[The story so far… Elusive poet Grayson Ellis is at the bottom of a well in the shadow of Titterstone Clee, following a failed assassination attempt by Tom Paulin; Rod Lidl has been contacted by an anonymous mutual enemy of deranged academic Slavoj Zizek, and Boris Johnson’s Nanny is still on the trail of the Black Rabbit…]
Ding Dong
Ding, Dong, Dell,
Grayson’s in the well.
Who put him in?
Little Tom Paulin.
Who will pull him out?
No one can hear him shout.
What a naughty Tom was it,
To try to kill a poor poet,
Who ne’er did him any harm,
Except for that incident in Vietnam….
Boris and Balls at the thirteenth
“I would bally well castrate him with a Mashie Niblick!” bellows Boris, brandishing said golf stick. His opponent, Ed Balls, nods thoughtfully. It is the Annual Cross-Party Charity Winter Golf Hoo-Hah, and Boris and Balls are waiting at the thirteenth tee of the Little Dubai Golf and LeisureHub HolistiCourse, Cheshire. Noseybonk, unremarked, carries Balls’ bags, for nobody ever notices the caddy.
As befits his shtick, the Mayor’s golf set (borne here on the back of Nina, indomitable Latvian nanny and housekeeper) includes all manner of archaic and obsolete clubs. In addition to the Niblick, his bag contains a Mid-Mashie, a Jigger, a Cleek, a Spoon, a Baffing Spoon and a Sabbath Stick. He is equally inept with each.
It has thus far been a memorable round. Balls, his own bag racked with sleek and gaudy titanium apparatus has had to watch, snarling impatience, as Boris has farted around the first twelve holes in flappy plus-fours and a piss-off hat.
At the first the Mayor took a Froddling Iron and spodged the ball leewards, twice. He skanked the second and third for conkers, bawling ‘Tally Ho!’ instead of ‘Fore!’ – a lapse of etiquette which earned him a clubhouse fine. This Boris paid in good spirit and affectation, for the Shtick was strong with him today.
He diddled the fourth with a Spalding, though at the fifth a well-judged kneetrembler rescued him from the bleak rough. The sixth was either genius or pure jam: three boffs and a long stinker earning him a Sparrow and a share of the lead. The seventh and eighth brought Boris back to earth, gitting amateurishly into a couple of bumbunkers. “Oh Nanny, damn fickle mistress, this game!” The ninth was a barn-and-sixes, he halved the tenth with a prodder, and on the eleventh he nearly came undone before turning a well-paced nurdle into an Eaglet. The twelfth tee was ludicrous: swinging his Brassie like a maniac, he took two fresh air shots then hit a hole-in-one: a solid par three putting him a shot ahead of Balls.
Thus we find the Shadow Home Secretary and MP for Morley and Outwood at the thirteenth, fugging and blinding like a gonk. Noseybonk looms at his shoulder, proffering a massive 3-wood. Balls takes it and is just about to address his ball when the hideous, familiar voice of a sixth-form debating captain gargling frogspawn sounds across the fairways.
“I say, Ud! Borus! Mund uf we play thrugh? Un a but of a hurry.” It is Ed Miliband, striding with his shiny new authority.
Boris and Balls gape as the Labour leader, followed by his grinning opponent Cameron-and-Clegg, who is golfing arm-in-arm and alternating shots, pushes briskly past.
“Hut to pull runk and ull thut,” says Milliband, like a former choirboy choking on a jam doughnut. “But Nuck and Duv huv to gut to Brussuls for fuv o’cluck, und I’ve gut a sputch to wrut.”
“Thenks”, says Cameron-and-Clegg, and with swift aplomb and unnecessary innovative zeal they all send their balls flying before hopping into the chauffeur-driven buggy and away.
“Well, I’ll be….” splutters Boris. “Of all the…”
Balls seethes and looms. Scrunches his eyedots. “Tell me, Johnson,” he snarls. “Do you have any mortal enemies?”
“Mortal enemies? Well there is some clown who is sending me these terrible poems,” says Boris candidly, ignoring the pointy Latvian frowns and warning shushes coming from Nina. “Trying to steal my Shtick and set the Black Rabbit on me.”
Balls processes this and stores it away in a mental file marked ‘Possible Weapons’. “Hmph. And tell me, Johnson, what would you do if you could get your hands on this enemy of yours?”
“I would bally well castrate him with a Mashie Niblick!” bellows Boris, brandishing said golf stick.
Balls nods thoughtfully. Up ahead, the leader-buggy has stopped and Miliband is prancing on the fairway, trying to reinvent the golfshot. Quick as a flash, Balls wields the massive titanium 3-wood and growling “I will squash that fugger” he wallops his ball with terrible fury. But in his hatred he has hit too hard, and the ball sails yards over the Labour leader’s head and off into the conifers.
“Uh say!” calls Miliband, spinning. “Who dud thut?”
“Fore,” mutters Balls, quietly. He turns back to Boris, who is eyeing him closely, and who has stored the incident in a mental file marked ‘Possible Gubbins for Giving Rotters their Comeuppance’.
“Here,” says the Mayor slowly, drawing a club from Nina’s bag. “Try a Baffing Spoon next time.”
Dong Ding
Ding, Dong, Dell,
Sings the door bell
It’s Alain de Botton
At the house of Elton John
Who will let him in?
Not Bernie Taupin
Bernie stole Alain’s wise Twits,
To make Adult Contemp’ry hits.
He plagiarised Al de Botton
To revive the career of his pal Elton,
But now he’s feeling uncertain,
Peeping through the net curtain…
and Ding, Dong, Dell,
There’s someone else as well
I wonder – what the hell?-
It’s Art Garfunk
el.
Its true – I’d never actually heard ed milliband speak until 2 days ago and he does sound like a sixth-form debating captain gargling frogspawn!
Particularly fine likeness by Stan this week.
Funny how you can tell it’s frogspawn – but it surely is.
Brilliant. This almost makes me want to play golf again just to use the obsolete club names. I especially like the idea of having a few furtive strokes with the sabbath stick.
Joey Joe Joe Jr:
Every one of the clubs mentioned is genuine, except the Froddling Iron which is of course a kitchen implement used for cooking eggs. Boris using it for hitting a golf ball is merely another of the affectations that make up his Shtick.
I hear Ken Livingstone uses a red wedge
NBs photie is out of date, where are his conk icicles, conikicles?
Poignant dissemination of Borrisey by Michael Burleigh (born 1955) in the current Standpoint tablet from t’mount…….
“It may be that Johnson speaks without input from his brain or that his brain – a second class degree in Greats at Oxford (ooooh, get you ducky) hardly makes you Plato – amounts to less than his admirers tell us. He could also be pitching for the inner-city ethnic vote in 2012”
Oxford, that’s where Balls and virtually the entire second floor of Andersen consulting went, yeah?
Milliput of course went to the academy for bishop bashers, from whence he earned a second in infamy.
People in glasshooses shouldn’t chuck rocks.