With all the attention on Tiger Woods chipping away at Jack Nicklaus’s trophy cabinet and Padraig Harrington trying for 3 Opens in a row, Nostradamus couldn’t have predicted what was going to happen. There was even talk of a teenage victory from the likes of Irish wonder boy, Rory McIlroy or a Japanese kid with a name like a cordless drill and a lunch box packed by his Mum. (I wonder if anyone has drunk Milo from the Claret Jug.) When all the dust had settled a 59-year-old legend named Tom Watson was left standing atop of the golfing globe and with a single hole to play was going to win the world’s biggest golf championship. Suddenly the golfing god of bad luck….

“Unforetunitus” stepped in and ruined everything. Had it not been for an 8 iron that rolled 2 feet too far -- and a bloke named Stewart Cink -- it would have been the greatest day golf has ever seen.

I know it’s now well and truly behind us but I just can’t get over it. Stewart Cink might be the nicest dude on the tour but now I hate him -- and for that matter, all 8 irons as well. This is really quite sad as, despite taking the risk of making the other 13 clubs in my bag insanely jealous, I have to say my 8 iron was always my favourite. No matter how badly I was playing on any given day, old number 8 was my best mate. We did everything together, went fishing, had card nights, we even got into a fight at the pub one night. We used to laugh about our scars from that stoush. My out-of-shape nose and the large scratch on his ferrule. I know it’s chronic discrimination and all 8 irons aren’t the same but I’m now finding myself hitting easy 7 irons to avoid any contact with… you know who.

As for Stewart Cink, from all reports he is one of the most respected Americans on the circuit. A family man who represents the players on the tour board and is one of the most popular guys on the Ryder Cup side. But for what he did to Sir Tom, I still hate him. I don’t like his name. If you say it really fast it sounds like a small reptile that can grow a new tail if the old one becomes useless. How does that work anyway? If scientists could develop that process and inject it into a middle-aged bloke, my wife would have me booked in for the first human test case. In fact she wouldn’t even wait that long. I’d be lining up with the rats.

I don’t think I’m the only bloke who dislikes Stewart Skink either. From the reaction of the Scottish golf fans during that last round, it’s obvious they consider Tom one of theirs and I’ve watched “Braveheart” so I know what the Scots are capable of. I can see the day coming where Stewy will wake up one Sunday morning and look out the window and see a wall of kilt wearing warriors giving him the moon. Or even worse; a descendant of William Wallace charging out of Stewy’s bedroom on a horse holding Cink’s decapitated head. He would have to whack a handle on it because there’s not much to hang onto. If I were Stewart Cink I would be vamping up my home security and being very mindful of Pizza delivery blokes who speak like Billy Connolly.

I suppose there were some positives that came from watching a 59-year-old Tom Watson almost create history. There will probably a bunch of old codgers coming out of retirement to write one last chapter into their memoirs.

Maybe we could see Ritchie Benaud jogging up to the crease, with his signature cleavage exposed to the swooning 80-year-olds from the Members Stand. He was the Shane Warne of the 60’s googlying and flippering his way into the hearts of millions of cricketettes. But instead of using a mobile phone to seduce his admiring female fans he used his chest hair. Trust me sports fans, if you look close enough, you can even see the old shaggers pile on his statue at the SCG.

John McEnroe might have another crack at a Wimbledon Title. And the umpires. And the linesman. And the spectators.

Dawn Fraser might squeeze into one of those new swimsuits which apparently even I could break a world record in. I think the only thing Dawn and I could break in those suits would be wind. Hey….maybe that’s how they work!

Another 5-time champion Peter Thomson will probably try for number 6 now. I’m sure he would love to dust off the old Dunlops and prove once and for all that his 5 triumphs in the British Open were indeed underrated… by everyone but him. I suppose Tiger Woods will win more British Opens than anyone one day but for the moment let’s face it, when you think of British Open history you think of Peter Thomson and Tom Watson……10 titles between the two of them is bloody special. Just ask Pete. As if by some weird quirk of my own fate, I actually met both Peter Thomson and Tom Watson on the same day and you wouldn’t find two more different blokes.

I’ve heard that the name Peter Thomson in Arabian is “Iahm Aloof”. He had this air of “My opinion is all that really matters but I’ll pretend to be polite anyway” about him. It was on the eve of the Australian Open and I was on the putting green at Royal Melbourne talking to someone when Thomson walked over and joined the conversation. I forget whom I was chatting to but it was obviously someone more important than me. I put my hand out and introduced myself and he replied with “Oh yes, we have met Barry haven’t we?” he then turned and spotted Roger Stephens walking past with a yardage wheel. “Oh for goodness sake, these young fellows are measuring everything now days.” “How far is it to the locker room Rodger?” and followed it up with one of those cute little giggles that Prince Charles does just after he has slapped Camilla on the arse.

A couple of hours later I was having a practice round with three mates including my brother in law Mark Churcher. It was Mark’s first Open and despite it being only a praccy round he was a little toey. He went from toey to terrified when Bob Shearer, and Tom Watson strode onto the green behind us. The 3rd green and 4th tee are very close at Royal Melbourne so you don’t putt until the tee is clear. Mark is a big unit with a big game and it was his turn to hit. With an Australian Open Champ and a eight time major winner watching, Church entered into his pre-shot routine. He had one of the most aggressive waggles in the game and he was giving it his best. I could see the rubber on his grip starting to squeeze through his fingers and the shaft was bending like a fishing rod. One waggle, two, three, just before he got to four he stopped, looked at us and said, “I can’t hit this…I’m going to hit Tom Watson!”

“Mate, he’s standing nearly at right angles to you….it’s impossible. Give it a hit, everyone’s waiting” “No it’s not. Imagine the bloody headlines in the paper tomorrow” Mark whispered.

I went over to Tom, introduced myself and suggested he play through. “Sure no worries, it’s sure nice to meet you and good luck in the tournament Barry” he replied.

I guess I should move on and release all of this hatred. I might even hit a few chip shots and have a couple of beers with my old mate, number 8 tomorrow. As for Stewart Skink……well that could take a little longer. If I were he I would just stay low for a while. Maybe grow a new tail or some hair.