Admit it, it makes you feel like shit.

Watching rich entitled celebrities, wearing deadly jumpers that you cannot buy in the shops and even if they were for sale, they'd be in the Boss shop with the label that reads £300 tucked inside the garment, because if need to go searching for it, you can't afford it.

While you toil away at your desk, some talentless halfwit who was plucked from obscurity and probably now holds the title world's sexiest man, is poxing in a monster 50 foot putt across the green at Carnoustie amid guffaws and chortles from his multi billionaire playing partners and a high five from his top professional new best mate. Never mind that he's 40 over par, that bomb across the green and the 'I'm so fortunate' smile will be on all the highlights tomorrow.

And what about the weather? Not a cloud in sight, sun beating down, not so much as a breath of wind.  Even God loves these bastards.

These minted celebrities always have a better handicap than you too.  They generally play off five but it looks more like 25.

And when it's all over, they'll all head back to the Jigger In, which you probably wouldn't be able to get into this week anyway, for some caviar and champers and good hearty laugh at the poor and meek.

It doesn't bother me at all.

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