Vocal locals and howling winds making life a challenge

My second morning at the Open Championship was spent listening to lots of locals who have played Royal Birkdale trying to impress each other with their knowledge of the course.

They were having a knowledge-off, eager to make clear to the others that they knew more about Birkdale than them, and doing so loudly enough that everyone in earshot could also appreciate they had regularly graced the hallowed turf.

“Has his ball gone through the back of the green? Yes, it does drop off at the back of the first green. I always find it tough to hold.”

“Yes, it does. It does drop off. I find that too. It's a really difficult approach. It just keeps rolling, especially downwind.”

“Yes, it does. IT DOES...”

It seemed that the higher volume at which you managed to say “It does!” conveyed the higher volume of rounds you had played at Birkdale, with respect accordingly demanded.

I felt like freaking them all out by butting in and shouting: “YES, IT DOES! IT RUDDY DOES! I've never played here, but, yes, it clearly does drop off at the bleedin' back.”

Paul Casey was getting as agitated as me by the masses of people watching in the early stages of his round. He told a cameraman to move a “yard to the left” on the first hole, then on the second he asked two marshals: “Can you blend in with the crowd back there?”

The marshals at the Open this year are all wearing bright orange Hugo Boss jackets. They could only blend in if stationed in an orange grove. Casey was clearly suffering 'Open overwhelment', a condition I know all too well, and he soon tumbled down the leaderboard.

Paul Casey struggled to a seven-over-par 77 on FridayCredit: Christian Petersen

While tracking the Casey group, I stood behind a husband and wife who were having possibly the most boring conversation in the history of mankind. The wife seemed to be trying to dazzle her fella with how closely she was following the progress of Casey, Adam Scott and Rickie Fowler.

“He needs this for a par, doesn't he?” she said in a slow, monotone voice as Casey was about to putt. “Yes,” he replied. Then there was silence for 30 seconds or so before Scott started preparing for his putt. The wife returned to her stock material: “He needs this for a par, doesn't he?”

I was struggling to stifle a chuckle right behind as the clearly disillusioned husband weighed in with his predictable reply. “Yes.” Welcome to the thrills and spills of the Open, guys. There is always so much to talk about here!

The apparently unhappy couple reminded me of how John and Norma Major used to be portrayed on Spitting Image in the 1990s. “Can you pass the peas, please, Norma?”

Major, though, was later revealed to be in a racy four-year affair with Edwina Currie, so was a lot more adventurous than he was made out to be. Maybe the pair I encountered are equally misunderstood. Perhaps when they stop studying par-putts, they stage grand sex parties as the sun goes down behind secluded Birkdale hillocks. They say it's always the quiet ones.

You could tell the caddies in round two were trying to recreate the JP Fitzgerald magic of the previous day. The Thursday story of the way Fitzgerald heroically slapped McIlroy into shape with a mid-round verbal lashing was inspirational for the caddying community.

Casey's bagman quite literally put his arm round the shoulder of his employer as they waited on the fourth tee, providing a long motivational address. Casey seemed to like it, but I expect a lot of player-caddie relationships came under strain in round two, with plenty of rake rats chancing JP's increasingly legendary WTF question.

“You're John Daly – what the f*** are you doing?”, the Wild Thing's caddie might have asked as he slipped to six over par halfway through the second round. “Well, I'm punching you in the face now – that's what I'm doing.”

Steve Williams was the complete opposite of Casey's bagman, looking disgusted with his charge and refusing to offer any words of encouragement. A woeful waft of the putter meant a missed tiddler for par on the third green, followed by a sliced tee-shot at the fourth. Williams had a face like thunder, as did I, my punting faith in the Australian fading fast. The two Steves, staring at Scott as if he was a piece of dog muck we had just found on the bottom of our FootJoys.

To be fair to Scott, though, it was a mighty challenging day on the links, with wind howling relentlessly across Birkdale. I have never seen clouds move faster this this, the wind shunting them along like express trains. Bookmakers eager to generate a new sport to take bets on should consider cloud racing in the north-west of England.

I found keeping my balance in the gusts extremely tricky throughout the day, occasionally falling into other members of the gallery in particularly crowded spots. I am used to the embarrassment of blowing off in front of people, but blowing on to people is a fresh experience.