The Ryder Cup starts today, which means for the next few days golf fans will act like civilisation itself is at stake because a man in chinos sinks a putt.
Forget NATO, forget the EU, forget the UN, this is Europe versus America, and apparently nothing else matters.
Except, of course, it’s golf, which makes the whole thing even more completely ridiculous.
First of all, “Team Europe”? Go way out of that. Europe isn’t a team.
Europe is about as realistic a team as the Decepticons in Transformers — great for the storyline, but completely made up.
Here in Europe we’re so united we can’t even agree on what to call a biscuit.
These are countries that have spent centuries at each other’s throats, but apparently when it comes to hitting a small white ball into a hole, they become brothers in arms.
Spain and England together? Please.
The Spanish Armada might have been sunk in 1588, but they still haven’t forgiven each other.
Italy and France working as one?
They’ve had long-running disputes over their Alpine border, fishing rights in the Mediterranean, and even a few small villages have switched sides over the years.
Yet in the Ryder Cup, they’re hugging like long-lost cousins because somebody sank a putt.
And the fans lap it up as though the fate of the continent rests on a man called Rory wearing a cap with 12 yellow stars.
Meanwhile, the Americans are foaming at the mouth, chanting “USA! USA!” as if this is the moon landing all over again. It’s golf, lads.
You’re still wearing polo shirts tucked into chinos. Nobody’s storming Normandy here.
Then there’s the sheer over-the-top pageantry of it all. They play national anthems. They wave flags. They have emotional press conferences where millionaires sob about “doing it for the lads.”
Imagine explaining to an alien that these tears aren’t about famine or freedom or family tragedy, no, they’re because a Scandinavian man chipped in on the 16th.
And let’s not ignore the hypocrisy. For 103 weeks out of every 104, golfers are lone wolves, grinding away for personal prize money, muttering about their “swing plane.”
Suddenly, once every two years, they discover the concept of team spirit.
The rest of the time, if another player collapsed on the fairway, they’d step over his twitching body to line up a birdie putt. But for Ryder Cup week?
Oh, now it’s brotherhood, loyalty, sacrifice! A true bond forged in the fires of matching polo shirts.
The format itself is gloriously confusing.
Fourballs, foursomes, singles… you need a spreadsheet and a PhD in logistics to understand what’s happening.
Half the audience pretend they get it, while the rest just cheer whenever someone waves a flag.
And don’t get me started on “halved” matches. Only in golf can a contest end with everyone smiling and slapping backs because nobody really won.
Even the trophy is ridiculous. The Ryder Cup looks like something you’d win for coming second in a parish raffle.
It’s tiny. It’s gold-plated. It’s basically a glorified egg cup. Yet when Europe wins, Sergio García will clutch it like he’s just liberated Paris.
The Americans will act like they’ve been robbed of their birthright. All over a cup that looks like it should be holding sugar lumps in your granny’s kitchen.
But here’s the kicker: deep down, this is why people secretly love it.
Because in its utter absurdity, the Ryder Cup is the greatest piece of theatre golf has.
It’s golf pretending to be war, golf dressed up as gladiatorial combat, golf with a drum and a trumpet and a giant inflatable leprechaun in the crowd.
It’s utterly ridiculous — and that’s why so many people who don’t even like golf enjoy watching it.
So next time you hear the phrase “Team Europe,” don’t think of unity, or politics, or culture.
Think of twelve men in badly fitting slacks, awkwardly high-fiving each other, pretending that centuries of continental rivalry melt away when there’s a putt on the 18th.
Europe isn’t a team. It’s barely even a WhatsApp group.
And that’s exactly why the Ryder Cup will forever remain golf’s most gloriously nonsensical pantomime.