I have never had a proper caddy whilst playing golf before.

The guy who latched himself onto me on my way to the first tee described himself as “part caddy, part ball spotter”. Which I suppose is a good combination of skills if you work at a golf course.

Sometimes things strike me as being wrong almost immediately. In this case, it took three holes. As I stood over my putt, he said it would break about a foot to the left. Up the hill. I have never been in the southern hemisphere before, and with the backwards plughole thing anything is possible down here, but I could only assume that the major laws of physics ran true here as well. Yet he was adamant.

I putted, and as expected the ball ran downhill and away from the hole. He looked genuinely surprised and offered a toothless grin by way of an apology.

At the half-way house I got some food and he went off to get his own. He returned with what I can only describe as a glazed expression and slightly stumbling. Any doubts I had about whether he had been smoking a crack pipe or necking a bottle of moonshine, were erased on the tenth hole when he fell into a bunker. Yes, fell into it. Imagine watching a drunk fall into a canal. It was just like that, but if the drunk was carrying some of your golf clubs.

It is hard to criticise someone when they’re being paid about ten pounds a day, but he was really fucking shit.

He continued to lose two balls, misread three putts and put two of my clubs in my opponents bag.

And yet, I still tipped him. I am a twat.

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