Practice Imperfect

Nature abhors a vacuum. So you're putting on the biggest sporting shindig in this country's history. You've invited over every media organisation from Dublin to Djibouti. You've even built a big new fancy road especially for it. And then they try and tell you it's only three days long!

No way, Jose, as Seve might have said to Olazabal when the little fella thought he might carry the water.

And so we have the practice days.

Well, the hospitality marquees are ready; they're practically bursting to be hospitable. The mean, burly security guards are poised, knuckles menacingly cracking, ready to dispossess you of anything other than the Pringle jumper on your back and the big umbrella the bank gave you for opening a student account.

The media people are already swarming around, thankful that Hurricane Gordon or Percy or Fat Controller has given them - oooh - a story! "Weather Crap in Ireland! Send on the Pulitzer right now!" And the junkets! Every man woman and child who ever bought something off another man, woman or child need to be schmoozed, as the rather unpleasant sounding word goes, shown how valued a client they are, how - if you stick with me, buddy - it'll marquees and champagne flutes and smiling, blonde girls forever; sure never mind the rubbish I sold you last month, look, there's Monty!

And the golfers are here. They're practicing. Apparently it's what they do when they're not actually playing golf. They practice it.

So here's the wheeze: all the people come down - the schmoozers; the journalists; the smiling, blonde hospitality people in their marquees; the mean, burly security guards with their knuckles; hell, we'll even sell normal people tickets to all this - and they can all watch the golfers practicing! Hitting balls around. Tweaking their swings. Ironing out kinks. That sort of thing.

Practicing.

And, it follows therefore, that people can boo the golfers if they don't like the way they are practicing! What a fine shindig this Ryder Cup is going to be!