EXCITING - BUT THIS WORLD CUP HAS NOT YET ACQUIRED EPIC STATUS

BY JIM BLACK

FORGIVE me but isn’t it about time a little more realism was introduced into the World Cup.

Include me among the multitude of television watchers who are savouring the excitement and drama of Brazil 2014.

There has been goals aplenty, no shortage of memorable moments and occasional sheer brilliance. But while the finals have been compulsive viewing for those of us who worship “the beautiful game,” it also has to be said that some who earn their livelihood commentating and reporting on such events have gone slightly over the top.

The finals have already been hailed as great, but those who use the word epic are being a little less than circumspect, in my humble opinion.

Being of an age to remember 13 past World Cups – albeit I have only a hazy recollection of the grainy black and white television pictures of 1962 finals in Chile when the game was disgraced by the so-called “Battle of Santiago” featuring the host nation and Italy – I can think of others, notably Mexico 1970, that were more exhilarating.

Perhaps it is simply a case of the passing of time appearing to make what has gone before a little more appealing than it truly was, or have we have come to expect too much?

We were assured in advance of the opening match by those TV “experts” who salivate at their own self-importance that the world’s very best players would elevate us to heights never previously reached.

I refer to Neymar of the hosts, Argentina’s Lionel Messi, Portugal’s solitary man o’ war Christiano Ronaldo, Italy’s Andrea Pirlo and Uruguayan Luis Suarez, in particular.

But at this point in time only one of the five has truly delivered. Let me declare straightaway that I consider Suarez to be an odious individual, given that he is prone to “cheating” and sinking his teeth into opponents. But my dislike of the man cannot be allowed to disguise the brilliance of his ruthless destruction of an England team that chose to convince itself that injury would negate Suarez’s threat.

Scorer of both his side’s goals, Suarez delivered on the hype. Messi has still to do so fully while Ronaldo will not have the chance beyond the initial group stages and Pirlo may also make an earlier than expected exit from the tournament.

Pirlo, peerless against England was largely anonymous in the next match against Costa Rica. True, Messi scored two wonderful goals to drag Argentina to victories over Bosnia and Iran but for much of the time he failed to dominate the play in the way that his predecessor Maradona did.

Ronaldo, recently voted the best player in the world, produced one flash of spellbinding trickery against the USA, but he too failed to light up our television screens in the manner that had been predicted, albeit injury may have been a factor in his and Portugal’s failure to cope with the Germans’ ruthless efficiency and the Americans’ work-rate and enthusiasm.

Neymar, meanwhile, has been compared to Pele in almost hushed tones. On the evidence of his and Brazil’s performances against Croatia and Mexico it must be hoped that the volume remains turned down for the time being at least.

Few such claims of greatness were bestowed on the Dutch in the run-up to the finals. Yet in their opening match against the holders Spain the likes of Robin van Persie, Arjen Robben and Wesley Sneijder were a joy to behold – true masters of their craft.

There was an immediate temptation to tip Holland as probably winners at last after the heartache of being beaten finalists on three occasions. But what might have happened had Spain scored to go two-up? Holland’s subsequent displays against Australia and Chile also leave question marks as to their staying power and mindset to play as a team.

So, which country will emerge triumphant at the magnificent Maracana Stadium in Rio on July 13?

The Germans, ruthless against Portugal and decidedly unimpressive against Ghana, will no doubt be there or thereabouts, given their World Cup record, tenacity and military-like discipline and organisation.

Will Brazil overcome the frightening level of expectancy that has reduced some of their players to emotional wrecks and deliver a fifth world cup triumph?

Can Belgium’s hugely talented squad, strongly fancied as dark horses, gel as a unit? Will the French stay focussed and build on their impressive wins over Honduras and Switzerland?

Are Argentina more than just a one-man team? Do Italy and Uruguay have the necessary strength-in-depth to prevail whichever one of them survives in the wake of their unexpected defeats by Costa Rica?

With a raft of matches to be played there is still time for Brazil to host a truly epic Wold Cup. But for the time being the 2014 finals have been hugely exciting, thanks largely to a high rate of scoring. Its right to be acclaimed as more must be judged in relation to the performances that led to these goals.

