Toadfish Rebecchi unfurled a languid drive and the ball sailed down the middle of the fairway. He picked up his tee and nodded to William Shakespeare.

Shakespeare, clad in a large, swooshing doublet covered by a voluminous coat despite the searing heat, plucked a wooden club from his golf bag and placed his ball on a tee. He addressed it with an awkward, hunched-over stance. For a moment, he stood motionless and then he drew the club back slowly. Before it reached the perpendicular, he brought it back down again with a wild, hacking motion. The ball sliced off to the right, into some trees.

“Fucking fuckshit,” he exclaimed. “Fucking, fucking fuckshit. This fucking course. I fucking hate this fucking course.”

“It’s not the course,” said Toadie calmly. “It’s you. Your swing’s terrible. You simply aren’t very good at golf.”

“Fuck you,” screamed the bard. “I fucking am. It’s this fucking course with all the trees and shit.”

“Why don’t you aim away from the trees,” asked Toadie mischievously.

Shakespeare took a couple of steps towards him, raising his club with one hand, as if it were a weapon. Toadfish slowly blinked and looked away, unconcerned.

“Come on,” said Shakespeare. “Let’s get on with this.” He strode off towards the trees, club in one hand, dragging his bag behind him with the other. Toadfish parted ways, heading down the fairway towards his own ball.

As Shakespeare approached the trees, a lank-haired man in a leather jacket emerged from them. It was Danny McNamara from Embrace. He eyed Shakespeare morosely.

“What?” asked the bard, aggressively.

“Wanna buy a ball?” responded McNamara.

“No,” said Shakespeare. “I want to find mine.”

“A quid,” said McNamara. “It’s a good ball. Titleist. They make good balls, do Titleist.”

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “That’s why I use them. I use a Titleist DT Solo. I get great distance.”

“With that shitty club?” said McNamara, pointing at the wooden anachronism in the playwright’s hands.

“Yes, actually,” replied Shakespeare indignantly. “With this shitty club. What do you know of golf anyway, you little urchin?”

“I know you need a ball,” said McNamara. “Go on. A quid.”

“We’re in Mexico,” said Shakespeare. “Why are you charging a quid? You should be quoting your price in pesos, or dollars at the very least.”

“All right, smartarse, a dollar,” spat McNamara.

“That’s a completely different price,” said Shakespeare, outraged. “You’re just making this up. How many balls have you got to sell anyway?”

“One,” said McNamara. “It’s a Titleist DT Solo.”

Shakespeare launched himself towards McNamara. “That’s my fucking ball, you little shit. Give me my fucking ball before I rip both of yours off and drive them over the fucking clubhouse.”

Toadfish Rebecchi turned when he heard the kerfuffle. Even from some distance away, he recognised the tone-deaf Embrace singer. “Is that Danny McNamara?” he bellowed at Shakespeare. “Stay away from him. He’ll nick your golf balls, he will. He’s always at it, the little shit.”

William Shakespeare peered across the room. A sad-looking dark-haired girl sat at a table on her own. After scrutinising her arse for a few seconds, Shakespeare decided he should go over to see what was wrong.

“You all right?” he enquired.

“Ahh, I’m having a bad week,” said Kim Kardashian.

“It’s not a man, is it?” said Shakespeare.

“Yeah, it’s my marriage. I filed for divorce yesterday.”

Shakespeare felt it would be okay to put his hand on her shoulder at this point. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s terrible. But sometimes these things need to happen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Kim. “You know, I worked at it and worked at it, but it just reached a point, where, you know…”

Shakespeare sat down next to her. “Sometimes people grow apart,” he proffered.

“That’s exactly it,” said Kim. “I feel like maybe we grew apart over the days.”

There was a pause.

“Days?” asked Shakespeare.

“Yeah,” said Kim, without elaborating.

“How long were you married?” asked Shakespeare.

“72 days,” said Kim.

Shakespeare removed his hand from the Kardashian shoulder and looked into the middle distance. “72 days?” he repeated.

“72 days,” said Kim again.

“But you were together for a while before that?” asked Shakespeare.

“Oh yeah,” said Kim, looking up for the first time. We were together for months. We met almost a year ago now.”

Shakespeare started laughing.

“What?” said Kim. “Why are you laughing?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Shakespeare, leaning back in his chair.

“How can you say that?” said Kim, looking hurt.

“You’re a complete fucking idiot,” reiterated the bard.

“I’m heartbroken,” exclaimed Kardashian, her voice betraying her outrage.

“You aren’t heartbroken,” stated Shakespeare confidently. “You haven’t earned the right to be heartbroken. You’re upset, yes, but saying you’re heartbroken is an insult to anyone who’s invested time in a relationship and had a depth of feeling for someone that can produce genuine heartbreak.”

“Don’t tell me how I’m feeling,” spat Kim.

“I don’t know you from Adam, but I bet you miss the attention the relationship drew rather than the relationship itself,” said Shakespeare, arching one eyebrow.

“It was a proper marriage,” cried Kim. “The wedding cost 10 million dollars.”

“You could have spent that better,” chuckled Shakespeare, a tad mockingly.

“Well that’s where you’re wrong,” countered Kim. “Because that wedding made me 18 million dollars.”

“What the fuck?” spluttered Shakespeare, all the humour shaken from him. “How does a wedding make money?”

