BOND PLAYS THE
LAST HOORAH
VENUE : ST MARKS, SANDWICH (aka R.S.G.)
DATE: 17
NOVEMBER 2009
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: David “Basildon” Bond ( James’
buffoonish brother)
Hans von Oslerski- Smersch’s
solicitor
‘M’ukerjee-the snakecharmer
James T. – aka The Warlord
Leslie Charteris Newman - Mr Smooth
003½ - Mr East
Ian “Fleming” Miller
Windy Davieeees – the Welsh windbag
Scene:- MI6 HQ.
Bond absent-mindedly gazed out of his office window, his mind on
other things. Beside him a crossword puzzle with one clue left unsolved; “13
Across - Bond’s favourite fizz in an oral tarn cocktail? Strike up the band!
(6,6) R????m, ?a?r?l”.
The phone rang and BB shot out a hand and in a flash had his stapler
to his ear. Luckily, he’d dismantled it after an earlier incident which
required ‘M’ to help him extract a staple from the side of his head. Unhooking
warily the receiver, Basildon held it to his bleeding ear.
It was ‘M’. Bond cleared his throat, “The eagle is flying low in
the Urals this Summer.”
“Basildon, be a good chap and stop arsing about. This line is
secure and has been since our last conversation an hour ago!” barked
Basildon’s superior. There were times when ‘M’ regretted his decision to allow
James’ buffoonish brother to fill in for him whilst on leave.
“Listen, Basildon, we’ve just intercepted a communiqué from
Schmersh’s conveyancer, Hans von Oslerski. Apparently, they’re planning on
smuggling out of the country a microdot with important intelligence vital to
our sea defences.”
“..Cedar fences?…” repeated
Bond.
“Yes, that’s right and we want you to inveigle your way into a game of golf he’s playing at St Marks, Sandwich. He always plays for a red jacket in which we believe is secreted the microdot. Beat him and the jacket will be yours. Understood?”
“Piece of cake, M.”
“No thanks, Bond. I’ve just had some tiffin.”
The line went dead and Bond was left with that queasy feeling he
used to have when walking in to bat for the Incorrigibles’ 2nd
X1.The last time he played at the golf club he’d caused quite a rumpus when his
phone went off in the middle of his opening tee shot. He’d snapped hooked the
pill into a nearby parked car and almost wrote it off.
The intercom rang and Bond answered, “Hi Funnyfanny, looks like
the ol’ man wants me to put my neck on the block for King and country“
“Yes, I heard. Golf is so dangerous the way you play it”, interrupted M’s
secretary. “Anyway, I’ve done some research on the interweb and found out
that Schmersh always plays with a group of bad-arse bandits called The Last
Hoorah. All a bunch of villains who use it as a cover to launder money and
offload contaminated hickory. One of them, David Aspey, has agreed to drop out
and you’re to take his place. You’re a dead-ringer for that pompous fag, so I’m
told.”
“Charmed, I’m schure” intoned Basildon in his best Scot’s
accent.
“Well, your papers and clubs are being sent over to you now. The
game’s tomorrow so don’t hang about and Basildon…”
“Yesh?”
“Stop those terrible impersonations. They’ll get you nowhere.”
On his way out, Bond stopped by to see Q and pick up his exploding
cigars and novelty gaiters.
“Put that down, Bond”, snapped Q as Bond was about ‘fire’ a
prototype putter. “It’s impregnated with a deadly, invisible vapour captured
from a Welshman in Hove. One wrong swing with it and you’ll get more than the
yips”.
“Shounds like a gas. I’ll take it.”
Bond left as Q rolled his eyes up to the ceiling exasperated. Bond made a quick change and leaving MI6 raised a few eyebrows already adopting his cover. That particular type of plus fours hadn’t been seen in Whitehall for sometime.
He was picked up by James Bondage Tierney driving his ‘pimpmobile’
with blacked out windows and nodding meerkat. J.T aka the Warlord was
Schmersh’s money man. What he didn’t know about the collapse of the western
world’s property market was not worth knowing, mainly because he’d kick-started the whole thing by selling
toxic derivatives (courtesy of the Welsh Windbag) to the Lehman brothers.
Basildon interrupted James mid-flow as he was extolling the virtues of trunking
and tromboning. “Do you think Oslerski suspects anything?”
“No way, mon brave. He was apparently up late last night playing
a concert with his band. Can’t get into that heavy metal, thrash, banjo scene
but everyone says he can make that axe sing”.
