The ring of steel. Getting into the Ryder Cup these days is an operation in footering, fumbling, fussing and frisking. And that’s just the diarist trying to shepherd his colleagues into the shared hire car. Lanyards here, passes there, credentials everywhere? The ease of movement is akin to a tanker trying a three-point turn in a tight dock. The small tartan army here in the media centre has pulled off something of a coup, however. While other members of the press have to slum it back and forth on shuttle buses, a five-strong Scots posse managed to wangle a handy pass for one of the official on site car parks. “Monsieur, do you have a reservation?,” asked the security guard as he pored over our labels with an inscrutable countenance. “Aye, I’m no’ sure we’ll get away wi’ this for much longer.” Bonne chance …

*The tumbling riot of hair that flows from the bonce of the hirsute Tommy Fleetwood continues to attract admiring glances. It’s surprising L’Oriel have not asked him to lather up for one of their shampoo products. Fleetwood’s European team-mate, Ian Poulter, has been particularly impressed by the general foliage. “It’s beautiful …and it smells good,” he said. The respective team captains, Thomas Bjorn and Jim Furyk, can only peer on with envy. They are as bald as coots after all.

*New balls please. John McEnroe joined a jolly cast of amateur howkers at Le Golf National the other day to take part in a pre-Ryder Cup celebrity-infused golfing grin-athon.

Once the thrashing, swiping and smiling was over, McEnroe delivered his thoughts on the main event. “My prediction is America absolutely destroying Europe,” roared the super brat of tennis.

You cannot be serious?