THE APPLESHADE FILES

File Three

Golf, as everyone knows, is a sophisticated game, played by sophisticated men wearing sophisticated trousers. So sophisticated are these trousers, in fact, that they're ridiculed by anyone not wearing them. Such are the vagaries of fashion. Although a sophisticated sport, golf can be quite hazardous..

"Wonderful day for it, Mr Appleshade." The Reservoir Frog tees off.

"Indeed sir." Mr Appleshade tees off. They both stroll. The birds sing. The sun shines. The trees rustle. A pair of golfers occupy the tee our heroes have just vacated.

"Good drive, Mr Frog. I do believe your ball has been struck a greater distance than mine."

"It has sir; this being your ball we are now looking at."

"Bravo. I shall strike it at once." Mr Appleshade prepares to make his stroke. The Reservoir Frog stands to one side. Back near the tee, someone shouts something. Mr Appleshade draws his club back.

The suddenness of the following chain of events stands testament to the fast-moving and exciting pace of the modern game of golf.

Mr Appleshade receives the mind-numbing blow with an air of decorum which does him proud. The offending golf ball ricochets from his head, to settle comfortably upon the lush fairway.

Mr Frog looks at Mr Appleshade.

Mr Appleshade looks at Mr Frog.

They both turn.

"So sorry old chap, but I did call. Any damage done to the old bonce?" The two golfers approach our intrepid pair, their whippersnapper caddies in tow.

Mr Appleshade looks at Mr Frog.

Mr Frog looks at Mr Appleshade.

Mr Appleshade looks at the mans trousers.

"That is a remarkable pair of trousers, wouldn't you say, Mr Frog?"

"Remarkable, Mr Appleshade. Dry-clean only, do you think?"

"No doubt about it, Mr Frog."

"Such a shame."

It should be understood at this point that Mr Appleshade is holding his favourite 7-iron. Not wanting to dirty such a finely-engineered club, he takes the time to swap it for Mr Frogs 7-iron. Only then does he begin to beat the offensively-trousered golfer to death. This will take some time.

"What was that, sir?" THWACK! "Did you hear him say something, Mr Frog?" THWACK! The screams of agony ring out across the golf course. THWACK!

"I believe he said 'fore', Mr Appleshade." THWACK! More horrific cries. THWACK!

"I think you're right, sir." THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The birds aren't singing. The sun doesn't shine. The trees were never called Russell in the first place.

"Your shot, I believe."

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