Party-lover who tore up the script stumbles into elite club of major winners

Published on Monday 18 July 2011 18:39

FOR once, perhaps, the alcohol fumes were drifting towards the journalists, rather than from them.

Darren Clarke conducted his second post-Open press conference yesterday morning. For the first, on Sunday evening, he had been drunk on that heady potion called victory. Yesterday, however, he was just drunk. Golf and grog have long been bed-fellows. There aren't many club houses in the land without a bar and the traditional end to a round is a visit to said room. Even the most prestigious trophy in world golf is something designed to put claret in. Or, indeed, Guinness.

Actually, this was a charge vehemently denied by Clarke yesterday morning, although he had, in the delirium of Sunday night, pledged to fill it to the brim with the black stuff. He had clearly poured a considerable volume down his own throat, however.

Talking of beds, Clarke hadn't seen one since Sunday morning, when he tossed back the covers and determined to write himself into golf history. The mother of all sessions started almost as soon as he sealed a remarkable victory on Sunday night, becoming the oldest Open champion since the 44 year-old Roberto de Vicenzo in 1967, and the oldest winner of a major since Ben Crenshaw took the Masters title in 1995, aged 43.

Clarke is 42. And he would probably admit to looking every one of those years yesterday morning, although there was a youthful glint his eye.

"I've looked at the trophy all night and sort of semi-figured out it's mine," he slurred, delightfully. The transcriber in the corner, the unsung heroine of this tournament so far as sports reporters are concerned, was bravely engaging with her toughest task yet; Deciphering Darren.

"I had quite a few pints and quite a few beers and quite a few glasses of red wine," he added. "It all continued until about 30 minutes ago."

You only hope he hadn't been at the wheel of the buggy which transported him to the Media Tent at 9.10am yesterday morning, a mere ten minutes after the scheduled start. Some had suspected he wouldn't turn up. But Clarke has been full of surprises all weekend.

He led the Open on Saturday morning and he led it when it mattered on Sunday night, cheered down the last fairway by moist-eyed spectators, the majority of whom had willed this victory. Clarke had kept it together admirably. He pointed to the sky during the celebratory speech, and referenced his late wife Heather. "She'd probably be saying: 'I told you so'," he said.

His mother and father, Hetty and Godfrey, watched on from the side of the green, as did his fiancee, Alison Campbell. "It's not every often someone can share their dreams with their parents," he reflected yesterday.

"I've been able to do that this week and it's very special."

Clarke let no-one down on Sunday and performed the speech-making duties with aplomb. But then, with the hard part accomplished, he set about celebrating. And boy, did he celebrate. How much sleep did you get? was the first question. "Zero," he replied. "I have not been to bed yet."

It had taken its toll by yesterday morning. He was unable to answer a question about whether he was going to postpone his intention to start a Weight Watchers course. Not because he didn't know, but because it provoked a bout of industrial-strength coughing. Andrew 'Chubby' Chander, his manager, looked on proudly. He believes Clarke performs better when he is out of condition.

It's a perverse notion, one which flies in the face of the currently in-vogue thinking that youth combined with athleticism is the recipe for success in golf. Lee Westwood, Clarke's old friend, has been aiming to slim down in an attempt to claim that elusive first major victory. And then Clarke comes along to debunk the theory. "The game is fickle," he reasoned yesterday. "It hammers you, it hammers you, and then it gives you something."

Clarke even had a fly fag as he closed-out victory on Sunday, tossing the butt into the rough. He broke all the rules. When did sport follow the rules? Tom Watson, 61 years young and with two artificial hips, finished a shot better off than the young gun Rory McIlroy. Clarke, the 200-1 outsider, beat them and everyone else to the title.

It's not surprising, then, that he should conduct his morning-after-the-night-before press conference in a state you would have to describe as a few sheets to the fierce Royal St George's wind. Clarke has already celebrated an emotional Ryder Cup victory by draining a pint of Guinness while hanging over a balcony at Dublin's K Club.

He is the antidote to Louis Oosthuizen and Stewart Cink, the quietly spoken, ever-so-slightly dull two previous winners of the Claret Jug. But at least he has promised to be a careful owner. "Actually, there has been nothing in it overnight," he said, when asked whether he had supped liquor from the jug. "I'm a little bit of a traditionalist. I'm a bit of a 2-iron as opposed to rescue (club], I'm that sort of guy. I feel a bit funny about putting stuff in the Claret Jug that shouldn't be in there. So there's nothing in it - as yet. That may not be the case as the week goes by, but at the moment there's nothing in there." There was something in the air, though. The sweet smell of victory, mixed-in with the slightly staler scent of a right good tear-up.