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The Open

Never mind the hillocks – clowns are the real menace

Our intrepid reporter is the filling in a man sandwich

Si Woo Kim putts in front of the packed galleries at Birkdale
Si Woo Kim putts in front of the packed galleries at BirkdaleCredit: Getty Images

I had been fearful about this Open ever since an unsavoury incident in a leisure-centre reception area during my trip to the New Forest a few weeks ago. It has made me scared witless of Scouse ladies.

I was leaving the outdoor swimming pool of the holiday park where we were staying when I was witness to a savage two-minute tirade at the staff by a Scouser who resembled Giant Haystacks in his pomp. She was so frightening.

The dispute was over the closing time of the pool, and she insisted that they had told her daughter it was 5pm. It was, in fact, 3pm and about to close.

“You go and call my daughter a liar!” she raged at the top of her voice as windows shattered in the background. “Go on, go on – call her a liar!”

I cowered in the corner until the drama subsided, thinking to myself that they should call her bluff by marching up to the aforementioned daughter and calling her a liar.

I had never before seen a small misunderstanding like this blown up into such an almighty tumult.

I thought I was a strong man, but ever since viewing that disturbing rumble in the jungle (forest), I have been worrying about bumping into Haystacks or someone of a similar ilk on this venture to Merseyside. The Scouse accent, when laced with anger, can be terrifying.

The long journey north to Southport did nothing to calm my nerves. There were further agitations along the way. A massive sign outside the ground of Walsall FC was advertising for Christmas parties, which I found greatly distressing. Book your Christmas Party at WFC now, it screamed. Cripes on a bike – it’s July!

Maybe they struggle for takers, so need to dangle the carrot all year. Maybe by December 24, somebody might have bitten. It sure made me ponder how short life is – it ruddy well flies by, doesn’t it? I am sure the gap between Christmases is getting shorter every year.

WFC wound me up, then I got annoyed again when I was overtaken by a Citroen Cactus. Car makers are clearly running out of ideas for car names. Citroen Cactus! What’s coming next? The Vauxhall Coconut?

Some memories from my 2008 visit to Birkdale were stirred when I neared the course.

I remembered the enormous Southport pier which despite its prodigious length (it is the Dion Dublin of piers) still gets nowhere near the sea when the tide is out.

Often, if you fancy a little paddle, you have got to trek past a couple of oil rigs before you can actually dip your toes.

As a natural hermit, proceeding through the Open gates on the first morning was an act of courage.

Open tickets sold quicker than ever this year and Birkdale is packed.
I quickly found myself the filling in a man sandwich beside the first fairway, trapped under a hillock, human traffic coming to a standstill.

The rolling terrain means you can be much higher or much lower than the people ahead or behind you.

I don’t like being in a man sandwich at the best of times, but when the chap in front is elevated on a mound, things take an even more sinister twist.

The practice putting green is usually a more peaceful retreat. I was there as a dad was struggling to keep his lad happy. “Dad, I don’t know any of these,” the kid moaned while Si Woo Kim, Gary Woodland and Russell Henley worked on the green.

Yeah, come on, dad – this is all your fault – where’s Tiger Woods?
Seconds after the boy had convinced his father to depart for pastures new, Open champion Henrik Stenson and world number three Jordan Spieth arrived on the green. Patience is a virtue, kid.

Americans have won five of the nine previous Birkdale Opens and Yanks are swarming all over the course.

They tend to make friends with one another if they establish they share the same nationality. I overheard one introducing himself: “Hi, I’m Chad. I’m a real clown. I like to clown around.”

What an intro! Get over yourself, Chad. If anyone met me and opened up with that line, I would shove a custard pie in their face as quickly as possible.

The Open galleries are being as generous as always. I saw Charles Howell miss a three-foot putt on the first green, then get clapped when he tapped in for bogey.

That performance did not deserve a round of applause. I reckon 99 per cent of the spectators in attendance could have holed out in two putts from three feet. It is like going to a football match and cheering a throw-in.

Not everyone was as happy though. A small gaggle of media men were gathering around Ian Poulter’s ball just off the sixth fairway and the chap next to me said to his mate: “This is what pisses you off, isn’t it – you pay to get in, then these pricks who get in for free block your view.”

I love overhearing conversations as I toddle around the links. One exchange was truly inspirational.

“You don’t fancy the Spanish night then?” said one Scouser to another, presumably about some Spanish-themed party on the horizon.

“No,” came the reply. “Why not?” was the supplementary question.
“Just doesn’t tickle my fancy.”

That’s pure class. I need to use this sort of brutal honesty a bit more often when I get invited to a neighbour’s inevitably tedious barbecue or garden gathering. I usually give some lavish excuse, but from now on “Doesn’t tickle my fancy!” will do the job.

In fact, I might get DOESN’T TICKLE MY FANCY tattooed on my chest, then spectacularly rip my shirt off whenever I need to express that feeling.

Life’s too short to waste time on stuff that doesn’t tickle your fancy. It’ll be Christmas soon.

Published on 20 July 2017inThe Open

Last updated 21:09, 20 July 2017

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