You wouldn't say that the Ryder Cup was a male-dominated event, but the press pack, generously given to each reporter, contained a neck-tie.

Along with a Ryder Cup radio, Ryder Cup mouse pad, Ryder Cup notebooks etc, etc. In the vast media tent, there were only four stalls in the ladies' toilet, and twelve - we were reliably informed - in the gents. Never mind, both genders got Jo Malone shower gel and hand cream.

Our shower gel and hand cream was Wild Fig And Cassis. Our male colleagues claimed not to have noticed what their hand cream was made of.

It's amazing what men don't notice. One man said that he didn't notice the GWAGs at all, simply did not see women, what with the golf and everything.

The crowd cheered the players without noticing that they had not yet hit the ball. Darren Clarke was greeted with great waves of applause and people shouting "Darren!", like teenagers at a Westlife concert.

Really, when you think of the abuse that synchronised swimmers have had to endure, golf is a totally artificial game, and no amount of waffle in the Environmental Guide (included in the press pack) can persuade you otherwise. ("It cannot simply be stated that golf is either good or bad for the environment, " says the Environmental Guide on page 6. ) Golfers walk up the fairway apparently oblivious to the fact that they are being followed by a couple of helpers who are carrying their clubs, a handful of camera crews and several policemen.

In the merchandise tent, noone notices that they are being charged 23 for an eye-shade and 26 for a hat. One woman who was looking for her husband had a message put up on the hundreds of television screens which were everywhere.

The message asked the husband to phone her. Hopefully he noticed it, but quite possibly he did not.

And woe betide the little boy who dared to talk when a shot was about to be played. Men walked up and down with signs which bore the word "Quiet". The bewildered child could not see the signs, of course.

He was at least fifty feet from the golfer. There was always someone there ready to hiss "Hush".

Saw a lot of men with tightly furled umbrellas who obviously enjoy telling people to keep quiet.

It was kind of like being in an episode of The Prisoner. Golf is a secret society, really, with its own warped logic, and if you don't subscribe to its beliefs, it's kind of hard to have a conversation.

Ask a friendly garda for directions back to the gate and he says kindly "Are you not following it to the 17th and 18th, then?", just as you are about to weep with exhaustion.

Golf fans are insatiable and ruthless. Even at rest, they are gathered around television screens which are showing 'The History of the Ryder Cup'. They won't let you use your mobile phone in case you might disturb the players, so queue patiently to use pay phones in some sort of exercise in nostalgia. They can whisper for hours at a time, which adds to the atmosphere of reverence. The crowd is endlessly patient, going "Awww" when a putt is missed and shouting "Get in!" when the ball is on its way to the hole, and cheering madly when someone manages to sink one. I mean, how many possible outcomes are there, when you think about it?

Never have I seen so many men so happy. The Ryder Cup is a male festival, a gathering of men in the woods. Not so much Iron John as Five Iron John. A festival where men are in anoraks, everything is highly organised and wives follow their husbands around, watching them work. What a wonderful world it would be, eh?

A corporate world, of course.

From your O2 corporate chocolate to the unanimity of the welcomes published in the 2006 Ryder Cup Official Programme.

Messages from President Mary McAleese, Queen Elizabeth, President Bush and Jose Manuel Barroso, the European Commission President. Her Majesty's writ runs over the K Club for the duration of the Ryder Cup, making all who attend it subject to British law, for some bizarre golf reason. But never mind 800 years of oppression being brought back for the weekend, because the golf is the thing. It's the wives you have to feel sorry for.