It's an easy enough instruction: could you please weed my garden for me? Unfortunately, every one of these players misunderstood my request - with dramatic consequences.
"Sure thing," he said, with a shrug.
Five minutes later I come out to find him with his shorts down, urinating up a sundial.
"Are you sure?" he says, with a frown.
"Yes," I replied, cheerfully. "Yes I am!"
Without another word, he pulled down his shorts and relieved himself on the lawn, in full view of the neighbours.
"Okay," he replied. "I can do that."
Next thing I know he's climbed on top of the gazebo, and started performing a big whizz over the side.
"Certainly," he replied, casually.
I looked on with astonishment as Ralph Minge splashed his troublingly Guinness-dark piddle all over the rockery.
"I'm sorry?" asked Creedance with a frown.
"I said, could you weed my garden, please?"
"Well, you're the boss," he sighed.
My jaw dropped as I watched him pull down the front of his shorts, and go pee-pee in a flower bed.
He simply nodded, removed all of his clothes, and pointed his Percy at my polyanthus.
Two days later, I look out of my back door to find him laying on his back in the middle of the grass, pretending to be a water sprinkler.
"I'm your man for that!" he replied, with a small laugh.
My attempts to physically restrain him from emptying his bladder onto my patio were - at best - futile.
"I guess so," Waldo Ponce told me over the phone.
Four hours later, he turns up at my back gate, penis in hand, using his thumb, with little success, to block the urine that was spraying out of the end.
"I can't stop," he whined, with a desperate, faraway look in his eyes.
"Okay," he replied, before running at speed into a nettle bush.
"I wish you hadn't asked me to do this," he cried, over the sound of his aggressive tinkling. "I'm going to be sore for days!"