AS you can probably imagine from the way the Tuesday column takes shape, this correspondent has conjured some quite unfathomable moments on a golf course down the seasons. At best, my swipings, pokings and thrashings can be described as modest. At worst, utterly blasphemous
Nothing, though, has been as preposterous as the prolonged palaver involving myself and a bloomin’ St Andrews seagull over the hallowed terrain of the Old Course last week. Yes, the golf writers still get to desecrate some of the most sacred shrines now and again.