One thing is certain though, come the winter chill on a Saturday afternoon spent watching Scottish Premiership football and we’ll all be reminiscing about the Boys who were at Brazil.

Still, there’s a chance that Ronny Deila may bring a smile to our faces by baring his backside when Celtic complete their stroll to the SPFL championship title around the middle of January.

We can also eagerly anticipate having a laugh or two at the annual Hibs manager crisis when Scottish football’s Frank Gallagher, the utterly shameless and blameless Rod Petrie sacks the latest incumbent and blames chief executive Madame Defarge, aka Leeann Dempster!

MAKING A DOG'S BREAKFAST OF MOTORWAY MENUS

BY JIM BLACK

NEVER mind who killed Cock Robin. Forget about who framed Roger Rabbit. What I want to know is who is responsible for the disappearance of Little Chef?

The perpetrator of this ghastly crime should be hanged, drawn and quartered.

Where once Little Chef could be seen adorning the frontage of prefabricated buildings serving as enticing eating places for the weary traveller, from John O’Groats to Lands End, now stands monuments to the 21^st Century’s new age of fast food joints and coffee houses.

Having recently completed the near 1,200 mile return journey from Inverness to London I confess to having lost the will to live at various moments in my quest to find an establishment that actually serves good, wholesome food – the sort that leaves you with a feeling of contentment.

The early starter, the all day breakfast, the Olympic breakfast, sausage and mash, pie of the day; all have been replaced by tasteless burgers, supermarket fodder for food luvvies and pre-packed sandwiches full of disgusting concoctions ranging from ham, mayonnaise and dill to egg with cress and cold crispy bacon and sausage. I wouldn’t feed most of it to a starving dog for fear of offending the animal’s taste buds!

We are assured by Alex Salmond’s rapidly expanding food police that such offerings are far healthier than a traditional fry-up. Maybe, but I would prefer to be given the choice between eating a meal that satisfies certain cravings when you are driving hour after hour than one that tastes like it’s been made from sawdust and pigeon droppings.

Not that I appear to have much say in the matter, judging by my experience of trying to find desirable sustenance on Britain’s motorway network.

Just for a moment I thought I had cracked it on the journey south when I spotted a sign informing that I was approaching a Road Chef at the Sandbach Services in Cheshire. Not so.

Road Chef would seem to me to imply exactly that, food prepared by a chef or chefs. Instead, when I enquired as to exactly where this facility was located in the complex I was informed by the young lady serving behind the Costa Coffee counter that I had a choice of her establishment or McDonalds. Not wishing to dine on packets of biscuits, slabs of cake or cardboard Panini, I opted for a Big Mac.

To be fair, choice is not limited to Costa or McDonalds. For those who wish to turn their comfort break into a shopping expedition, there is also the choice of Waitrose or M&S at some service areas.

Do me a favour. What are you supposed to do; purchase a loaf of bread, a packet of ham, a jar of coffee, a pint of milk and a set of cutlery? Evening officer, the reason I’ve parked up on the hard shoulder is to prepare my evening meal. You don’t happen to have a kitchen table and a kettle on you, by any chance?

I could go on listing my many complaints, but what’s the point? Little Chef is almost no more and we’re stuck with sub-standard alternatives.

But there is at least one bastion of good, old fashioned cooking – The Ballinluig Services in the Perthshire village of the same name, just off the A9, where they serve traditional grub.

And while I am on the subject of traditional food, why the hell can you no longer seem to get a roll and ham or a plain egg roll without any of the other gunge included? I’m sure the Ballinluig Services do them, so why do other outlets simply refuse to cater for those of us who enjoy their food plain and simple?

No, don’t bother replying as I have neither the will nor the patience to listen to some sort of cack handed explanation about nutritional values.

Just so long as the Ballinluig Services continue to flourish there remains a glimmer of hope and a refuge from the average speed cameras the SNP’s appallingly arrogant and self important Minister for Transport Keith Brown assures us will make the A9 a safer track.

But that’s another rant for another day.

IAN BROADLEY: AN APPRECIATION OF A FINE JOURNALIST

BY JIM BLACK

SCOTTISH sports journalism has lost one of its few remaining characters following Ian Broadley’s sudden death at his home in Aberdeen. He was 72.

