Sickening week as Open selections lack quantity and quality

The 146th Open Championship was a miserable affair that left me wondering whether I had enough energy in my tank to survive until the 147th Open Championship.

My betting tactics were aggressive and foolhardy, resulting in the most expensive tournament of my punting career. By Sunday evening, while Jordan Spieth was parading the Claret Jug on the famous Birkdale links, I was hunched dejectedly in the car park literally gagging for air. Four savage days in the Open cauldron had rendered me physically sick.

Three bags disappeared on heavy ante-post attacks, with misplaced faith placed in Sergio Garcia, Adam Scott and Bill Haas. I went into battle winning £30,000 if Garcia lifted the Jug, £20,000 from Scott and £50,000 from Haas.

Garcia turned up for round one with a plaster on a finger he had cut, an early “up-yours!” signal in the direction of my Open investments. Then the following day, a Garcia tantrum by the edge of the fourth green resulted in an injured right shoulder. The spiky Spaniard swiped an iron at a gorse bush in the act of rage, requiring immediate on-course physiotherapy.

Garcia seemed to have made great strides mentally over the last year or so, but the petulant, sulky version returned at Birkdale, and he was never at the races. Maybe he was freaked out by the realisation that it was his last week as a free man – he was about to have his cap replaced by a thumb at an impending wedding.

Adam Scott can't putt for toffee. If he did somehow fluke a toffee success, he would chew the toffee stylishly for a few minutes, then the toffee would suddenly rip one of his fillings out. Scott always looks fantastic from tee to green, before all good work is ruined by a dancefloor disaster. I would back any of the Toffeemen – Wazza Rooney and the rest – to beat Scott in a putting competition. As for Haas – he didn't seem to know his Haas from his elbow.

Adam Scott: fantastic from tee to greenCredit: Andrew Redington

Going into the Open trenches with only three selections was the result of a ridiculous rush of blood. My shortlist was at six for a long time, with Rickie Fowler (16-1), Branden Grace (50-1) and Marc Leishman (50-1) the other three on it, and I dramatically halved that list with a crazy minute of last-gasp axe-wielding. A switch flicked in my head, and suddenly, slash, slash, slash, they were gone.

Spieth was nowhere near my betting plans – I thought 16-1 was a poor price – but I should have picked up each-way returns from Grace and Leishman. They could have rescued my sinking Open ship. Instead, a further bag and a bit was frittered in-running with optimistic chunks on Alex Noren and Brooks Koepka as I stupidly tried to find an alternative to Spieth.

Loss-chasing reached an ugly conclusion when I had £600 on Thomas Pieters to beat Bubba Watson in their final-round twoball at 10-11 with Ladbrokes. I just wanted to capture a late monkey to put a small dent in my Open deficit.

The Lord, though, was in no mood to show mercy. Pieters nearly hit me with his approach to the third hole, a slice to the right of the green. I had a split-second to decide whether to head the ball on to the putting surface and risk brain damage to help the cause. Once the added ingredients of shame, guilt, reputation in tatters and possible expulsion from the course were added to the thought process, I ducked and let the ball land naturally.

Even then, I had the chance to affect the outcome of my bet, with Pieters' ball rolling slowly down the mound where I was standing, through my legs towards trouble. I could easily have 'accidentally' stopped the ball with a foot, but my instinct for fair-play was overwhelming.

Others in the gallery danced around the ball too – it took an age to settle – and one father was going bananas at his son as the youngster approached the out of control Callaway. “Don't pick it up, you idiot! Don't touch it! Leave it!”

I felt sorry for the lad and told him he should have thrown it in the hole. I got a confused and angry look from his dad. Fortunately, the ball halted just short of gorse, and Pieters produced a magnificent recovery to save par.

The key moment in a tight tussle came on the 17th tee. Pieters was one shot ahead before hooking a drive and losing his ball. I was frustratingly trapped on the other side of the fairway, so could not even help with the search. He made double-bogey, eventually losing by a shot, smoothing icing on to my crapcake and leaving me feeling like the biggest berk in Birkdale.

I LOVE . . .

My new multi-spray hose gun thingy. I am not sure what it is called, but the piece of equipment my wife brought home the other day has transformed my gardening experience.

Previously, hosing was a dull chore, with only one setting available. The new fitting has seven (I repeat, seven!) options for how water emerges from the hose. My nightly garden watering has suddenly become a fascinating game, requiring plenty of strategy.

I feel like a Top Fun fighter as I move around the garden, choosing between flat, jet, shower, mist, soaker, cone and centre, making tough decisions everywhere. It is thrill a minute stuff.

“Abort, abort – I'm too close to the hydrangeas for jet – I'm switching to soaker!”

I LOATHE . . .

Bumblebees. I could happily do without honey forever more if it meant the extermination of bees. I ruddy hate the little blighters. And they seem to be getting bigger and bigger.

I encountered a bee the other day that was so massive and noisy, it sounded like I was about to be run over by a motorbike as it flew towards me. I feared for my life.

Having just Googled: Why can't we kill all bees?, I have found an article headlined: If all the bees in the world die, humans will not survive. Bees keep plants and crops alive – one-third of our global food supply is pollinated by bees. Without bees, humans wouldn't have much to eat.

Hmmm, I suppose I'd better shut up then. Sorry, bees. Sorry, humans.

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