Stuck inside the office on a sunny summer Saturday when you’d rather be out on the links? Then you’ll probably hate reading about other people golfing while you’re working. Even so, I recommend you check out the Guardian’s live coverage of the British Open. Witty and bored British sports reporters watch the tournament on television from the newspaper’s offices and recount highlights, while also fielding reader email. A sampling from today, by the Guardian’s Rob Smyth:

10.55 The wind is screeching around like a demented old windbag whose alcopop-swigging boyfriend has just got in a fight on a Friday night in Rochester. But that doesn’t stop Nick Faldo putting from 20 feet at the fifth and celebrating with a ridiculous punch of the air. Bowl-cut bonzo Ken Brown, meanwhile, runs us through his gag repertoire.

11.00 Laura Davies has just said it’s Saturday. How we all wish it was, eh? Tiger Woods, like a judge battering his hammer-type thing furiously during an assault trial involving alcopop-swigging bruisers and their windbag-like partners that has got out of control, restores some order with par at the tenth. Meanwhile, my teeth still hurt.


P Casey -5 (18)
T Levet -5 (18)

M Campbell -4 (31)
V Singh -4 (26)
S Lowery -4 (24)

11.10 “I see Rochester has got another mention in one of your reports,” says Daniel Hayes. “What do you think would happen to Ian Poulter if he were to walk down the high street in those trousers at closing time?” I think he’d be warmly greeted by all, almost like a returning messiah. There wouldn’t be a dry in the house. Or even the high street.

11.15 “How would you compare Faldo’s fist pumping to Tiger Tim’s?” asks David Tirebuck. Good question. I’d say Timmy’s is that of an erstwhile loser trying to convince himself he’s actually a winner; Faldo’s, with his leg half-cocked like a nervous poodle, was that of an old man trying to convince himself he’s actually 25. Maybe. Meanwhile, a number of chaps are going too long on their putts. Either they’re misjudging the wind, or there’s lots of pent-up testosterone lurking that they just can’t control.

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