Awesome Anderson saves me from Minehead destruction

Well, I definitely can't smell the promised land now. I had the scent of the promised land in my nostrils after Justin Thomas won the Honda Classic, but that sweet aroma was quickly replaced by less appealing whiffs.

Just six days after Thomas delivered an eight-bag return with a gutsy playoff triumph in Florida, my brain was almost exploding through rage as wayward wagers threatened to destroy more than half of the Honda yield.

The promised land smells seriously good – a heady mixture of freshly baked bread, ground coffee, apple pie and Holly Willoughby – and I am glad to have caught a trace up my hooter for 100 hours or so. The more typical stench of fear and loathing returned, though, as soon as arrowsmiths and golfers started parading in front of me again.