You've just creamed your drive out of sight. The sun is shining, birds are chirruping in the trees, you stride down the fairway ten feet tall, a chilled can of Budweiser in your hand, humming Lou Reed's 'Perfect day'. You feel on top of your game, nothing can go wrong from here on in. You're Seve walking towards the clubhouse at Royal Lytham, the love and adoration of the gallery carrying you on to golfing legend. And then the appalling, heart-stopping consternation as you see it - your ball burrowed deep into a bunker; only its dimpled white backside visible above un-raked, Grade 3 masonry grit. Your shoulders drop, your head goes down. You're in schtook. We've all been there and let's face it - we all hate bunkers. But it's vital that you don't let that hate turn to fear. Confidence is everything. And whether it be T.E. Lawrence astride a camel routing the Ottoman Empire, Field Marshal Montgomery and his desert Rats kicking the smoke out of Rommell and the Afrika Korps, or Sandy Lyle attacking the 18th at Augusta in 1988 - it's a simple historical fact that the Brits have always thrived on sand. Churchill didn't declare that we'd have a settler with Nazi Germany on Brighton beach for nothing, you know? It's there, it's in the blood: Tommy Atkins busting through fortress Europe on the Normandy beaches, 1960s Mods and Rockers leathering the buggery out of each other - beach fights, we love 'em. So step into that fox hole proudly with the strength and pageantry of history in your hands. Channel your hate into cold white anger and blithe over confidence. Blood, sweat, toil and tears... It's Dunkirk spirit time. Plant your feet, open the face, aim for the cup and spank the bugger.
