The media center (sic) at Oakland Hills is a hermetically sealed eco-unfriendly living environment. A steel-reinforced circus big top tent the size of an aircraft hanger. Which is apt because the air-conditioning system sounds like the PGA of America has parked a fleet of F1 fighter jets just outside – and left the engines running. The constant white nose drone is enough to drive a man INSANE. It’s just as well the ice cream is free. There’s a stress-busting, cholesterol busting choc-ice the size of a brick that just glows from the fridge in its sexy silver wrapper. Had one the other day in the media dining room to wash down breakfast. It wasn’t a proud moment. “It’s never too early for a Klondike. Go mining for one today,” is the advertising slogan that slipped through the net. Fruit and yoghurt for breakfast is the only sensible option. The cooked variety comes in the form of what must be scrambled egg (because it is yellow) but is more likely to be the gunge that children mould into dinosaurs and things. There are biscuits, too. But on no account are they to be dunked in mugs of tea. They are basically scones with a claggy sort of sausage meat road kill squashed in the middle. Even the writers from Scotland (home of the deep-fat fried mars bar) won’t go near them. All the media has been issued with luncheon vouchers, which are exchanged for two meals a day and a snack. Sadly it’s not quite as much fun as the luncheon vouchers that got Cynthia Payne in trouble in London the late 1970s when Sex in the City was something rather different than a TV show. Although we can get a massage in the media center (sic) for $1 a minute, courtesy of the PGA’s physio department. But it probably doesn’t include the happy finish that guests received at Miss Payne’s parties. These are tough times for the travellin’ golf writer. Ice cream, anyone?
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