Freedom fight is taking a turn for the worse at Carnoustie

I have been coming to the Open since 2003 and thought that meant I had seen it all before, but an incident on my way up to Carnoustie proved you should never take anything for granted.

The trek from Weymouth was going well, the Quattro eating up the 531 miles I was scheduled to cover, but a shock road closure suddenly sent the sat-nav and myself into meltdown.

Total reliance on a sat-nav is a road to ruin (pardon the pun) and there is only one solution when you find yourself in this particular pickle – get as far away from the closed road as possible.

You need to get to a point where the sat-nav gives up on the idea of you going down the closed road, forcing it to devise a new plan, so I powered off in a random direction.

About 15 minutes later, I was outside Celtic Park, surrounded by Celtic fans who had just emerged from the giant stadium, trapped amid cars, coaches, humans, policemen (are they humans too?), with absolutely no idea which way to turn.

I was ludicrously unlucky to have chosen this route, accidentally motoring into the heart of Champions League combat, just minutes after the final whistle in Celtic versus Alashkert.

I tried an aggressive manoeuvre in a panicked bid to get away and was glared at by an angry officer. Part of me was wishing he would opt for an arrest, so I could explain that I had been driving for ten hours and was a lost lamb. Pity, an atlas and immediate release would surely be the sentence. You can't lock up lost lambs.

He was too lenient, though, and my joyless ride round Glasgow continued, a bewildered Englishman weaving from Gorbals to Govan in complete disarray. I had just spent the start of a frustrating summer watching Raheem Sterling and here I was being frustrated by an inability to find a way to Stirling, the next stepping stone on my quest for Carnoustie.

At the end of what turned into a 13-hour journey – I was so scarred and jaded from the Glasgow experience that I could drive at a maximum speed of only 55 mph for the rest of the way – I felt like I had jet-lag. And there is a good chance I will also be suffering from bet-lag by Sunday.

I have never staked more on an Open Championship, largely because the weather appeared set to be much less of a factor than normal, but the closer the tournament got to starting, the more concerned I got about The Lord above having an influence on proceedings.

With only one of my five selections in the apparently more favourable day-one-morning, day-two-afternoon slot, I reached Carnoustie in pensive mood.

Steve was in pensive mood by the time headline tip Tiger Woods teed offCredit: Francois Nel

I carried this sense of foreboding while listening to the usual bores on the media shuttle bus from the car park. “How many Opens have you covered?” droned one journalist to another, obviously asking a leading question because he fancied his chances of bettering the response. “First was 1994...”

It is during times like this that I wish my old mucker, Jeremy Chapman, still attended the Opens. He used to love this sort of battle and could have quietened the bus. Jezza was at Prestwick in 1860, the first to interview a triumphant Willie Park Senior on the 18th green. You won't beat Chappers, lads, so pipe down.

My anxiety increased on arrival in the media centre. I threw an empty water bottle at a small recycling bin from a range of about a yard. It bounced off the jaws of the bin, bounding to the feet of a chap at a nearby desk. If I can't even get it in the hole like that, what hope have my golfers got? It was one of those moments that an annoying old football commentator would describe as “more difficult to miss”. I sensed this was not going to be my week.

The competitive atmosphere of the shuttle bus was matched on the course. Golf fans from all over the world compete with their clothing, showing off what tournaments they have been to. A young lady was winning the early battle, with THE PLAYERS emblazoned on her chest, a shirt which made clear she had trodden the hallowed turf of Sawgrass for the Players Championship. Respeck.

Another solid runner had a Waialae Country Club hat, meaning he had been to the Sony Open in Hawaii. Impressive effort mate, but Darren Clarke once let me try on his watch at the Cheltenham Festival. Do I win? The prestige warfare beside the fairways of Carnoustie was intense.

Later in the day, I saw a man with a John Deere Classic cap. Come on, fella – if you're not going to take it seriously, you can just get out. John Deere Classic indeed. Pathetic.

I spent the first half of my day watching Matt Southgate, my first-round-leader tip at 100-1. I had £200 at 90-1 with bet365 and he was well in the hunt after making his second eagle of the round at the 14th hole.

Matt Southgate ran out of steam over the final four holesCredit: Stuart Franklin

Southgate is the Wayne Mardle of golf – both are Essex boys with a swagger and an appreciation of colourful shirts – and my fancy was making hay in a bright blue number with little white spots. Southgate and his caddie were smoking like chimneys, but the nicotine was working wonders, and my new hero was three under par when staring at a shortish birdie putt at the 15th.

The putter went cold, though, over the final four holes and two under par left Southgate short of being the day-one chart-topper. There was no 18-bag return coming my way and I returned to my desk to continue my ongoing struggle with Betfair to keep my account open.

Betfair customer services, clearly on the ball with regards to their responsible gambling duties, have been threatening to suspend my account ever since the 'recent increase in activity on your account'. I have been playing email tennis with them, trying to convince, unsuccessfully it seems, that I am in 'full control'.

Are any of us really in full control? When you fall out of that womb, nobody hands you a controller, do they? Let's not pretend we're robots. And not even the robots are in control. Just look at that ruddy sat-nav.

Can't a man quietly attempt to win his freedom in peace these days?

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