After stumbling around France for a few days last week in a vain attempt to cover the world’s most famous bicycle race, my traveling companion Éclair, who is the Slidell Sentry sports analyst, and I were politely asked to leave the country after I attempted to interview riders in the middle of the street.
“Leave France," said the gendarme, “Or we will force you to watch several Gerard Depardieu movies in a row."
Horrified, Éclair and I packed hurriedly, only stopping once on the way to the airport to pick up several boxes of French pastry which Éclair insisted we could not leave without. With our Tour De France plans shattered by cheap French wine, we decided to cross the English Channel and cover the British Open.
“Why is it called the British Open," asked Éclair, “When it’s played in Scotland?"
“I’m not sure," I replied, “I failed algebra."
We started our coverage of the British Open by finding the pub closest to the course, which is in St. Andrews, Scotland. What Andrew did to become a saint I have no idea, but I’m absolutely certain it had nothing to do with refrigeration.
“Ma’m," I said to the waitress who brought us our refreshments, “This beer is warm. Can you bring us some that’s cold?"
“Listen Yank," she said from behind teeth that looked like a crooked picket fence. “Don’t get your Alan Whickers tied up in a knot with me, or I’ll have you stuffed in the boot of the first lorry that whizzes by. It’s almost docky time and I can’t be noshing with a flid like yourself."
“What language is she speaking?" said Éclair from behind a stack of fish and chips. The man is nothing but adaptable. Having discovered that he could buy mass quantities of this British staple at next to nothing, he did just that.
“I think it’s Croatian," I said, “But then again, I failed economics."
After gagging down a half dozen or so of the brackish swamp water the English call beer, we managed to make our way out to the golf course. Standing around in the hot sun for two hours, we were finally rewarded for our patience with a view of Tiger Woods, who chipped onto the green about a dozen yards away from where we were standing. The crowd was silent as Woods lined up for his five yard putt, slowly drew back his club, and…."HEY LOOK!" Éclair screamed, “IT"S BENNY HILL. I LOVE THAT GUY!"
“I thought Woods was such a great golfer," said Éclair as we were being escorted off the course by a very unpleasant looking guy in a kilt. “He missed that putt by a foot."
We’ll be covering the rest of the British Open from the King’s Edge Pub and Billiards Hall. They’ve got a big screen TV and that swamp water kind of grows on you.
“England and America are two countries separated by a common language." – George Bernard Shaw.
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