Ian, from Dumbarton, was a newspaper man of 50 years standing and, during his time as the Herald’s golf writer, reported on all four major championships as well as the leading European Tour events and local championships.

He was also employed by the Daily Record in Glasgow and the north east as a football writer for more than 20 years after graduating from local newspapers to the news desk of the Scottish Daily Express in the early 1960s.

Immediately prior to joining the Herald, Ian also worked for the ill-fated Sunday Scot newspaper, which closed after just a few months. In more recent years he operated as a freelance sportswriter in his adopted city of Aberdeen, reporting on the Dons for several national newspapers.

During his long and distinguished career, Ian covered Aberdeen’s most successful years under Sir Alex Ferguson and, prior to that, Eddie Turnbull and Billy McNeill.

Know as “Bonesy” or “Broads” to his closest colleagues, Ian was a larger than life character famous for his fiery temperament which brought him into conflict with football players, managers, golfers and colleagues in equal measure. Mercifully, his bark was often worse than his bite and underneath his at times gruff exterior beat a generous heart.

Ian never minded putting himself out to accommodate colleagues visiting Aberdeen and enjoyed sharing a drink and exchanging stories with them. But woe be tide those who crossed him. They were not easily forgiven, if Ian believed he was the victim of injustice.

A man with strong principals, Ian’s spats with various football managers are the stuff of legend and earned him the respect of his colleagues and those involved in the game.

He was once famously challenged by the then Aberdeen manager Eddie Turnbull to settle their differences behind Gleneagles Hotel on the eve of the 1967 Scottish Cup final. There is no record of blows being thrown, but the incident highlighted Ian’s refusal to bow down to those in authority if he felt he had been wronged.

Sir Alex Ferguson recalled: “I had many arguments with him over the years but I could never get angry. I never fell out with him which says a lot when you consider my battles with the press.”

A talented golfer himself with a low single figure handicap at his peak, Ian was a member of Murcar Golf Club.

Paul Lawrie, the former Open champion, said: “I have known Ian for a number of years. He covered golf quite a bit when I first went to America after winning the Open and I got to know him.

“He also played golf at Deeside, where I play with my boys when I am at home, and I used to see him out playing in the evenings. He was a good journalist for a long time so we will miss him.”

Always good company and a man of wit and a rare ability to laugh at himself, Ian was a member of both the Association of Golf Writers and the Scottish Football Writers’ Association.

He had genuine warmth and he was a loyal and supportive colleague and friend, and in an age when new technology has replaced many of the previous working practices, he remained an old school type of reporter with the ability to ask the right questions and elicit a response.

Ian will be sorely missed by all those who knew him. He is survived by his widow Margaret and his sons John and Gavin.

BACK STABBING IS MAKING IT A DIRTY GAME

BY JIM BLACK

FOOTBALL has become an increasingly dirty game - and I am not talking about the physical nature of the sport.

Back-stabbing and blatant wheeling and dealing by individuals out to make a quick buck at the expense of those who support the once great game has turned football into a shadowy, grainy image of its former self.

But even by the current standards of duplicity and dirty tricks, recent distasteful events have cast another dark shadow over Scottish football.

My initial instinct was to say hell mend Hearts for the club’s treatment of its former manager, Gary Locke, his backroom staff, and several players.

Likewise, St Mirren, for their treatment of Danny Lennon, and Hibs chairman Rod Petrie, for immediately distancing himself from the latest Easter Road crisis.

Rangers Football Club, meanwhile, continues to be run in a manner that beggars belief and suggests that the inmates have indeed taken over the running of the asylum!

One is tempted to hope that good fortune deserts those responsible for discarding Locke and Lennon, Petrie, for his cowardly refusal to stand up and be counted, and Rangers’ chief executive Graham Wallace and an incompetent bunch of directors - some of whom are patently unfit to hold the role – for their continued bungling.

But to do so would be disrespectful and unfeeling towards the thousands of loyal fans who follow the fortunes of the aforementioned clubs at considerable expense.

After the Hearts fans had shown a loyalty above and beyond the call of duty to keep the club alive, they were rewarded with renewed hope of a much brighter future under Ann Budge, the new owner with a successful business background.

Their optimism was sadly misplaced. Budge has shown herself to be a “Hearts-breaker” rather than a visionary.

