Suddenly it's almost here. After the eternal greyness of a British winter there is once again light at the end of what is always a very long tunnel. Happily this light is not, as Woody Allen once pessimistically remarked, the angry glow of an oncoming train. No, this is real light, Georgia light, Augusta bright. The Masters is many things but more than anything else it is the high note of fast-arriving better times, of sunshine and laughter, short skirts and long, cool drinks.
The golf, more often than not, is compelling. Sometimes it ends up in a cavalry charge, usually it climaxes with a tense battle between two or three players, each aware of a big destiny, each trying like hell to keep their nerves under some sort of…