America at Large:It would appear the only thing Sergio Garcia needs more than a sports shrink is a wardrobe consultant. At Hoylake last year he materialised for the final round dressed as a canary. On Saturday at Carnoustie his ensemble was meant to honour the colours of the Spanish flag, but it was unfortunately reminiscent of the kit worn by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in their 0-14 1975 season.

And for Sunday's final round he went out in a shirt the hue of which made him look like Mister Pickle.

Garcia, in any case, didn't gain any new admirers in the press tent with his petulant demeanour in the hour following his crushing defeat at Carnoustie on Sunday evening.

Between lamenting his missed final-day putts, the slow play of the Paul McGinley-Chris DiMarco pairing playing in front of him, his bad luck in having his tee shot bounce off the pin on the second play-off hole, or some mysterious unknown force ("I'm playing against a lot of guys out there, more than the field"), he barely acknowledged Padraig Harrington's performance in winning the championship.

It was difficult to figure out whether he meant it was his fellow pros, the R&A, or the golf gods who were conspiring against him, but if Sergio was looking for someone to blame for frittering away what had been a wire-to-wire lead in the 2007 British Open, he might better have looked in the mirror.

Most American golf scribes got their first introduction to Garcia in the summer of 1999. A month after the 19-year-old wunderkind shot 89 in the first round of the Open and broke into tears upon missing the cut, he was back at Medinah, literally sprinting across the fairways in delight as he chased Tiger Woods to the wire in the PGA.

And by September he was the heart and soul of a European team that appeared to have locked up the Ryder Cup after two days' play.

(Remember, too, that on Saturday night at Brookline it was Garcia who interrupted the European team press conference to raise Harrington's hand and proclaim him "man of the match".)

He seemed so refreshing that we couldn't wait to see how the finished product would turn out. Unfortunately, Garcia seems to have matured into a smart-ass, and not a very good sport at that.

The biggest loser at Carnoustie, by the way, was neither Garcia nor the unfortunate Argentine Andres Romero, who also frittered away a two-shot lead with two to play, but Taylor Made, which probably would have had a back-order list for thousands upon thousands of those Rossa Monza Corza belly putters Monday morning had El Niño managed to hang on to his lead.

Further remnant scraps from our British Open notebook - it certainly did not go unrecognised in Ireland, but American scribes seemed to find it unremarkable that Harrington had prepared for the championship in Carnoustie by winning (in another play-off) on a links course whose finishing green is also fronted by a treacherous burn.

But Harrington himself alluded to the value of the preceding weekend's experience at the European Club on several occasions during the week, as well as in his reflections upon winning the championship.

The normal unflappable R&A press officer Stewart McDougall blanched on at least two occasions over the weekend.

At the new champion's press conference following Sunday night's presentation he wore an expression of horror as he watched three-year-old Paddy Harrington juggle the Claret Jug as if it were a Tickle-Me-Elmo while his oblivious father answered questions.

The look on McDougall's face a day earlier was equally priceless when then-second place Steve Stricker, missing his hometown tournament for the first time since 1990, described the British Open as "a good alternative" to the Greater Milwaukee Open.

The British press had lots of fun with Boo Weekley, a good ol' boy from Florida who struggled out of the backwoods to earn a spot on the PGA tour at the age of 34 and suddenly found himself on the Carnoustie leaderboard.

It transpired that Boo had never even watched an Open Championship, much less played in one, and during a practice round with Paul Lawrie earlier in the week had cheerfully asked the 1999 champion (and former Ryder Cup player) how he had qualified for Carnoustie.

Under interrogation in the press tent after finishing two under for two rounds, Weekley discussed the difference between American and Scottish fare.

"It's rough," he said. "It's different eating here than it is back home. Ain't got no sweet tea, and ain't got no fried chicken."

An inveterate tobacco-chewer, Boo steeled himself for his first European adventure by toting 50 tins of "dip" on the airplane, since he wasn't sure he'd be able to find snuff in Scotland.

"I didn't smuggle it," said Weekley. "I brought a bunch. I think I brought about 20-something and my caddie brought like 30-something."

By the weekend, BBC even did a feature on Weekley, recounting some of his dumber pronouncements of the week, accompanied by the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies as background music. It concluded with the presenter sighing, "oh well, he's smarter than the average bear".

On Saturday morning a loud crash of glass resounded through the media centre as

hundreds of empty bottles were dumped into a rubbish bin outside.

"What was that?" asked one scribe.

"That," came the reply, "was John Daly cleaning out his room."