The Budge revolution has begun with the axing of loyal staff, most notably Locke, a Jambo through and through, and man who did a quite remarkable job in largely impossible circumstances.

Hearts were never going to survive in the Premiership on the back of a 15 point deduction and a signing ban. That they managed to stave off relegation for as long as they did was largely down to Locke and his assistant Billy Brown.

They also departed Tynecastle having left behind a rich legacy of young players who, I believed, would have made Hearts a good bet to be promotion contenders next season.

Robbie Neilson has replaced Locke as first team coach. Craig Levein has been appointed to the role of director of football.

Remember Levein? He is a former Hearts footballer who achieved some success as a player, but precious little as a manager, including a disastrous and largely hugely embarrassing spell as Scotland coach.

Budge attempted to explain her betrayal of Locke and the others in a waffling statement that added insult to injury.

Bottom line is the 66-year-old so-called Queen of Hearts has behaved in a manner little better than that of a cut-throat.

She is guilty of a huge misjudgement. She emerged from her first day in charge without a shred of credit and already thousands of Hearts fans are questioning the future under the new Iron Lady.

Will she eventually hand over control, as promised? Don’t bet on it. She appears to already have been caught out in a lie when she claimed she had not spoken with Levein prior to her takeover.

But Budge will do well to remember that the majority of Hearts fans regard Locke as one of their own and will be quick to round on her if the expected renaissance fails to happen.

Personally, I would not be at all surprised if Hearts is plunged into a new crisis a year from now although I hope, for the fans’ sake, I am wrong.

Officially, St Mirren did not sack Danny Lennon they simply did not renew his contract. It was Lennon’s reward for winning the League Cup and keeping the club in the Premiership.

What more can a provincial club with limited resources expect? I know the chairman Stewart Gilmour reasonably well. Indeed, I have socialised with him and find him pleasant company. But Stewart is in danger of taking up residence in La-La Land if he imagines that his beloved Saints can do very much better under the stewardship of a different manager.

Petrie, meanwhile, is Scottish football’s Teflon Don. Having launched a verbal assault on his manager, Terry Butcher and the Hibs players for the abject failure to avoid the SPFL play-off, he conveniently forgets that he is the man who appoints and then sacks managers at a rate that is almost as dizzying as a roundabout.

So, Hibs current plight has nothing do with Petrie, then?

And, finally, Rangers – that once great club situated on Glasgow’s south-side.

There was a glorious opportunity to begin again post-David Murray and rebuild a strong foundation. Instead, those who have followed have dangerously weakened the existing one.

The general consensus is that it will take Rangers a decade to reassert themselves as a power in Scottish football, capable of challenging Celtic.

From where I’m sitting, under the present regime, that is an extremely optimistic time-scale!

UNCLE SAM'S SHAME

BY JIM BLACK

WHEN it comes to sheer hypocrisy and the practice of double standards, America leads the world.

The master race, as they like to view themselves, is quick to lecture the rest of mankind on the subjects of morality, fairness, common decency and the rule of law. Yet, Uncle Sam consistently fails miserably to practice these values.

Maybe some of you have never heard of Clayton Lockett. For those of you who haven’t, he is a deceased 39-year-old black American.

Lockett was put to death on April 29, by order of the State of Oklahoma. His crimes were truly unspeakable.

He and accomplices abducted two teenage girls (as well as a man and his baby). One of them, Stephanie Neiman, refused to say she wouldn’t tell the police, so Lockett shot her. But she didn’t die, so he then ordered his accomplices to bury her alive.

In addition to first-degree murder, Lockett was charged with conspiracy, first-degree burglary, three counts of assault with a dangerous weapon, three counts of forcible oral sodomy, four counts of first-degree rape, four counts of kidnapping and two counts of robbery by force and fear.

Lockett had previously served time for various crimes, for four years and seven years.

That Lockett was pure scum is, I suggest, not open to debate. Nor am I inviting a discussion for or against the death penalty.

But even a rabid dog deserves some compassion. Lockett received none. Indeed, the manner of his death was almost as horrific as his crimes.
It took Lockett 43 minutes to die inhumanely at the hands of the state when it botched his execution.

Apparently his death certificate states that he suffered a heart attack shortly after a failed execution by lethal injection.

