Rather like the remains of the Christmas turkey, which by now should resemble something you'd find mouldering by the side of the M74, there's not a lot to pick at during this period of hibernation as the world of golf continues to snooze, snore and snork it's way through the winter shutdown.
There are barely any leftovers left over, so, as we shudder towards the New Year, here are the final, fanciful awards for 2014.
THE 'WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO WITH THIS?' AWARD
An amble around the trophy cabinets and display units of clubhouses throughout the globe provides an opportunity to bask in the shimmering, triumphant opulence of the spoils of golfing war. Claret jugs here, gold chalices there, salvers, tankards, rose bowls and gauntlets everywhere. Back in ye day, eccentric championship convenors would think nothing of welding an entire Centurion Mark 3 tank on to a decorative plinth and presenting it during a modest prize giving ceremony at the conclusion of the Field Marshall Ernest Dalrymple Memorial Texas Scramble.
These days, it seems we are reverting to more humble offerings. When Glasgow's Kylie Walker won the Ladies German Open in July, her reward was a glittering, carefully forged, intricately detailed slab of, er, wood, pictured. Presumably, Walker spent some of her winnings on a woodturning lathe so she could fashion a proper trophy out of her bamboozling bounty.
THE 'WELL, IT FELT FINE ON THE RANGE' AWARD
There are some days on the golf course - and by some days I mean most days - when you'd struggle to hit the cow with a banjo let alone the cow's backside as you violently swipe and thrash away like a sweating, grunting Yorkist attacking a Lancastrian with an axe during the Battle of Towton.
Mercifully, this anguish-laden palaver tends to be played out in front of Ronnie, Eric and Davy during the weekly fourball, not in full view of a vast army of paying punters at the Open Championship. When Bryden Macpherson cobbled together a jowl-shuddering 90 on the opening day of the game's oldest major, the young Australian had we crude amateurs sympathising and nodding our agreeing heads like the Churchill insurance dog as he raked over the debris. "You hit a few bad shots then you start wondering about what everyone's thinking and then you just have no idea where it's going," he said.
To his immense credit, Macpherson completed all his ghoulish media duties with a philosophical smile, came back the next day to shoot a solid 80 and was last seen being handed a banjo and a detailed map of a cow's rear end by a sombre faced R&A official. It's a cruel, cruel game.
THE 'SILENCE SPEAKS VOLUMES' AWARD
If there's one thing that gets the golf writers in an appalling lather, then it's the emergence late in the evening of a new leader, just as the light is fading, the copy has been lovingly crafted and the mind is drifting towards the prospect of an overflowing goblet of Chateau Lafite 1787 and a platter of exotic bird meats. On the other side of the ball marker, there's nothing that gets us beaming from ear to ear like a nice early line just after your elevenses have been digested.
When Katsuyoshi Tomori and Cesar Monasterio marched in with an eight-under 64 and a record-equalling 11-under 61 respectively on day one of the Scottish Senior Open, you could just about hear that aforementioned Lafite popping open as we envisaged life stories and tales of grand human interest being committed to print before the clock had even chimed one. The bubble was burst though with the dreaded phrase 'they don't speak English' from the assisting press officer. Cue a 10-minute palaver of shrugging shoulders, broken English, awkward smiling, elaborate diagrams and theatrical mime as we tried, in vain, to chisel out a quote.
Being professionals, we all still made our pieces sing. After lunch, of course.
THE 'TAKE A DEEP BREATH AWARD IN ASSOCIATION WITH BUSTER CRABB'
Many moons ago, before colour was invented and men with beards spent a lot of time posing sternly in front of primitive cameras, the game of golf was not particularly lucrative.
Old Tom Morris' first sponsorship deal, for instance, was a bale of hay (this is not a historical fact). In the money-soaked modern era, of course, players and tournaments are lavished with the kind of mind-boggling riches that would make a Sultan look like a pauper living under a bridge.
Away from the simple majesty of the Open or the Masters, those instantly recognisable and venerable titles that roll off the tongue like a well-sooked Butterscotch, the golfing schedules these days are peppered with garbled, wordy monstrosities that are as awkward to gouge from your mouth as that train station in Wales. You know, that one; Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch?
This year's winner comes from the wilds of the PGA Tour's Latin American circuit so we can we have an odd hush please for the '56th TransAmerican Power Products CRV Abierto Mexicano de Golf presentado por Heineken'. Or, in simpler times, the Mexican Open.
All the best for 2015.
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