The ideal make up of a European Ryder Cup dressing room:
At least one passionate, flamboyant and combustible Spanish maestro with a proven record of winning US majors. Preferably two such maestros.
Two Irishmen, one from the North and one from the South, both of whom are massive crowd favourites, swear on the course and at least one of whom is a serious drinker. They must appeal to the same sense of Irishness that makes us love the Pogues.
A solid English core of at least four lads who mostly haven’t won majors but are utterly dependable and tough as old boots. At least one of these English lads should be a cocky, annoying Jonny Cooper or Austin Healey type who seriously gets under the opposition’s skin. At least two of them should be supporters of not very successful northern or midlands football teams.
An unheralded, grounded and humble Scottish lad who supports Aberdeen FC.
A quirky Belgian we’ve never heard of before and who we never hear of ever again afterwards who for three days plays like God.
A passionate Italian who is a bit of a weak link in the fourballs/foursomes and then shocks everybody in the singles by demolishing the top US player.
A sober and solid German.
A sober and solid Scandinavian who speaks English in a Yorkshire accent.
A quirky, some would say very odd Austrian who if he wasn’t a golfer would probably drive novelty oversized trucks up extremely steep mountainsides for the hell of it.
A Clouseauesque Frenchman.
Captain: Somebody of Officer Class. Preferably an Englishman or an Anglo-Scot. Somebody who speaks one of the Germanic family of languages as their native tongue may be somewhat acceptable. Not an Irishman.
An array of vice captains who either have previously captained Europe or will captain Europe in the future, who bleed blue with yellow stars and are ALWAYS there to serve the cause of their continent.
