OH we do like to be beside the seaside. For Open week, the diarist and his colleagues are based in a delightful holiday park in Kingsdown overlooking the English Channel.

The wonderfully appointed chalets are shaped like pyramids which is somewhat fitting given that most of the diarist’s cornball observations are as old as Khafre's sarcophagus. A venerable compadre from a well-kent Red Top brings along so many accoutrements of male grooming, the bathroom now resembles the shimmering splendour of Tutankhamun’s tomb.

Funnily enough, the Ancient Egyptian theme continued when we ordered our nightly haul of pizzas after another long day at the coalface. “Will I can get into the park entrance?” asked the delivery driver. “Aye, just toot and come in,” replied the diarist. Dear me.

Talking of ancient treasures, the auld Claret Jug is looking resplendent in the glistening Kent sunshine. It’s the ornate, silver drinking receptacle that everybody is wanting to get their clutches on this week.

The diarist, meanwhile, is just as content to get my hands round a chipped mug of Mouton Cadet when the sun’s over the yard arm. Golf’s most celebrated trophy is 20.75 inches high and weighs 5.4lbs. As one commentator cooed, “ah, the Claret Jug, five-and-a-half pounds of solid silver that’s worth its weight in gold.”

Staying with commentary and this week’s Open marks the first without the late, great Peter Alliss.

For six decades he was the BBC’s unique Voice of Golf and added colour, charisma and “cor blimey O’Reilly” to affairs on the links. “I’ve done very little in my life, just waffled a lot,” he once said. The diarist always did have a great affinity with the bold Peter.