Sounds weird doesn’t it. Really weird when WTF.
Who would go spanking a little white object across the countryside with creeks.
Every year it’s gloves, shoes, and socks off. No stone left unturned with steely disappointment they soldier on for an emerald garment (sounds Irish) lol.
Some partisans wear white boiler suits and can’t get escape because they all have numbers and names on their backs.
Not only that but, 50,000 very important elite spectators are furiously chomping Halibro whilst prostrate on sunbeds. They are OOOOING and ARRRRING for 4 days and preying they will not get hit by wayward precious dimpled missiles.
This sounds crazy why.
Am I dreaming, is this real?
Or is it some fool called April. There are many holes even more than Blackburn Manchester for sure. (That bit was true when they sang from the roof top on Abbey Road London Brexit).
Any how’s, where was I when he hit the four hundred and fifty mile drive over hills, beaches, flags and given putts.
In the end the green jacketed buddies plotted next year’s expedition in front of a raging fire.
They brain stormed the next campaign in whispering tones with reverence and awe of the week’s antics.
Next year’s gig will be at the same time, same place, same old boat races. The venue is to be adorned with red orange violets are blue brilliant Azalea with a back drop of green shaven fescue.
The men who warbled “Get in” fade warily into the background of a roaring air punching stripped red topped feline creature.
The Great White top feeder sinks deeper below the deep green briny. Deep, deep, down, down,
to find a spilling chest of Ethereum at the bottom of the sea washed up on Rob’s Island.
Yes, Get in indeed..