated and barely able to remember our own names, while Rocky was apparently out there playing competitive golf.
Fucking amateur.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings another Fat Mates weekend to a close.
* One cancelled operation.
* One emotional Tetley speech
* Two late cunts.
* Two non-compliant shirts.
* One mystery golf ball.
* One damaged windscreen.
* One curry capable of melting the inside of a man’s arse.
* One bloke in lesbian sandals.
* One tight bastard pocketing £60.
* And absolutely no fucking lessons learned.
Exactly how it should be.
You’re welcome.
Fluff.
