Ah my loves!

It was while I was at my exclusive golf club recently, practising my glorious swing on the driving range that I had the good fortune to spy, in the distance, with my pocket binoculars, that sizzling stick of iconic sexuality Mister David Bowie thrashing away unsatisfied, ball-deep in a bit of rough. Well! The thought of poor David plunging his wood repeatedly into such a tight little muddy hole was more even than I, known for my temperance, could abide. I knew just what he needed.

Tools of the trade...
Firm buttocks
Charm
Chequed trousers
A hat to match
Good breeding
Your trusty 9-iron
Vaseline

Commandeering a golf cart from a nearby David Jason I sped across the fairway to poor Mr Bowie’s side.

“Hello, can I help?” he cooed in his distinctive metallic slur and I explained that if anyone it was I, Nigel Havers, who could help him, and that there was nothing to be afraid of. “You have to take the rough with the smooth,” I said enigmatically, referring of course to my own legendary charm, and then clasping my hands firmly on David’s shoulders I guided him to one side and relieved him, gently, of his club.

Making sure that David was watching I returned his wood to its caddy, lightly teasing its fat head with my finger as I slowly slid it home. It was now that I unleashed my own 9-iron and took my position, knees bent, legs apart, my firmament wiggling like a beacon of temptation in David’s direction.

With my eye on Mr Bowie’s hole, then on his ball, then on his hole and back to his ball again, I swung my club back as far as I could go and thrust my pelvis forward and, with an almighty crack, I put my back out and collapsed in agony to the ground.

As David picked up his clubs and walked away in the direction of the green, I knew that my ball must have been good. A smile crept across my face as my back went into spasm, safe in the knowledge that the pleasure, once again, had been all mine.

Sincerely,

N.H.