When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Presumably then, that means embarking on that ancient practice of hanging around at a stop and waiting on a press shuttle bus.

The ferrying of the media masses from various hotels to the Marco Simone club has been as chaotic as the chariot race in Ben Hur.

The 6am bus turned up at 7 – yes, the golf writers are up at that time even though some are just rolling in – the 7:30 bus left at 7:15 and the 8am one didn’t appear at all.

As you can imagine, the tempers among the scribbling brethren are beginning to fray. What was it auld Caesar said again? “It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.” Oh b******s, I’ve just missed another bus.

*Keeping the profanities ticking over is Englishman Tyrrell Hatton, a man so potty-mouthed, he’d get kicked out of a reunion of squaddies.

The hot-headed Hatton goes through expletives like the golf writers go through the all-you-can-eat-buffet in the media dining area. By his own admission, Hatton is a compulsive swearer.

“Any time of day, anywhere,” he said in his press conference the other day. “It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, I’m swearing.” It sounds just like the diarist writing this mumbo jumbo. And the sports editor reading it.

*How much? When it comes to flogging wares, you can’t beat a major sporting event. You could shove an official Ryder Cup logo on a dead woodlouse, stick a 50 quid price tag on it and someone will buy it as a memento.

Amid the plethora of paraphernalia is a bottle of specially commissioned Green Swing scent for nearly £100. “**** that,” roared Tyrrell Hatton.