At St Marks, the wind was up. Basildon knew the burrito for breakfast was a big mistake. In the museum that passes for a golf club, Bond in his attire fitted in seamlessly. Ian Fleming-Miller, whose father would have been captain were it not for Schmersh’s dirty tricks brigade, was there as was Legendary Les the pro from Dover and putting the world to rights was 003½, Paul East. The snakecharmer was seated in a battered old leather seat stroking a pussy in his lap. Holding forth on the number of quills a porcupine has got was Basildon’s mortal foe, Hans von Oslerski. He looked a little disheveled and had the air of a man who’d played one too many guitar solos the night before. Bond met his gaze and saw in those eyes countless conveyances and LVT hearings he’d been pulled off with aplomb.
“Vell, vell, old man, zo it is down to ze last matscht, ya?”
snarled the shyster.
“’Spose it is, Hans. Listen, all this is rather dull. How about
we play for that natty red jacket of yours. It would go well with my gold
waistc’t”.
The crowd around them slowly became hushed with a frisson of an
early clash of antlers.
Riled and wanting to put the buffoon in his place once and for all,
Oslerski took the wager and thought Bond the bait. “Strict rules of golf,
mind.”
“Absolutely, ol’ chap” smirked Bond turning quickly on his
heels and walking straight into a waiter bearing a tray of drinks.
The first hole passed without incident. Von Oslerski missed the
green but scrambled well and again on the second. Basildon foozled his baffy on
the third and O. was ahead. At the 6th , Bond hit a putt he thought
too hard but as he looked up he saw it track into the back of the cup. Von
Oslerski raised no more than a quizzical eyebrow as he dispatched his ball into
the hole with teutonic disdain.
The 7th saw Bond bunker his drive and with his opponent
making a comfortable par a commanding lead was being established. However, on
the ninth hole the schmersch agent lost a ball, a rare event. A bogey nett par
for Bond was good enough to take the hole and repair some of the damage. The 14th
at St Marks is not called ‘Suez’ for nothing as von Oslerski had a major crisis
on his hands after topping a couple and ending in the drink. Basildon managed
to clear the burn and a 6 net 5 reduced Oslerski’s lead yet more.
The crux of the game came on the 15th where von Oslerski
steadied the ship with a drive that bisected the fairway. Bond was in a little
trouble having pulled his tee shot and found a bit of a shaggy lie. With 160
yards to go and many bunkers to clear it was a do-or-die, death or glory shot.
What was it old man Fleming used to say about this hole? “To carry the
distant surf of bunkers is bliss.” A steady swing later and good contact
having been made, Bond looked up to see the ball arcing on a perfect parabola.
To the disbelief of a gang of greenkeepers, the ball had enough on it to make
the green. Oslerski hit a fine iron but was however unlucky and his ball ran
out to the back of the green leaving a tricky downhiller. His putt went long
and strangely he failed to make the one back. Bond eyed up his putt. It
definitely had some left to right. He looked up as he hit it and realized it
was tracking down the right. Cursing his whore’s grip, Basildon became absorbed
by the progress of the ball as it defied his read and started to twist
holewards with every turn. Eventually, it dropped in and out of sight. As putts
go, that one seemed to defy the lie of the green completely.
In the space of one hole, Bond had got his nose in the lead. His
next tee shot to the par 3 16th was right at it whilst von Oslerski
had pushed it into the thick rye grass. “Game over” or so Bond thought. Just as
he was congratulating himself, a fearful premonition came over him just in time
to witness a miraculous shot from his mortal foe. Out of the tall grass shot
the ball landing on the green and rolling inexorably towards the hole.
Transfixed, Bond saw the ball lip out. “Phew, that was too close for comfort”
whistled Basildon. Bond missed his birdie putt and Hans made his. Remembering
the Nation’s Cedar Fences depended on him, Bond hit his next ball with purpose
finding the fairway while his opponent pulled his drive into the rough where he
had difficulty getting it out. A bogey was enough the secure the hole and the
win. Or was it ? As they reached the 18th it was technically
possible for Oslerski to make eagle and a major haul of points leaving the game
on a knife-edge. Bond pushed his drive way right but J.T. had seen it land and
reassured Bond. Oslerski steadied himself. This was still possible. Sadly, his
drive was not his best. The excesses of the night before were fast catching up
on him. Defeat was admitted and in the car park Oslerski with good grace
offered him the fabled red jacket.
In the club house, Bond took a penkife to the lining and retrieved
the microdot. “The nation’s fences were safe”, thought Basildon still
rather baffled by it all.
Afterwards, the khazi Kaiser and JT dined out on fine onglet steaks at L’Eglise washed down with some
agreeable claret. Pushing his luck, Bond played JT on his home pool table and
beat him 2 out of 3. Well, JT, when your luck’s in …
So the final scores on the doors:
1st DA 37 pts
2nd HO 33 pts
3rd NM 27 pts
1st HO 1 Eagle, 8 Birdies
2nd DA 11 Birdies
3rd NM 5 Birdies
PRESIDENT’S PUTTER
1st LN Av 31.00
2nd DA Av 32.00
3rd PE Av 32.33