From a sugar rush to a fake rush, it's been a testing week

Fatigue always strikes over the weekend of an Open Championship and I spent most of it chain-eating KitKats in a bid to retain enough energy to limp over the finishing line.

When I bought four KitKats in one go, the girl on the counter looked at me as if I had made some kind of mistake, checking that I actually wanted to buy four. It was as if she had never seen somebody with a need for a severe sugar injection.

We don’t all stay as young and full of beans as you, young lady. Some of us require a little pick-me-up now and then. As she flaffed around with the transaction, seeking her clarification on the number of KitKats, I lost control of my emotions and shouted: “Fore!”

The golfing wisecrack went straight over her head, but I was too tired to care. She was a long way from the most annoying member of Open staff – that accolade was claimed comfortably by one of the men stationed at the entrance I used each day.

“You got the right place?” was his daily quip as he scanned my credentials and saw Racing Post pop up on his device. “No horses here. Racing Post do golf?”

As I explained on the first day: “Yes, we do more golf than any other paper. We had a 24-page Open pullout. I’m in the middle of 18 days in a row writing about golf. Golf is very important to Racing Post readers.” (so please keep quiet, and let me in).

Staggeringly, he repeated the dose on Friday and Saturday (“Are you sure you’re in the right place?”), so I made a beeline for a different member of the gate team before making my Sunday entrance. The new guy was keen to know how I was, so I gave an honest answer (“Not great, been losing a lot of money.”), to which he replied: “More fool you.”

Ruddy heck, I am not sure whether I prefer Mr Have You Got The Right Place or Mr Unsympathetic Betting Basher. Can we just get robots to do this job next year?

Dealing with the gatekeepers has been challenging, but the lowlight of the week was when I thought I had spotted Ian Rush. I have always been a big admirer of the Liverpool legend and was pretty convinced it was the Reds’ all-time leading goalscorer in the gallery on Thursday.

I followed ‘Rush’ and kept staring at him, still unsure of whether it was him, then after a few minutes, he started staring back at me with an increasingly exasperated “Why are you staring at me?” expression.

I concluded it could not have been Rush because nobody else was staring at this chap. Surely some football fans would stare, too, if it had been him. I toyed with the idea of explaining to the man why I was staring (“Thought you were Ian Rush, mate – sorry...”) but then decided that would be too traumatic. I did a few peculiar eye twitches instead and wobbled my head around aggressively, pretending that I was a lunatic (or not pretending, you could say).

The highlight of my week was watching the drama unfold as a local lady almost lost her purse. It fell from her rucksack and she strode on purposefully without realising. Two American guys picked it up, chased her down and handed it back. She looked so grateful and surprised, and it was a joy for me to see humans helping one another survive in the Open bearpit.

Had I dropped my wallet, I would not have wanted any kind Americans to give it back. I don’t like how light my wallet is feeling after this Open. I am never happy unless I back the winner before the off – which I failed to do this week – and my other Open disappointment was that Laurie Canter and David Horsey never got to play together.

A Canter-Horsey twoball would have made my Open. And they didn’t even manage to arrange an Alfie Plant, Toby Tree, Chris Wood threeball. The R&A should be ashamed of themselves.

It wasn't to be for Ian Poulter this weekCredit: Getty Images

The patriotic Birkdale fans did not get the winner they wanted, either. When Ian Poulter was atop the leaderboard for a spell on Thursday morning, hopes of a British champion were ludicrously high among his gallery, but golf is very much a marathon rather than a sprint.

I overheard one lad say to his father while Poulter was purring on the course: “Dad, dad – if Poulter wins, I’ve got a photo of the champion!”

His wise old man, who has probably got some punting experience, replied: “There are three days to go, son. That’s a long time in golf.”

A long time indeed. Certainly not a champion. I am afraid all you have got now, kiddo, is a rather forgettable photograph of a Rodney Trotter lookalike.