Hands up how many of you thought that by the year 2016, we’d all be living like The Jetsons in some futuristic utopia of shiny silver suits, hover boards and holograms? No, me neither. We just muddle on as before, busying ourselves with hum-drum chores, regular moaning about the weather and frequent frowning. We may even conjure an occasional smile. Or is it a grimace? Yes, it’s definitely a grimace. Anyway, 2015 will shortly give way to 2016 and having already reviewed the golfing year last week, let’s review a slightly more weird and wonderful golfing year this week.

THE TROPHY THAT WINS NO PRIZES

There was a time when bamboozling, madcap inventions and contraptions were the reserve of Heath Robinson as the English eccentric devised a series of elaborate, steam-driven absurdities for performing such tasks as wart removal, resuscitating stale railway scones and tattie peeling. These days, the bold Heath would blend seamlessly into the industry of trophy design as prize-giving ceremonies the world over provoke the kind of mass head-scratching you’d get at a Stan Laurel appreciation rally. When Hannah Burke (pictured) won the Ladies European Tour’s Tipsport Masters, the question on everybody’s lips was obvious: just what the hell is it?

THE PASS ME THE ABACUS AWARD FOR SCORECARD WRECKING

Rather like death, golf can be a great leveller as this infuriating pursuit descends into the kind of violent exercise in swiping, thrashing and cursing that resembles the Grim Reaper tending to his overgrown lawn after a particularly warm and damp summer. Whether it’s in the opening round of the Lochwinnoch Husband & Wife Perpetual Salver or on the back-nine of a major, the potential for a card-crippling figure lurks at every turn. Spare a thought, then, for Russian professional Andrey Pavlov who began his second round of the European Tour’s Lyoness Open with a jowl-shuddering 17 on the par-5 first. Having plonked his ball into the water six times, Pavlov eventually finished the hole before going on to sign for a fairly solid 90 on a card that was probably saturated by his own tears.

THE APPLIANCE OF GOLFING SCIENCE

There’s no secret formula for golfing success although this correspondent has spent years devising a kind of E=MC2 equation for complete and utter incompetence whereby the increased relativistic wretchedness of my game comes from an overwhelming sense of negative kinetic energy and is divided by the speed of a quite appalling swing which is not squared on impact. Meanwhile, Bryson DeChambeau, a member of the US Walker Cup team and a physics student, revealed the scientific lengths he goes to in an effort to get one over on his rivals. “I’ll spin the ball in salt solution to see where the heavy side is,” he explained to a gathering of slack-jawed scribblers. “Sometimes the centre of gravity isn’t exactly in the middle of the ball. So I find out how much it's off-balance by putting lead tape on the top of the ball to see how much mass it takes to flip it over. If it takes too many milligrams of lead tape, then I won’t play the ball.” Soaking his balls in Epsom salts to find which ones are out of balance? You can stop giggling up there at the back.

THE DONALD RUMSFELD AWARD FOR BAFFLING BLETHERINGS

Can you remember Donald Rumsfeld’s speech about ‘known knowns, known unknowns and unknown unknowns’? Why of course you do. It was the day you just about choked on your own brain trying to fathom it out. The world of golf can also be full of haverings and hashings and Tiger Woods did his bit in 2015 to add to this jumble of jargon. His regular use of phrases like ‘explosiveness’, ‘reps’ and ‘release patterns’ all became a bit trite but he did up the ante by blaming his withdrawal from the Farmers Insurance Open on ‘de-activated glutes’. It sounded more like something that would happen to C-3PO during a long wait on the set of Star Wars but, basically, the muscles in Tiger’s rear end were not working. The golf writers could sympathise. We spend so much time sitting in press centres, our glutes have fossilised.

THE JOHN DALY AWARD FOR MEDICAL MARVELS

In these health conscious times, there is always some hand-wringing harridan telling you that ‘you are what you eat’ while tut-tutting at a pitiful exercise regime that would make a turnip look active. John Daly’s insides probably resemble a swilling bucket of paper mache but after collapsing on the course, the hard-livin’ American wasn’t too concerned. "They thought I had a heart attack but I only smoke two packs of cigarettes a day, not three, so I'll be alright." And on that sound bit of medical advice, happy new year when it comes folks.