Whistling in the wet is the way to lift dampened spirits

I have got a top tip for you. That's what you buy the Racing Post for, eh? Top tips. Well, I'm sure your Tom Segals and your Paul Kealys have got some fast horseys for you to back, detailed on other pages in this organ, but my tip is well worth having too.

My tip is this: When you are feeling depressed, start whistling. It is impossible to be depressed when you are whistling. You don't even need to have a tune. Of course, you can have a tune if you like – She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain, for example, or The Wheels on the Bus – but even random whistling does the trick.

Heavy rain was falling just before Tiger Woods teed off for round two, a fact which made my shoulders slump lower than my buttocks, but I whistled my way back to some level of sanity. A remarkable achievement.

I used to hate people who whistled when I worked in the Racing Post office – I used to think a whistle within two hours of a deadline should result in immediate dismissal, and a whistle within five minutes of a deadline should also carry a custodial sentence. But I have come to understand why they were doing it and the enormous hidden power of the humble whistle.

I whistled while watching Tiger bogey the second and the third holes, rain trickling down my spine. I didn't bring a coat to this Open, encouraged by the weather forecast that this tournament was all about sunshine. This was supposed to be a repeat of Hoylake 2006 – sun cream, ice creams, other creamy things – a creamy, dreamy orgy of happiness.

Tiger Woods plots his way out of the roughCredit: Harry How

The Lord had not read the script though. Or The Lord got bored (with the beautiful weather of Thursday). Or the weathermen lied. Or the weathermen are incompetent. Or predicting the weather is impossible. Or orgies are banned by the Royal and Ancient. Something went wrong.

Our American cousins were in a particular flap about the rain. It was as if some of them had never seen rain before. Maybe in certain parts of Trumpland it doesn't rain. Has he built a wall above a few states? Good idea that. Don't know why he gets so much stick.

“Are you from New Orleans?” barked one man to another. “No, we're from Baton Rouge.” I was in awe. I would love to be from Baton Rouge. I'm from Weymouth just doesn't have the same ring to it. How can you fail in life if you're born in Baton Rouge? Was Batman born in Baton Rouge? Probably. That's probably what gave him so much confidence to become a superhero. I'm Batman from Baton Rouge and you will yield, villain.

I spent the morning sneaking underneath other people's umbrellas, desperately trying to escape the downpour. Sadly, some people – most people actually – don't like it when a stranger attempts to share their umbrella. It was so disappointing. I felt like shouting: “Come on – it's not like I'm trying to share a bath with you. It's the opposite if anything.”

One bloke following Tiger kept moving his umbrella in an unnecessarily angry fashion when I got under. It was such a massive umbrella – the biggest one I had seen for centuries – so I felt sure he would show some mercy.

Maybe I'm a socialist after all – I thought redistribution of wealth was in order. I have voted Conservative at every available opportunity (apart from in 2001 when I backed the Labour candidate to win at 11-10 and had to let punting overwhelm principles), but this king of the umbrellas was turning me into a Corbynista. You've got a gargantuan umbrella, pal, and I've got no umbrella at all. Just give me some umbrella, eh?

It got to the stage where he was moving (to get me out of his umbrella range) and I was moving (to return inside his umbrella range). The sorry saga ended when he, deliberately I suspect, scraped an umbrella spike across the top of my head. Do you know what's jolly funny though? I had an itchy head at the time and it really needed a solid scratch – so I win big boy.

Woods was the only one not using an umbrella when his group started out. His playing partners, the TV reporters, the scorers, stats people – everyone – had an umbrella. But Tiger, who has always been a fan of masculinity and is obsessed with the Navy SEALs, swaggered on without one.

You can just imagine what was going on in his head. I'm Tiger, and you are all pussies. I didn't even notice it was raining because I am so ruddy 'ard. You lot disgust me with your pansy ways.

As I hopped from umbrella to umbrella, the key to success became knowing when you had overstayed your welcome. A lot of people were prepared to provide temporary and brief respite, but not permanent shelter. I got the equation wrong when seeking to turn 30 seconds into 60 seconds with a man and wife combo. The wife whispered in hubby's ear (probably something along the lines of “Get rid of this stupid weirdo!”) and he shuffled to the right.

Where's your humanity, I thought to myself. I know that's your wife and you're in a holy union which obliges you to protect her at all times, but we're all human beings and there's definitely room for three under that umbrella. And stuff your holy union anyway if this is the tripe Lordy is going to serve up. He doesn't deserve you honouring that contract.

I went to the Open shop to consider bolstering my clothing options and I was not alone – the 'Outerwear' section was extremely busy – but I decided £120 for a rain-resistant jacket was too lavish an expense given how much it seems I could lose on this tournament. Instead, I plodded forlornly and moistly back to the media centre and took relief in the toilets, where a jovial Scottish journalist roared with laughter at the state of me.

“How's that colour piece going, Steve?” he chuckled. “Yeah, I've got it all sussed out – the colour is grey,” I replied, before drying my head under the hand-blower for five minutes, then whistling for five hours.

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