April, let’s face it, is the ultimate sporting month. If it were a woman, it would be Isa Guha. If it were a pie, steak and cheese. A band, The Jam. Let’s be honest, it’s got the lot.

Saturday saw my favourite sporting day of the year, the Grand National. We’ve had the Boat Race already too. The County Championship started yesterday (Elstow begin their season on the 27th, thanks for asking. See you all there. http://www.elstowcc.co.uk/fixtures/ ) Still to come are the FA Cup and Heineken Cup Semi-Finals. It’s the business end of the season at Goldington Road too (Kenilworth Road and its hapless occupants, in contrast, seemingly stopped trading about mid-February) while the Premier League Darts bandwagon continues to roll triumphantly from city to city. They’ll be shuffling happily into their seats at The Crucible before long too. On Sunday 21st April it’s the London Marathon when the roads of our nation’s capital are full to bursting with great athletes and greater causes.

Then there’s tonight. Several thousand miles away. On the Azalea lined fairways of Augusta. Vistas so polished, drama so compelling, spectators so comically attired and ample, it could only be The Masters.

I love golf. I always squirm in embarrassment when I’m asked if I play it. As mentioned here previously, nothing, nothing opens the overspilling compartment in my head coarsely marked ‘Self Hate’ like a round of golf. So to prevent myself from turning, permanently, into a gibbering wreck I tend to steer clear of anything that involves picking up my clubs.

I’ll contentedly watch it all day though. Yesterday’s Par Three competition made for interesting viewing. Watching the wonderful Messrs Palmer, Player and Nicklaus (Possibly the best triumvirate since the aforementioned band earlier?) enchant the crowds amid the spring sunshine was in stark contrast to the uncomfortable live interviews given by today’s heroes, the pride of N’orn Iron, with their respective partners on their bags.

Tonight, though, the real stuff begins. Expect to see one of our guys start really well only to have a shocker come Saturday. Await the first idiotic ‘inthehoooole’ shout from one of the half-witted locals. Count on someone from outside the predicted pack come good too. You will tear your hair out at the amount of ad breaks. You will coo in appreciation at the utterly superlative craftsmanship of the course’s greenskeepers and groundsmen. You will speak aloud ungenerous, cussed oaths when Lee Westwood misses a sitter.

The Masters helps make golf the sport it is. It helps make April the month it is. Put your feet up and enjoy.