Cantankerous on the carpet after crushing Cantlay calamity

Masochism. Ever given that a whirl? You may have done so unintentionally – by dipping your toes into the often freezing and painful waters of golf betting. I have definitely come to the conclusion that I am a masochist, having spent almost two-and-a-half decades punting weekly on the most bottom-whippingly savage sport of them all.

I am starting to think I may as well go the whole hog, cave in to these unmistakable urges, and employ a Miss Whiplash-like character to visit my humble abode every Sunday night to administer a pasting to my pathetic, pallid, panicked, palpitating posterior.

All the alternative masochistic practices must be easier to bear than predicting and wagering on the grand old game of golf. A good nipple tweak, for example. Masochists loves a good nipple tweak, don't they? I reckon I go through the golfing equivalent of 500 nipple tweaks during the final round of a tournament. Maybe it's time to try the real thing.