Maybe it's that Forrest Gump expression he wears, or maybe it's the sorcerous things he can do with a lob wedge, but Phil Mickelson has long been known as the idiot-savant of American golf.

At least he was until Sunday, at which point many within the sport decided that the second part of that term was redundant.

Golf's commentariat concluded that Mickelson's thinly-veiled - indeed, almost entirely veil-free - attack on the United States Ryder Cup captain Tom Watson was an outrageous breach of etiquette, a slight not just against one of the greatest players in history but against the team-room ethos itself. The chin-strokers were pretty much agreed that Mickelson had done a Very Bad Thing in breaking ranks and speaking his mind.

Now I've long held the view that the world of professional golf operates as a teacup waiting for a storm to happen. The most inconsequential events very quickly become matters of earth-shattering importance, moral outrage and causes of pious hand-wringing all round. Yet when the massed ranks of golf writers had picked their pens and their jaws off the floor and knocked out their ringing denunciations of Mickelson's breach of protocol, the one blindingly obvious thing that most seemed to ignore was that the fellow was absolutely right.

The fact the rest of the American players in the US team at Gleneagles failed to leap to Watson's defence should be proof enough of that. From the off, it was clear that the 65-year-old was floundering, out of his depth and out of touch with the kind of event that the Ryder Cup has become. In his pairings, his preparations, his man management, his choice of assistants and his folksy - as opposed to purposeful - demeanour, Watson pretty much wrote the book on how not to conduct a Ryder Cup campaign.

Watson had been given the role for no better or more obvious reason than that he was a decent old cove who was well respected on both sides of the Atlantic. He was, in other words, living on a reputation to which little had been added over the past 20 years. Yes, he had that astonishing Open at Turnberry in 2009 when he came within a whisker of becoming the oldest major champion in history, but the more sensible conclusion after that effort was that he still had the game to play at the top level, rather than that he was a natural leader of men.

Yet as Watson winced in the teeth of the Mickelson onslaught, the travails of another 60-something sporting legend came to mind. For while the waters lapped round Watson's ankles in Perthshire, the legendary Toulouse coach Guy Noves was rather further out to sea as his team, for so long the greatest club side in Europe, slipped to a fifth successive French Top 14 defeat, beaten 45-19 by Bayonne. Seven games into the new season, Toulouse now sit second from last in the table.

It is a startling state of affairs. Toulouse have been French champions a record 19 times. They have been European champions on four occasions. At times, they have been so dominant that French international squads could be described, without any great exaggeration, as Toulouse plus a few invited guests. And Noves, a seven-times-capped internationalist wing himself, has been their colossus for the entire professional era. Appointed head coach in 1993, he has held the job ever since.

If anyone in rugby was ever going to shed the tears of Alexander the Great because he had run out of lands to conquer Noves was that man. Like Alex Ferguson, with whom he has often been compared, he built the side, took it to the summit and kept it there. But there is a growing feeling in French rugby that he has allowed the grass to grow under his feet. Ferguson failed when it came to managing his succession; Noves appears to be struggling in exactly the same area.

Of course, in his time at the Stade Ernest-Wallon, Noves has witnessed the rise of a succession of clubs, all determined to challenge Toulouse's hegemony. Stade Francais, Biarritz, Clermont Auvergne and Toulon have all come through as serious rivals. Yet it is too easy to say that the competition has simply caught up, as Toulouse still have a budget that is comfortably larger than any other side in France. Even Toulon, backed by the millions of flamboyant owner Mourad Boudjellal, cannot match them.

Toulouse fans counter that the soul of French rugby resides in their city. Toulon, they say, have simply bought success with hired hands and overseas mercenaries. It was a credible argument in the past, but no longer. When Philippe Saint-Andre, the France coach, announced his 30-strong training squad for the autumn internationals, he included eight players from Toulon and just three from Toulouse.

Bad? It gets worse. It would be impossible to caricature Toulouse as either a forward or backs-oriented side, for in truth they have produced magnificent players in every position. Their all-time greatest team would be one of eye-watering riches. Even Jean-Pierre Rives, later closely associated with Racing Club in Paris, began his top-flight career there. This is the club of the families Spanghero and Skrela, of Califano and Carbonneau and Castaignede. Of Fabien Pelous and Thierry Dusautoir and Emile Ntamack.

A team that, in its pomp, glistened with self belief. And yet, just two weeks ago, they were beaten 13-9 at home by Clermont, a setback compounded by their decision to kick a last-minute penalty to gain a bonus point rather than back themselves to get a try, a conversion and a draw. They left the field to the jeers and derision of their own fans.

I remember those sounds from when I was there in January 2009, watching Glasgow claim a stunning 33-26 win in Toulouse's back yard, the biggest upset in Heineken Cup history. Now, though, with Glasgow unbeaten in the Guinness PRO 12, and with Toulouse 13th out of 14 in their domestic league, those tables have been turned. The sides are in the same group in the new European Rugby Champions Cup and will meet twice in December.

We live in interesting times.