Lockett was administered an untested mixture of drugs that had not previously been used for executions in the United States. Although the procedure was stopped, by then Lockett had been subjected to various forms of torture.

According to several witnesses, he writhed, groaned, convulsed and spoke during the process and attempted to rise from the execution table 14 minutes after being sedated, despite having been declared unconscious.

The time line issued by Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester makes grim reading.

The first drug was administered at 6.23pm and Lockett was declared unconscious at 6.33. The execution was halted after about 20 minutes and he was pronounced dead at 7.06 due to a heart attack.

Oklahoma Department of Correction Director Robert Patton said that one of the doctors present stopped the execution after Lockett had a “vein failure”.

A subsequent report showed Lockett’s execution was halted 33 minutes after it began, his vein collapsed as the drugs were administered. A doctor said there were not enough drugs left and that Lockett had not been given enough drugs to cause death, adding that there were not enough drugs to continue.

Oklahoma Governor Mary Fallin had strongly pushed for the execution to take place despite the lack of standard drugs. Oklahoma officials, for their part, testified that the drugs to be used had been legally obtained and had not expired. However, they refused to divulge the source of these drugs.

It is not difficult to understand why the State has refused to disclose basic information about the drugs used with such catastrophic consequences.

Put plainly, Clayton Lockett’s treatment was barbaric and inappropriate in a so-called civilised society.

The idea of actually spectating while a victim is put to death also surely clashes with basic humanity and dignity.

As a nation of animal lovers we Brits would not tolerate for a moment the idea of putting a dog to death with such barbarism, let alone turn the event into a glorified “peep show” viewed by a select audience.

It is not the first time execution US-style has been botched. Many other condemned prisoners have died in an appalling manner at the hands of the State.

President Obama is said to be deeply troubled by the ghastly events of McAlester carried out in the name of justice. I’ll bet he is.

Uncle Sam should hang his head in shame before choosing to take the moral high ground and lecture other nations.

HIGHS AND LOWS AT THE HILTON

BY JIM BLACK

HE’S 26, tall and very presentable. He also happens to be one of Britain’s most successful golfers.

Perhaps I should quickly add that Cameron McDiarmid has only ten percent vision in his right eye and none at all in his left.

Cameron, you see, is a leading member of the Scottish Blind Golf Society and the reigning Blind Open champion, playing off a handicap of 14.

Our paths crossed the other month at a function in Glasgow. We met by chance when I surrendered to age and aching bones.

Desperately in need of a seat and spying an empty berth nearby I flopped down and breathed a sigh of relief.

But after several moments I became aware of a figure hovering over me and the thought immediately occurred to me that I had just planted my rear in someone else’s seat.

The usual Glasgow response to such cheek is either a sharp comment or a sore face but in the event I escaped unscathed.

Indeed, when I apologised for my lack of manners, the young man insisted on me remaining where I was.

I admit that I couldn’t help noticing that my new acquaintance was visually impaired.

Soon we were chatting freely and as we had clearly both attended the annual PGA lunch I assumed that he had some involvement in golf.

Introductions made, the next 45 minutes turned out to be utterly fascinating as I listened to Cameron explain what it’s like to be a blind golfer.

But it wasn’t Cameron’s many and quite remarkable achievements as a golfer that impressed me most.

It was his humility, positivity and humbleness which struck me.

Not a hint of bitterness at falling victim to cancer at the age of just 18 months old and the subsequent consequences of that hellish disease.

Not the least suggestion of self-pity or anger. “What would be the point in becoming bitter?” he asked. “That would only impinge on the things I can do.”

There were times when I felt a lump in my throat and also a sense of shame that I fly off the handle at the least provocation, for no matter what further advances are made in medicine, Cameron is resigned to never having his sight restored.

We’ve arranged to meet up soon when I plan to interview Cameron in greater detail.

Meantime, thanks Cameron for helping to at least partially restore my faith in human nature and for also helping me appreciate a little more the importance of being blessed with normal vision.

How ironic then that out meeting took place at the Hilton Hotel in Glasgow’s William Street where two years ago almost exactly to the day I was the victim of an incident that involved a member of the waiting staff spilling an entire plate of food over me at the same event.

