Go On, You'll Be Havin' Another Wee One Surely

Onwards to the K club in sunny (cough cough) Straffan, Co. Kildare, for the world drinking championships - sorry Ryder Cup championships, hic, where Woozies’ Warriors thrashed the Yanks and then trashed the bar in a powerful display of imbibing prowess.

Over the first two days the European team were led by the dominant Spanish pair Garcia and Olazabal (fine Manzanilla sherrys and impertinent, yet amusingly provocative reds from the Duero valley) with solid back-up from Montgomerie (single malt scotch whisky) and Harrington (Guiness). Good performances also came from Lee Westwood (Stella and Carling), Howell (Theakston Old Peculier) and the rookie Stenson (vodka jellys), leaving the European team with a 4 point lead to defend after the doubles and swift halves and going in to the last day singles and shots.

Could the USA squad come back? It seemed unlikely on Saturday night when all they could manage was Rolling Rock and a few Sam Adams Summer Ales, although Tiger was seen to surreptitously sip on an Anheuser-Busch Bare Knuckle Stout in a corner surrounded by his extensive support team from the AA.

But there was no champagne golf from the US on the final day as the Europeans dominated from opening hours to chucking out time. A double vodka with tequila chaser at the tricky par3 seventeenth followed by a solid pint for par on 18 from Clarke was the tippling point for victory. Cheered on by the supportive Irish crowd our gallant, if tipsy, heroes sealed another stunning European hangover with a massive victory. errr. So, a third win in a row for Europe showing how 45 per cent proof team spirits will always triumph over individual sippers. Sam Torrance is 92.

A Por Ellos

For my holidays I've been travelling through Spain and Portugal. Fortunately, I have friends in both countries so, as well as free accommodation (hehe), I also get to see something of the real everyday lives of the Spanish and Portuguese. This last week, for example, both countries failed to win European Championship football qualification group matches and both to nations generally considered much inferior to themselves. As an observer, the contrasting reactions to each result was interesting to note.

For the Portuguese it was a minor 'cumulo nimbus' moment, but one that was taken with resignation - indeed, with aplomb. This is the Portuguese way. I remember calling my good Algarvian friend Miguel, just before the European Championship final aganst Greece, 2 years ago. With an hour to go before the match I was excited sitting in my living room in London so I called to see what was happening in Portugal. In the weeks leading up to the final the country had started going slightly potty as their 'selection' (the 'People's Selecao' as it was branded) tasted success. By now, I was sure they had already gone into meltdown. The response on the telephone that I received however was a fatalistic: "Yes, everyone is around the television and we're all dressed up, but, you know, I think we will have to be lucky and we are not lucky." Blimey! So much for positive thinking. But, Miguel was right, and the Bubbles squeaked them out of glory 1- nil. A 1-1 draw away to minnows Finland then was simply part of the rich tapestry of life, albeit a humble tapestry with no tassles and an understated motif.

The Spanish on the other hand take fatalism to new dimensions. They too, in the days before important matches, will despair and moan about the fates of the gods, but come match day, especially in the period about an hour before kick-off, they are infused with a sensibility of invincibility. "Ja! We shall crush them! We will destroy them! We play football like matadors and must surely triumph with our flair." Then they lose 3-2 to Northern Ireland ('our wee country').

The morning papers had headlines like "Perdition!" and "Dishonour!" and carried pictures of Luis Aragones, the coach, isolated on a football pitch, alone with his thoughts, head bowed. La Sexta, Madrid's TV channel, carried a report set to portentous, doom-laden classical music, showing the 3rd goal of David Healy's hat-trick, in slow-mo' and repeated over and over again to intercuts of Spanish players and fans blubbing as the Spanish flag burns. Woah! Easy there you tigers. You lost a footie match. The sun WILL come up tomorrow!

And now, they can console themselves with the knowledge that the national basketball team are the World Champions, having absolutely stuffed Greece in the final the same week as the footie. It may be a game for giraffes in silk pyjamas but it's a genuine world championship. Felicidades Amigos!