“If you’re important enough, you can get magazine and TV deals.” Kardashian fluttered her eyelashes outrageously.

“There was a TV deal? For your wedding?” Shakespeare was staggered. His head hung and he stared at the table in front of him.

“One of the worst parts about this divorce is that E! might pull out of the deal to show the re-runs,” said Kim.

“You fucking dick,” cried Shakespeare suddenly and with feeling.

Kim Kardashian, looked at him in astonishment.

“You complete fucking knob,” continued Shakespeare, as if the point needed making again. “You know, I saw you from over there.” He gestured towards the doorway. “I saw your arse and your tits and I thought ‘there’s somebody worth talking to’. But I’ve been here for about two minutes and I’m already wondering if you’re the most despicable human being I’ve ever encountered.”

Kim Kardashian’s eyes moistened.

“There isn’t much in life worth living for, but the few things that are good all revolve around your relationships with the people closest to you. If you’ve acted-out the closest relationship there is, you’re a fucking prick, whatever your reasons – even if the guy was in on it and felt the same way.”

“Well that’s your opinion,” sniffed Kim.

“It fucking is,” replied Shakespeare. “And you know what? Now that I come over here, I see that your face has a bland quality that might not seem apparent from a distance or in a small photograph. However, once you get close, once there’s clarity, it is totally without beauty. You’re like a pale, hollow mannequin that’s totally devoid of any of the human qualities that truly make someone attractive.”

“Your clothes are fucking retarded,” retorted Kim.

“Good job I haven’t based my entire life around them then, dipshit,” said Shakespeare, sauntering off.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor sipped her wine and admired her surroundings. If the food was as good as the ambience, this meal was going to be even better than that lost vocal she’d done for Murder on the Dancefloor.

At that moment, a shabby figure in large sunglasses shambled into view. The man bounced off a table and made towards her. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“Fucking Bextor,” said Witter.

“It’s Ellis-Bextor, actually. How are you, Richard?”

“I’m fucking not bad at all, Bextor. Not bad at all. Had a bit of a run-in with some fucking shitbag this afternoon, but other than that all’s fucking banging.”

“What happened?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “Was it one of those awful beach bums?”

“Aye, yeah,” said Witter. He sniffed forcefully and looked around. “It was this fucking book-weirdo. Started getting all up in my face and shit.”

“What, for just no reason?” spluttered Ellis-Bextor, outraged.

“Yeah, just no fucking reason. Look what he did to me eye.” Witter removed his sunglasses, revealing a giant, tender looking bruise.

“Golly,” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s terrible.”

“Oh that ain’t bad,” said Witter. “Not compared to the other place that he got me. He came off worse though and no mistake. He won’t be fucking with me again. You should see the state of him.”

“I hope you weren’t too brutal with him, Richard. Where else did he get you?”

Witter looked shifty. “Well, it was, er… He kind of… Did you see how I was walking before?”

“Yes,” said Ellis-Bextor. “You were most unstable.”

“Yeah, he kind of got me…” Witter trailed off, but his hands involuntarily moved to protect his genitals.

“Richard! He didn’t!” Ellis-Bextor’s hands shot to her mouth.

It was at this moment that William Shakespeare reappeared having been to the toilet. He was approaching from behind Witter and from his vantage point, all he could see was a gasping Ellis-Bextor, eyes trained on the Shed 7 frontman’s groin.

“This better not be what I think it is,” said Shakespeare.

Witter whirled round. “You!” he cried, cowering slightly, before the conspicuously unscathed playwright.

“First Chris Rea and now this cunt,” said the bard, addressing Ellis-Bextor.

“It’s not what you think,” cried the whey-faced popstrel.

“Perhaps I should have beaten you with greater ferocity,” said Shakespeare to Witter.

“There was sufficient ferocity,” pleaded Witter.

“I’ll give you sufficient ferocity,” replied Shakespeare.

“No!” screamed Ellis-Bextor.

“Yes,” drawled Shakespeare, unfastening the belt that was pinching in his doublet.

William Shakespeare looked up from his book in order to take in the spectacular sea view before him. He inhaled deeply and focused on just how relaxed he was feeling. His body and mind felt refreshed and alive. He tried to capture the sensation such that he might draw on it again at a later date somehow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure moving towards him across the golden sands, striding along as if he owned the fucking place. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“All right, mate,” said Rick Witter.

Shakespeare looked up at him from his sun lounger, but didn’t say a word.

“Do you like that, mate – reading?”

“I do, actually,” responded Shakespeare pompously.

“Does it relax you?” asked Witter and then without waiting for an answer, he continued. “I’ve never done that. I’ve never read a book. Don’t see the point.”

Shakespeare regarded the wiry frontman with contempt and again opted not to speak.

“What you reading anyway,” said Witter. “Some fucking storybook, is it? Is it Little Red Riding Hood or summat?”

Shakespeare closed the book and pointed the cover towards Witter. “It’s The World According To Clarkson, by Clarkson.”

“Clarkson?” said Witter. “That car guy with the shit hair?”

“The very same.”

“What you reading that for?”

“I hardly think I’ll be able to detail Clarkson’s many fine qualities as a writer to someone who seems so proud of never having read a book.”

“Try,” instructed Witter aggressively.

“Try this,” replied Shakespeare, raising his middle finger and thrusting it in the singer’s face.