What with flying sliotars holding half the nation spellbound, and those mad cycling lads dragging the rest up the Wicklow mountains, it was difficult at first to slide into the old-world gentility of Royal Birkdale this week. One Saturday morning action sequence featured a bunch of players examining a clump of grass near the hole as though one of the blades had sung a few bars of My Way. It wasn't exactly Formula One in terms of speed, but it did command around the same interest level.
For the first hour of live golf, it is not unusual to find yourself dreaming up ways to jazz the old stick-and-ball lark up a little. Stick Micheal O Muircheartaigh in the commentary box, with Big Ron Atkinson popping up intermittently as the man on the scene. ("I just wonder if the lad Tiger wouldn't have been better off with an eagle at that hole.")
Instead of 18 holes, introduce an agreed time; say, 70 minutes to play as many holes as possible. Many would gladly pay the asking price just to see Monty in full stride up the fairway. Have mandatory, novelty drivers at given holes (baseball bat at the fifth, a hurl at the ninth).
But gradually, the consistently leisurely pace and the beguiling tones of Peter Alliss sweep you in and you happily give your day to witnessing grown men accept the mental savagery of the sport with incredibly temperate expressions.
While Friday's play offered the contrast of an exquisite shot to the flag by Jose-Marie Olazabal with the disconsolate figure of Nick Faldo ruing another wayward putt, Saturday just indulged itself in the sport's ability to mock its masters.
In the afternoon, Tiger Woods made his entrance, myriad swooshes planted everywhere bar his forehead, and teed off to the inevitable fanfare. Fourteen holes down and he looked less than pleased, flunking shots with a degree of fallibility which must have made the wizened club amateur view life from a new perspective.
The outstanding play of amateur Justin Rose had the BBC purring at the possibility of another English cult hero. They went so far as to plant a none-too-subtle bunch of roses next to the real Mr Smooth, Steve Rider. Just in case you missed the connection, Steve threw a mischievous eye at the flowers whenever he mentioned the teenager's name. Even the Beeb have rocky moments.
It was fairly depressing to see the ease with which the Tour de France got over its brief affair with Ireland. Given the astonishing amount of effort Ireland put into the tour, the French might have scrapped their input for a year and went along the lines of, "right, first man to Cork gets the jersey" basis.
Indeed, at one point last week, it looked as though they had decided to do precisely that, as RTE news brought us footage of a smiling chap in yellow waving graciously at ecstatic fans. Exhaustive efforts to ascertain the cyclist's name led to the discovery that it was none other than the Minister for Sport, James McDaid, who just happened to be sporting a yellow polo-neck on the day.
Just one of those confounding coincidences, maybe, or perhaps it was a gesture similar to Michel Platini wearing the French jersey at the World Cup final. All very well, so long as they don't get carried away. If we do well at swimming at the next Olympics, we can't have our Taoiseach or Minister arriving poolside in Speedos and a rubber hat.
Boxing is probably the sport most suited to the hollow glitz Sky have patented as a style of presentation. On Saturday night, they brandished lasers and logos around Sheffield with gusto, in the build-up to yet another last stand by Chris Eubank. In keeping with his image, Eubank readily gave the cameras all the access they wanted, and thus they covered in depth his struggle to meet the maximum legal weight. Describing how he shed the excess pounds, Eubank informed the cameras that he retired to a hot bath to read some Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde.
Back in studio, Barry McGuigan, lost in a lavish tuxedo, looked as though he was wondering if a quick glance through An Ideal Husband might have helped him against Steve Cruz all those years ago.
But it sure didn't do much for old Chris. He kept the game up, doing his best Lady Bracknell as he was chauffeur-driven to the arena, and, for a long time, he took the fight to Carl Thompson. At times, stripped of the Sky hyperbole, the fight was enthralling, brutal and swaying both ways, but ultimately, Eubank's left eye betrayed him. After eight rounds, it had degenerated into a hideous welt and, after watching three more minutes, the referee decided to stop it.
"He's gone after 13 years and 52 fights during which he has thrilled and entertained us and sometimes bored us to death," lamented the commentator.
Chris wasn't drawing any curtains though. Leaving Thompson to his belt, he ambled straight up to the camera and shook his head with a tragic air. For a moment, it looked as though he as about to go all Macbeth and let loose with the "Life's but a walking shadow . . ." bit. Instead, he said hello to his wife and wished his kid a happy birthday as his trainer struggled with his eye.
Then Chris noticed his nose bleeding and turned indignantly to his interviewer. "Hey, I've got a dirty nose full of vaseline and you didn't tell me. I'm talking to my wife. Where's the romance gone? Where's the gentlemanly conduct?"
It was more appropriate than old Shakespeare.
