Millionaire status on hold as Haotong hell makes for savage Sunday

We ran out of eggs at our house the other day, so I was sent on an errand to fetch some, and when I returned, I marched through the front door doing a peculiar dance, proudly parading my punnet while singing: “I am the egg man, they are the egg men, I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob!”.

It was the highlight of my week by a considerable margin. I like pretending I am a Beatle and the egg crisis provided a wonderful opportunity. The rest of the week, though, was blighted by gutbusting golf. The sport I invest so much time to both financially and emotionally decided it was time to serve up a large bowl of warm cruel. Oliver Twist wanted some more gruel, but I certainly don't want any more cruel.

The Turkish Airlines Open played the role of the piqued parish workhouse overseer, dishing out the cruel and spooning it into my floppy, slimy, bewildered jaw. You wanted Turkish Delight? Well, you've got cruel instead, Steven. And you will eat it all up. You will eat it all up until it makes you sick. You will eat it all up until you are begging for mercy from The Lord Jesus Christ Above, do you hear me, sonny Jim?