Sinead Moriarty: My husband won't leave his golf bunker for love nor money
WHEN I asked my husband what he wanted to do this weekend, he spun around, looked at me in horror and gasped: "Nothing! It's the Ryder Cup!" He said "Ryder Cup" in a hushed tone, as if we were in a church, as if it's a holy word, as if it's something to be revered.
Therein lies the problem with the Ryder Cup. It is, to a lot of men, a religious experience, just as golf is a religion. Every two years, although it always seems to come around very quickly, our "friends and allies" the Americans become our sworn enemies.
Normally mild-mannered men turn into roaring, shouting monsters. From TV rooms across the country we will hear shouts of "Bloody Yank!", "BIRDIEEEE!" or sometimes, worryingly, "I love you, Rory!"