Security kicked in at the Open Championship yesterday.
A bit late, perhaps, but there were men at the gates at St Andrews searching the punters. Not all of them, mind; it was pretty cursory.
The odd bod was asked to open his camera case but nobody gave me a glance.
The quality of innocence is truly apparent.
It occurred to me, though, that if I wasn't innocent, if I was on murderous missions bent, I'd have brought my bomb in the day before.
There was no security then, not of the overt kind anyway.
This is a strange Open, especially for the hacks.
The atmosphere in our corner of the game is almost hostile and you felt that the moment you arrived. Our car park is so far away we could probably get to Carnoustie as quickly as we can get to the Old Course media centre.
Too far to walk, with an undercarriage like mine, anyway and the provision of a shuttle bus is a cruel joke. Because of the traffic, the bus cannot get to the car park and when, eventually, it does, it can't get back again.
Access to the players has been nearly impossible. So many fences, so many marshals snarling at you to get out of the way.
Listen, mate, I'm trying to do my job. Try that line and see where it gets you.
I'm staying at one of the university halls of residence, in a little rathole that has no lavatory and no shower. And there was a notice on my windscreen that threatened me with a clamping unless I found the right colour badge.
But as I write this, the tournament proper is starting. Thank God for the golf, I say.