This resulted in the ruination of my suit, shirt, silk tie and dress handkerchief at a cost of several hundred pounds. It also utterly ruined the day as I was forced to leave early rather than make a complete spectacle of myself sitting in soiled clothing for the remainder of the lunch.

A member of staff had made a half-hearted attempt to remove the grease stains, but when my jacket was returned to me it was in a worse state than when it left my keeping!

The incident, I should add, was witnessed by no fewer than nine fellow journalists. Yet, when I duly billed the perpetrators – the Hilton as it was a member of that hotel’s staff who was responsible  –  for the items of clothing plus a dry-cleaning bill I was reimbursed only for the latter charge.

The general manager of the establishment explained by return that while he regretted my inconvenience and apologised for the incident, he was unable to reimburse me for the ruined article of clothing.

He also explained that accidents do happen and rather arrogantly suggested I seek advice from my own insurer.

I met with the same response when I pursued the matter with that gentleman’s successor at a later date.

Yet when I sought the guidance of two associates who hold senior positions in the hotel industry in Glasgow both assured me that they would not have hesitated in accepting liability had the incident occurred at either of their establishments.

It seems reasonable to speculate therefore that while there appears to be no need to fear being “trashed” without being forced to resort to legal process by the city’s finer, more welcoming establishments,  it is advisable to take a change of clothing should you be planning on dining at the Hilton.

In reply, Mr Craig Gardner, the then general manager, closed by adding insult to injury by saying: “I do hope that this unfortunate incident will not inhibit your future use of our hotel and I do hope to welcome you back in the not too distant future.”

Sir, hell will freeze over before I visit any establishment in the Hilton group at my own expense - other than as a guest at a function to which I am invited.

MONTY CLAUSE SPREADS CHRISTMAS CHEER

BY JIM BLACK

IT was Christmas Day at the golf club, the coldest day of the year.

The members’ hearts were full of joy, their bellies full of beer,

Then up spake the most important member, face as bold as brass,

Cameras away, phones off and don’t dare interrupt whilst I’m talking!

Who exactly was this rather corpulent figure dressed from head to foot in flowing red robes and a blonde beard?

It couldn’t be, could it? No, surely not THE Colin Montgomerie!

Had Big Col really morphed into Monty Clause come hot foot in his spikes from his rich pile in the Perthshire hills to dispense much merriment?

Not even yet another year without a major could dispel Big Col’s sense of festive spirit and fun.

Soon, after clearing his plate of the last morsel of a splendid turkey dinner washed down by several cans of diet (?) Coke, it was time for Monty Clause to dispense gifts to the little children – at least those he had not already trampled underfoot in his rush to reach the jelly and ice cream first!

“And what did Santa bring you for Christmas?” he enquired of one little chap who had already soiled himself in terror-filled anticipation of meeting Monty Clause.

“Come  on, speak up,” Monty Clause sighed as only he can sigh while also screwing up his face and doing a passable impersonation of a warthog licking p... of a nettle.

“What?” he bellowed on learning that the unfortunate youngster had, in fact, received a copy of “A History of the Majors.”

“I suppose you think you’re being smart,” he growled in a menacing tone all too familiar to the Scottish golf writers.

With that the youngster took to his heels and was last seen heading into the nearby hills.

Once the remaining gifts had been dispensed – in matter of seconds, I might add – it was time for Monty Clause to perform his party piece.

To the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” it went something like this:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love (self) gave to me a major in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me eleven pipers playing “Love, Love Me Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

On the twelfth days of Christmas, my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming up support for a fresh Ryder Cup campaign, eleven pipers playing “Love, Love Me Do”, ten lords a leaping to my every whim, nine order of merit titles, eight cans of Coke, seven large Kit Kats, six juicy burgers, five senior majors, four fawning scribes, three 59s, two more majors and another in a pear tree.

With that Monty took his leave, brushing aside autograph hunters as he went and trampling underfoot those few remaining children who had survived the jelly and ice cream scramble.

But there were those who swore they heard a lone voice drifting across the chill evening air singing “For I’m a Jolly Good Fellow” before being accosted by the smell of burning rubber as a top-of-the-range Lexus roared out of the car park.

Merry Christmas, Monty.

And to all of you, 24-handicappers, burgeoning amateur stars and seasoned pros alike, festive good wishes.