Too bad the Ryder Cup is a golf tournament

There’s no dodging it: the scenes at Bethpage Black, near New York, where the Ryder Cup is being played, were an absolute sewer fire. Forget “unsporting.” Forget “a bit rough.” This was golf with the gloves off and brass knuckles on.

We expect this kind of behaviour from soccer hooligans — the lads who think urinating into a pint glass and lobbing it counts as fan engagement. But golf? This is supposed to be the last bastion of genteel white-collar civilisation. A place where accountants, surgeons and hedge-fund managers can cosplay as athletes while pretending they’re above the oiks on the terraces.

And yet in Bethpage Black, the mask slipped. The American gallery turned into a chorus of Bud Light-fuelled banshees, screaming “Don’t cry, Rory!” and “You blew it!” at McIlroy and Lowry. These weren’t just jeers — they were primal howls from a nation whose self-worth apparently lives and dies with a small white ball.

Rory finally snapped. He turned on them, eyes blazing, and bellowed: “Guys, shut the fuck up!” — which in golf is roughly the equivalent of desecrating the altar at High Mass. Somewhere in St Andrews, a purist dropped dead on the spot.

But here’s the best bit: Rory and Shane responded by playing like avenging angels. McIlroy holed what was described as “an unearthly putt” on the 14th, then roared at the heavens like he’d just conquered Rome. For a moment, golf — usually a sport as lively as a parish council meeting — felt like something raw and feral and magnificent.

Personally, I loathe golf. It’s the favourite pastime of would-be dictators and mid-level managers who think casual Friday is an expression of their personality. But there’s something glorious about Europe marching into the Americans’ backyard and giving them a spanking so loud it echoes across the Atlantic.

Pity it wasn’t kickboxing. Imagine Rory McIlroy with a mouthguard, Lowry with a chair, and the crowd getting exactly what they seemed to want — a blood sport.