Saturday night. Arsenal just thundered to a 5-1 defeat over Portsmouth. It was like watching the Harlem globe trotters, only better. Popped into the alco-mart for some of the frosty brew, so I've got my evening cut out for me. I broke the bathroom mirror earlier this week, incurring 7 more years of bad luck, bring it on. One little shard of compensation however is that the cosmic court of luck has bestowed upon me a free shaving mirror. Now I can get all my preening done in the comfort of my bath.

I was supposed to go shopping in Picadilly Circus this afternoon, for golf shoes. Not just any golf shoes, but ones with soft rubber spikes. Aparently they have come to the conclusion that metal spikes cause damage. Strange that! I was intent on buying the cheapest most unsightly golf shoes I could find. In a strange way I was quite looking forward to this particular shopping experience. I would take the Bakerloo down to Oxford Street station. Head out of any of the exits, fight my way through the crowd, rummage through my pockets for a randomly placed hand granade to clear the way. Good thing I'm tall, not unusually tall, but enough to refer to 90% of the population as midgets. What I'm really looking for, looking out for, what everyone who lives in London, or has been to London has always wondered about. I'd be looking up, for something large, elevated and Haight-Ashbury luminous green or orange with ' Golf Sale' written on. For as long as I have been in London, that poor bastard on Oxford Street has been there, with that massive 'Golf Sale' sign strapped to his back. If I asked him for advice on the golf sale, I wonder if he'd give a fuck, I wonder if he'd even understand the words coming out of my mouth. He could put the 'client facing' aspect of the job on his CV.

I hear you gag in a curdled cocktail of disbelief and surprise. Phil and co, Jonathan are keen golfers, crap ones I should imagine. I think they play golf just to hire a golf buggy and play rally on the golf course. Fear and Loathing on the 9th hole. I can imagine wooping and josteling, a refridgerated mini-bar strapped to the back of the golf buggy. That could be great fun. Golf's what you make it, might as well take the piss. I was invited to go along with P & J tomorrow. Golf course rules stipulate that proper (the more hidious the better) shoes need to be worn. And get this, you cant just go along and use someone elses clubs, you need to have at least half a set of clubs in a bag.

I decided to put sensibility before ridicule. Since my bank account was emtied by scoundrels, I thought it better to spend whatever money I have left on food and travel. A definite sign of age, along with actually contemplating trying my hand at golf.