"It can't get any worse, it can't get any worse," Jesper Parnevik's caddie declared as the pair stood chest deep in grass which had a genetically modified look about it at Carnoustie late on Saturday afternoon. Jesper's bottom lip was quivering by now, he wanted to go home. He hadn't set foot on a fairway since around lunchtime and he hadn't stopped sneezing since his practice round on Wednesday. Hay fever and Carnoustie are not a match made in heaven.
"It can get worse, you know," whispered Peter Alliss. And he was right. But then caddies aren't paid to tell the truth, they're paid to soothe golfers who want to get their hands on the throats of those responsible for designing courses like Carnoustie. After some time Jesper and his caddie found a ball. It was very probably there since 1822, but Jesper claimed it as his own, thrashed at it with as much anger as he could muster (a lot) and saw it land in even rougher rough a few feet up the road. His caddie said nothing, he just picked up the bag and ran. "Aachooow," said Jesper as he followed him despondently. It could get worse and it very definitely did.
"Oh my Gaaaawd," mouthed Justin Leonard as the wind carried his drive to somewhere not very close to where he intended to land (just west of Balbriggan, it seemed). Meanwhile, Tiger Woods lined up a birdie putt on the 15th. He studied the line carefully then tapped it a few inches to the right. Tiger very nearly needed a driver for his next shot, so far from the hole did his ball settle. His jaw dropped and he looked in to the camera, asking those of us watching on telly at home for answers. We couldn't help. "If Carnoustie's got the better of you, Tiger, it sure as hell has us beat," we offered, helpfully. This wasn't golf, this was Crazy Golf.
In fact, by Saturday afternoon one concluded that the fairways at Carnoustie might have been the safest place for the spectators to set up camp, because for much of that day the fairways at Carnoustie rarely played host to a golf ball. By Sunday afternoon? "It's all going on here, it's most extraordinary," sighed Alliss, as Jean Van de Velde peeled off his shoes and socks and contemplated taking on a "suicidal" shot out of a stream bordering the 18th hole.
While he stood in that stream and studied the lie of his semi-submerged ball, Van de Velde had the look of the loneliest man in the world with the toughest, nastiest decision to make. Make the right one and he could win a Major. The wrong one? "He could finish back in 20th," said Alliss. "This is so, so, so sad and so unnecessary . . . oh Jean, Jean, Jean," muttered Alliss. "This could be one of the saddest moments in sport," said Alex Hay, fearing that Van de Velde would blow his Open chances by taking on the shot.
"Would somebody kindly stop him, give him a large brandy and mop him down," said an aghast Alliss. "It's beyond a joke, he's gone ga-ga." But then Van de Velde put his shoes and socks back on and resisted the temptation to play under-water golf, much to Alliss's relief.
Mind you, Alliss's commentary on the Frenchman's progression through Saturday and Sunday's rounds bordered on a joke too. In fact, the mere thought of a Frenchman winning the British Open "jug" seemed to send the BBC commentator into a tizzy. "Ooh la la," he said, a lot. An awful lot.
Why did Mr Alliss insist on viewing Van de Velde as a charming, eccentric, figure of fun right through the tournament? Because he's French? There were times he even sounded spookily like the individual who wrote all those headlines for the Sun at the time of Jacques Delors' reign as the EU's head man. "Up Yours Van de Velde"? If we'd a penny for every time Alliss claimed Van de Velde was "lucky" through the final two rounds we'd be loaded. Even when he found a bunker at the edge of a green, played an exquisite shot to within 10 feet of the hole and then sank his putt to save par, he was "lucky". Funny, I thought that was golfing brilliance. Hands up how many of you wanted Van de Velde to take on that shot in the stream, land the ball in the hole and win the British Open, then turn around and say "Voila" to Mr Alliss? Me too.
Play-off time. Alexander Harvey, the man charged with the task of engraving the jug with the winner's name for the past 27 years, waited in his portocabin for a winner to declare himself. He looked a bit impatient, though. It was getting dark. Would Alexander scribble Justin Van de Lawrie on the trophy, leave a supply of Tipp-Ex and a biro and hump off home?
Leonard was looking good. "He's one of the most meticulous people you'll ever find - he's got labels on everything, everything's boxed up, he's got blue socks, white socks, yellow socks in boxes, all the shirts beautifully done - he'd make somebody a wonderful wife," Alliss had told us on Saturday. (Take note: label your socks according to their colours and you have yourself a husband, it would seem).
But then Paul Lawrie kept his head and won the British Open, after all those around him (Leonard and Van de Velde) lost theirs. You'd expect it of a Frenchman, of course, but what excuse had Alliss for Texan Leonard? Unless he's from Paris, Texas, of course?
