From an old well known joke.
Back at the nineteenth, in a vile mood, he delivered his bitter tale of woe.
“Nothing could stop me winning. I had a putt of about eleven inches, hardly more than a tap-in, to clinch it. The green was dead flat, perfectly true, a real billiard table. Not a breath of wind.
“My ball was heading for the cup, on rails. Then a raven swooped down, snatched it up, and circled the flag stick, twice. The raven then passed the ball to a vulture, which flapped over to Paradise Brook, opened its talons and ………splash. End of story.”
St. Peter sighed deeply and vowed, “Last time I play X.”