This week I feel like I’ve met Danny Devito, Tyrrel Hatton and Bill Bryson. For we sure had their dead cert lookalikes out there.

My Danny Devito man was of similar stature to the American comic and was actually called Danny. He had that friendly, energetic and cheeky air about him and was immense fun. He warned me that he was a terrible golfer and was spot on. He was not the fittest chap in the world either and after the long slog up the hill to the 12th green I told him that it was all down hill from here, to which he immediately quirped ‘that’s what my doctor tells me’.

I asked Danny what he did to which he replied ‘real estate lawyer’, hesitated and with that wry grin on his slightly mischievous face added ‘I help rich people steal from each other’. Later in the round he reeled of this wonderful description of golf and its parallel to real life but I can’t for the life of me remember it. Something about intermittent new dawns, false hopes and long stretches of tedium. Anyway he said he would mail it.

My Bill Bryson and Tyrrel Hatton were father and son, John and Shane, from somewhere up New York. Shane had never heard of Tyrrel Hatton but had a very similar build, face and eye, with not a dissimilar golf swing. Which is pretty impressive. I mean the golf swing bit. Not that Tyrrel Hatton is unattractive looking and not that I’m in a position to judge really.

Anyway I caddied for his father, John, who was a lovely, fun guy but had never heard of the writer Bill Bryson. Maybe his books aren’t as famous across the pond or indeed John is not bookish. But John is Bill Bryson. Almost an identical face, while big and bear looking in a bespectacled way. Albeit John had a great sense of humour, whereas if I’m totally honest I would say that Bill Brysons’ books have yet to hit me with much humour. Certainly not the bucket loads that the New York Times waxes on about.

I must say that I have a slightly paranoid relationship with this lookalike thing as I’ve been deemed similar to Bob Geldof, Rudolf Nureyev, the chap in Rainman, Tom Hanks(!?), Michael Barrymore and lately, Alf Garnett!

I think these descriptions are before and after me being overly challenged up top. However, I reckon you can get a gist of the reasons underpinning my slight paranoia. Not that I protested to being compared to the chap in Rainman, especially as it came from a most attractive young lady. But Alf Garnett?! Please no.

Anyway, Tyrrel and Bill had the most wonderful day of it at The Castle. Possibly the most beautiful day of the season, with luminous October light and white breakers crashing and splashing a haze of sparkling spray over the rocks below.

Not to mention a couple of birdies on sixteen, two tasty looking pheasants sitting on the eighteenth green and behind, the auld toun standing majestic in its ancient, stone sculptured magnificence.

St Andrews. Who is like yee?

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