The key to enjoying Scottish cuisine is single-malt whiskey. Pour enough peaty brown water down the gullet, and all manner of deep-fried rubbish qualifies as edible.
If the Rover fails to post a correspondence tomorrow, it likely will be due to his incarceration for assaulting one of the thousands of obnoxious, consumption-crazed American golf fans who have co-opted golf’s First Village this week. There are more Yanks than Scots in the Auld Grey Toon, and most are boisterous, potbellied men draped in gold, garish head-to-toe logoed togs and spikeless golf shoes. Nothing saps the charm of St. Andrews like sweaty Joe Rolex from Chicago bulling his way into your personal pub space with his eight bags from the merchandise tent so he can demand “a cold Bud and some pretzels or somethin’.”
The entire media tent breathed a selfish sigh of relief yesterday when Michelle Wie was crushed (5 and 4) in the quarterfinals of the U.S. Amateur Public Links championship. Every American golf scribbler in St. Andrews was convinced one of the greatest golf stories in history was going to happen an ocean away. Kudos to the 15-year-old prodigy for another phenomenal showing.