Why I can’t get into the swing of it...

Do forgive me, but I can’t quite manage to get exercised about this or any other Ryder Cup, which is a pity, because the format is tantalisingly engrossing. There are a few very specific reasons.

1. Having chuckled heartily when Rob Green let Clint Dempsey’s long-ranger under him in Rustenburg, despite the obvious detriment to the reputation of European football, sudden pretence at continental pride would seem pretty hypocritical.

2. There is far, far too much talk about outfits, particularly when you consider the state of those outfits.

3. Miquel Angel Jimenez’s cigar. More specifically the idea that such props make golfers into ‘characters’. See also Darren Clarke’s pints, which ruined any possibility of jumping on board the K-Club bandwagon.

4. The Wags. Call me Emmeline Pankhurst if you must, but surely one or two among their number must cringe at this parade of good-wifery.

5. This notion that playing golf in America where a few country club members might, God forbid, shout stuff, is comparable with running the gauntlet of hate Galatasaray summoned in their vitriolic heyday.

6. Ian Poulter. Self-explanatory, I’d have thought.

7. The constant guff about captaincy, when surely Olazabal and Love’s jobs could be performed by a pair of monkeys with the ability to pull names out of a hat.

Still, bring it home, guys.