Now, here is a very funny story about a chap who turns up at a golf course. 
     By the way, I may cry a little while I'm telling this joke, so take no notice and enjoy yourself.  
     Perhaps I should explain that I have recently had to give up golf . . . for health reasons . . . my wife was going to kill me. 
     You see, for some time now, she's had this ridiculous idea that I spend so much time playing golf, that I'm losing touch with her and our two . . . or three children, you know. Little  . . . uh, little what’s-her-name and  . . . the other one. 
     Actually, it all came to a head at about eleven thirty last night. She suddenly shouted at me, “Golf! Golf! Golf!” she said. “All you ever think about is bloody golf!” And I’ll be honest. It frightened the life out of me, you know. I mean, you don’t expect to meet somebody on the fourteenth green at that time of night. 
     Honestly the way she carried on, you would think that I was golf mad. For instance, there’s her rather unfair attitude towards my life-size inflatable Arnold Palmer. No, to be honest, she doesn’t stick a pin in it. She doesn’t do that. She used to wait until I was asleep and push it out of bed. 
Now, she’s even knocked down my little pile of stones in the corner of the garden where I had my vision of Lee Trevino. 
     Another thing, when I play golf, I'm so much healthier. Of course, I still take a few little pills in the morning when I'm not at my best. Let me see, I take a couple of red ones to get me to the bathroom, and a green one to make it worthwhile when I get there, and a white one to offset the effects of the green one. A little blue one to give me the nerve to get across the main road without getting knocked over, and a couple of black ones so that if I do get knocked over, I'm going to enjoy it. 
     Anyway, that’s by the by. Back to the story. 
     This chap joins a golf club, and on his first game, he tees up, and he takes out a piece of four by two out of his bag, and he whacks the ball straight down the fairway. His second shot he plays brilliantly onto the green with an old hockey stick. Then he sinks a twenty foot putt with a piece of rusty gas pipe . . . blindfolded . . . while whistling The Hallelujah Chorus (For which, incidentally, my father wrote all the words . . . well, not all of them. Some of them . . . the best ones.). 
     However, his opponent, on observing this knock down match, and had become full of alarm, and despondency, and a lot of other big words, and he can’t believe his eyes. 
     “I can’t believe my eyes,” he says. (There, I told you he couldn’t.) 
     And the other members are equally amazed. “Bless my soul!” they say, and “Fancy that!” and “Smash his face in!”. I don’t know why they said that, but they did. 
     Anyway, this chap gets ‘round in this manner, easily winning the game by about five and six. 
     His opponent, who’s recently paid a hundred pounds for a new set of matched golf clubs, said to him, “Look, I'm going back to the clubhouse to cut my throat. Can I buy you a drink?” to which he replied “Thank you, kindly.” And he sets off for the clubhouse. 
     Now, I bet you’re all wondering what’s going to happen next . . I am, because I’ve forgotten the ending. 
     No I haven’t. 
     When they get to the clubhouse, he asks for a large whiskey. He juggles two pieces of ice, rebounds them off his head one at a time into the glass, followed by a squirt of soda from fourteen yards away without touching the sides. 
     Well, the captain of the golf club approaches him and says, “Excuse me, old chap,” (He’s a very nice man, you know. Eton, Cambridge, The Guards and “New Faces”.) He said, “We couldn’t help noticing the unorthodox manner in which you conduct yourself. Everything you do, you do in the most roundabout way.” 
     And the hero said, “Well, the answer is, you see,  I'm so incredibly good at everything, that unless I make everything as difficult as possible,  I get bored to death.” 
     So the other chap says, “Do you mind if I ask a . . . very, very personal question?” 
     The chap says, “I know what you’re going to ask, you naughty, naughty man . . . and the answer is, standing up in a hammock.” 
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