The wait goes on. And, no, we’re not talking about the golf writers hanging around for the media centre shuttle bus. England hasn’t toasted an English winner of The Open on English soil since Tony Jacklin won at Royal Lytham back in 1969.

“What a corker,” cried the celebrated commentator Henry Longhurst at the time as Jacklin ripped a pearler out of the screws with his rousing final tee-shot.

Funnily enough, someone muttered a similar line to the diarist the other day as I put a knotted handkerchief on my bonce and headed out on to the sun-soaked links. “What a plonker,” came the withering snort.


The golf writers certainly earn their corn during Open week. The media centre echoes to the clatters of industry as the scribes batter away at their laptops like Little Richard thumping on the ivories.

One dear colleague estimated that he’d rattled out over 5000 words during Saturday’s third round in a monumental effort that made War and Peace look like a Post-it note.

The diarist’s endeavours, meanwhile, have also been earning praise from his superiors. “It’s clear that you have been doing the work of two men,” groaned the sports editor. “Laurel & Hardy.”


Talking of scribblings, the diarist was reminded of a delightful piece of parochial straw-clutching during the Lytham Open of 2012. Australia’s Adam Scott had the Claret Jug in his grasp until he bogeyed his last four holes. As his sombre post-mortem shuddered to a downbeat finale, an intrepid reporter from the Blackpool Gazette seized his chance for a local line. “Were your parents from Freckleton? he asked amid great guffaws. “It’s my dad’s cousins actually,” replied Scott. “That’s the best I’ve got for you.” It no doubt filled a supplement.