Fergus Bisset: A thinking game

They say the average man thinks about sex once every seven seconds. “They” said “they” say that on some mind-numbing American drama I accidentally flicked onto last night - I think this one was something like Crime Scene Investigation of a Special Victim’s House.

“They say” is a very odd phrase. Just who are they? Is there some central body for vague and inaccurate facts? Perhaps an international committee for unproven statements? I don’t know, but “they” don’t half speak a load of old tosh.

I definitely don’t think about sex every seven seconds, I’ll put my neck on the line and say that no man does. If one did he should probably be locked up in a padded cell for his own, and others’, safety.

After turning to something far more sensible (Never mind the Buzzcocks) I decided to do a quick run-through of what I’d been thinking about through the day. The results were a little worrying.

First thing, I got up and headed to my desk to finish writing the Leaderboard section of the magazine – that was four and a half hours solidly thinking about professional golf. Of course there were a few other thoughts thrown in there. Things like: “I’d like a cup of tea now.” And, “I wonder if taking my right foot back slightly at address would cure that fade?”

At about 12.30, lunch thoughts took precedence. Ham and cheese sandwich, that was a given. But, what type of cheese? “Should I have mustard? Will I be healthy and add a leaf of lettuce?” Even at this stage though, golf wasn’t discounted. “Right, Dunhill Cup coverage starts at 1.30 so if I start making my sandwich at 1.15 I should be able to sit down and watch some as I eat.”

After a Dunhill Cup lunch I went back to work for a bit more thinking about other peoples’ golf with a little of my golf interspersed. At about 3.30 I started to consider going to the driving range. “Will I get 50 or 100 balls?” “Should I work on iron play or concentrate on woods?” “Which end of the range will I favour?”

After a pleasant hour hitting balls I returned home to catch the end of the Dunhill Cup before going upstairs to email a couple of friends about a prospective golf trip later this month. I then did half an hour more research on the European Tour website before clocking off and going downstairs for some more intensive thinking about what I’d learned at the driving range.

Oh my god. I need to start thinking about sex more.

For those interested in the progress of the 2008/2009 Alliance, this was a disappointing week. We made the journey north to Huntly in good spirits as it was a lovely morning on Deeside. But, as we headed up towards Rhynie and Lumsden, black clouds appeared on the horizon and the wind was building. When we reached the car park at Huntly it was very grey indeed. As we were getting our kit out of the car it began to drizzle. By the time we stood on the first tee it was lashing down.

We managed nine holes before the greenkeeper called a halt to proceedings. I can’t say I was disappointed – Not only was I was having a shocker but I also had a sore foot.

Standing minding my own business on the fifth green, all of a sudden I heard a whoosh and a ball struck me right on the top of my right foot. It made quite a noise and gave me one hell of a fright. It had come from the seventh tee some 180 yards away and the culprit was standing holding his follow through looking as if nothing had happened. We were in plain view and there was no shout of fore.

I recognise the dangers involved in golf and I’ve written about the fact you have to accept the risks when you step onto the course. But not shouting when it’s patently obvious your ball is destined to land pretty close to my skull is simply not on. I waited for a grovelling apology but all I got was some lame excuse about the club slipping and him not seeing the ball flight. He didn’t even offer to buy me a drink. Damned cheek.