Bonding with little cats while worshipping big cats

There is a black cat which lives at the Premier Inn, Dundee West, where I have been staying this week during the Open Championship, and my relationship with this creature has improved over the last few days.

On Thursday and Friday, I was a bit tetchy around him, questioning the hygiene and health ramifications of having a moggy roaming around the place. I showed no love towards the flea-bitten puss as a much bigger cat – Tiger Woods – struggled in poor conditions at Carnoustie.

On Saturday night though – with the big cat back in contention for Open glory – I was cuddling up to the little cat at the Premier Inn. We played among the snails in the car park, danced together, and I even offered him a sip of my Guinness, man and cat in total harmony. I probably would have licked the fleas off him if he had asked me to. That's how much a changing golf leaderboard can affect my mood.

Just before I left the Inn for Carnoustie and the final round, the black cat crossed my path, and I felt like going to find somewhere to sell my car to bolster my Woods stake immediately. Victory was clearly inevitable.

All I had to worry about now was how my fragile throat was going to handle the rigours of the closing 18 holes. The throat is the weakest part of my body and it always capitulates when life becomes particularly challenging. Shouting “Come on Tiger!” as much as possible in my best American accent has probably not helped matters. It is so addictive.

“Come on Tiger!” has been ringing out at the Inn at 5am some mornings, my brain programmed to instruct my mouth to say it from the first waking second to the night-time shutdown. I have learned, though, that Americans actually prefer to bellow “Go Tiger!” rather than come on, so maybe that is what I will switch to in future. Eliminating a syllable might help ease the pressure on the throat. Those Yanks know what they're doing.

On arrival at the course, it was not the throat which was the main issue. An even greater problem emerged – stinging eyes.

In a bid to avoid the disaster of the previous day – when I failed to employ sun cream and cooked like a Christmas goose following Tiger – I was over-lavish with my application before round four. I basically sprayed about a litre of factor 50 in each eye, resulting in unbearable stinging.

Never mind Tiger's famous stinger shot – my eyes were an even greater spectacle – and I'm sure everyone in the media centre assumed I was just becoming overcome with Open emotion. Oh, Steve's eyes are very red – if he can't handle it now, what's he going to be like at 6pm when the Jug is being primed? Pathetic plonker.

Even though I knew a four-shot deficit over three different players was a seriously difficult assignment for Tiger, there was plenty of hope in my heart, and waiting for him to tee off at 2.25pm was like sitting in a cell, before being called to court to hear whether you have been sentenced to another 40 years in prison or immediate release.

There was only one way of distracting myself – relentless Kit Kat consumption. Chain-eating Kit Kats has become an Open tradition for me, but this year I have taken my game to a new level, averaging deep into two figures for the number of four-finger snacks I gobble up each day.

I must admit, I have been wondering what it would feel like to hit three figures one day. How would my system react to 100 Kit Kats in a 12-hour session at the Open? Life is all about having ambitions – and some time in the near future, perhaps after fasting for a week, I will attempt to achieve the Kit Kat ton and the accompanying buzz/kudos.

Before taking on such a challenge, I must get a haircut. It is nothing short of an emergency. The lack of a lack of day off between jetting back from Mauritius and driving up to the Open meant I did not have the opportunity to get to the barbers. And, to be frank, I look ridiculous.

Unlike Tommy Fleetwood, who manages to perfect that Jesus of Nazareth look which makes the ladies swoon, my hair goes up, rather than down, when it gets long. At best I look like David Hasselhoff in his early-90s pomp, at worst I look like Marge Simpson.

My high hair, allied to my Tiger-style blood-red Nike T-shirt, seemed to spook Phil Mickelson when he arrived at Carnoustie for round four. He pulled up in the car park in a Range Rover and glanced over with a sneer. I continued with my phone call and he proceeded to aggressively swing a club next to his car. The Woods fans are back and Mickelson saw red, quite literally.

As the minutes ticked down to Tiger's tee-off, I slipped on my sunglasses and readied myself to follow him round Carnoustie to the bitter end. Thank God for sunglasses, I thought. I am not crying everyone – it's a sun-cream issue – but I concede that I might be crying later. Come on – sorry, go – Tiger!

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