Putting a hole in one hell of a dodgy opinion

"Don't let the buggers grind you down," a wise man once said. If it weren't for this mantra, I'd have been chewed alive by irritation a long time ago. As it is, I'm barely gummed. But sometimes someone grinds so hard I can't let it lie.

An article appeared in this newspaper recently in which Bruce Selcraig railed against the choice of the K Club as the venue for the Ryder Cup, describing it as "a thoroughly uninspiring, comically overpriced, Americanised resort course". His disdain was further illustrated by the suggestion that the car park was full of Mercs.

Never having been there, I can't confirm his assessment. Not that I have any desire to be in a position to. Frankly, I'd rather spend eight years in a Turkish prison cell with 11 greased wrestlers than spend a nanosecond in the changing room at the K - or any other golf - club.

Some days later, the Letters Editor deigned to publish a riposte from one Mr Matt Doyle (No relation. I hope.) Selcraig is a jealous buffoon, K Club is wonderful, blah blah blah.

But then there was this passage, the one that started the jaws of resentment achewing inside me.

"Just because [ Selcraig] took a vow of poverty by becoming a journalist does not mean the rest of us had to. By the way, if there were only Mercedes in the car park it must have been ladies' day or children's day. On a men's day it would have been Bentleys and Aston Martins."

At first I thought it was a clever joke. It must be a satire. Nobody is that obnoxious. But I did a bit of a background check on Mr Doyle and decided the letter was legit.

Don't get me wrong. It's not golf that irks. Nor the fact he touched a raw nerve with the poverty jibe. (Okay, maybe a little bit of it is. If I'd known when I decided to be a hack that some day I'd end up buying my underwear in a street market, I'd have chosen a different career. I suppose it's too late to be Minister for Transport?)

It's the obnoxious, smug, self-centred, supercilious, sexist guff about the Mercs and Bentleys that got up my nose. Doesn't that vile, vulgar, snobbish, nouveau riche, money-worshipping mindset make you want to pull teeth out with your bare hands?

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr Doyle: money may buy you a Bentley, but it can't buy you happiness. You are fooling nobody but yourself.

According to Buddhism, desire can never be truly satiated. It leads only to more desire and thus to unhappiness. In the golf club car park context, no matter how big or expensive a car you buy, someone will always turn up with a better one. You will then try to outdo them by buying a more expensive car, but will inevitably be surpassed by someone else. And so on and so on ad infinitum. That way lies madness. The only way to inner peace is to not give a damn what anybody thinks.

If there is a Hell, and I sincerely hope there is, all golf club car park snobs will be sent there once they hit their final triple bogey and be doomed to drive around for eternity in clapped-out Toyota Carinas for all to see.

They will be forced to use these bangers to do handbrake turns on the manicured greens of an impeccably-groomed replica of the K Club course. To compound their misery, a heavenly K Club course will be out of bounds to all but the former journalists and other penniless oiks. And I'll be among them, happily tearing around wearing nothing but my cheap pants.