fore!
Think I might be busy this week…

Last year my lovely wife and I, stupidly left a beautiful rural location in Scotland to live in the dustbowl that is Dubai – a silly mistake but then we all make them. Anyway – wavy lines …

We’re both from Bonny Scotland to begin with but we were brought up in the city so when we moved to a small town some 16 years ago, (more a village with aspirations to be honest) we fell in love with the place. The Clyde Valley is a truly beautiful place with historic little towns like Lanark (yes William Wallace and all that) nestling in some of the most beautiful rolling countryside the Big Fella ever made.

So we took to strolling around of an evening to enjoy the sunset – I miss long summer evenings, here its just - right, 6pm ITSFUCKINGNIGHTTIMELIGHTSOFF.

So one fine summer’s eve Mrs Spimf and I were sauntering along our local golf course long after the duffers had left. Golf courses become beautiful places as soon as those tits with sticks and their little fey trolley's trundle off. So there we were, heading for home along the fairways and across the greens as the day drew to a close and the butterflies began to consider the sinking sun.

Now I don’t play golf myself – waste of a good walk, but I know only too well it involves a considerable degree of complex etiquette and falderal so when we wandered by a sand trap at the 16th Mrs Spimf was intrigued by the rake left there and the Zen manner in which the sand had been drawn into neat little furrows. I explained that accepted practice was, should you be so unfortunate as to whack your silly little ball with your silly little bat so incompetently it ended up in a bunker, after one had finished flailing and cursing and kicking up more sand than a nesting turtle, it was considered gentlemanly to smooth over the lumps and bumps in case it made things more difficult for the next white-man-dressed-as-a-pimp to punt his silly little ball into a similar predicament.

Mrs Spimf was both equally amused and inspired by this and with a lascivious glint in her eye and the warm glow of the last rays of sun bringing out the auburn in her hair she looked coquettishly at me, tugged at my jeans and was in an instant going at me like a dog eating hot chips. Its fair to say we then went on to enjoy a damn fine shag in that there sandy bunker.

After we had finished our carnal desecration of the course and were dusting ourselves down I happened to glance down at where we had lain mere moments before. There in the sand like some fallen snow angel was a PERFECT impression of my wife’s beautifully formed posterior molded into the cool damp sand for posterity. The deep impressions left by her arse, elbows and ankles together with my knees made it blisteringly clear to even the most casual observer that some dirty buggers had been banging away in the bunkers. I felt it only right and fitting we sign such an artistic installation, so i scrawled crudely... “we shagged here on (date)”... eloquent, informative and childishly concise i thought.

We even nicked the flag off the 16th pin as a trophy.

I’d loved to have seen the faces on the next bunch of lambswool wankers to happen upon our tomshaggery.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:04, 4 replies)

Top tale...!

And welcome back!

I was worried you'd gone for good.

*clicks like a frenzy*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:20, closed)

Friend of mine did the same thing but on the fairway....
his girlfriend then bacame pregnant, if it was a girl they were going to call it Fairway, so do you have a daughter called Sandy?!?
(Studentken is looking for motivation on, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:25, closed)

a grand return you make
*clicks*

welcome back :)
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:49, closed)