Tavistock? More like 'Travestystock,' am I right?

Cue the tweedy classical music. Go ahead, get it running. All set? Good, because it's time to bring you the recap of the Tavistock Cup.

'Twas a lovely two days of golf, in which the gentlemen from Lake Nona triumphed over their gallant competitors from Isleworth 17-13. Lake Nona's outstanding showing now sets the series all square at 3-3-1. Good show, gentlemen! Top-notch performers were ...

... OK, enough. I can't even fake this anymore. Yeah, the Tavistock was held earlier this week, and guess what? Nobody outside of the two communities playing even gives a hoot, especially once Tiger Woods revealed he wouldn't be playing. (Possibly because of temptations like this.)

The Tavistock is a well-dressed version of a neighborhood softball game. That's all it is. And to pretend it's something more is just to buy into the stuffy tradition of golf that's as dated as eight-track cassettes. Our pal Shane Bacon called it the most "pointless event in the world," and after hearing about the experience of Golf Digest's Ron Sirak, I'm inclined to agree.

While checking in at the media tent, Sirak received a complimentary golf shirt, as is often the tradition at tournaments. And then it got absurd:

So I get to the shuttle and a friendly enough chap says, "Didn't they give you a shirt?" to which I replied: "Yes they certainly did and a damn nice one it is." That was apparently the wrong answer. The guy, who now was getting very serious about his job, says: "In the spirit of the competition, everyone is expected to wear either Lake Nona blue or Isleworth red," or maybe it was the other way around. Frankly, the absurdity of the request -- which wasn't really a request -- directed my attention away from the details. Anyway, I replied: "In the spirit of journalism, I cannot wear your corporate uniform while I am covering your event. I am here as a journalist, not as a billboard."

At this point, the friendly enough chap who had morphed into an overly officious quasi official went up the food chain to the senior overly officious quasi official, a place where I thought sanity would reside. I was wrong. The argument that I was there to work and not be a spectator seemed to matter not one whit. At this point I lost all interest in this made-for-TV event. The Arnold Palmer Invitational was commencing at Bay Hill, a couple miles down the road, and spending Monday with Arnie seemed like an even better idea than usual.

I handed the overly officious quasi official my business card and told him to tell whoever cared about such matters that I came, I saw and I rejected the terms of engagement.

Lovely. Incidentally, the AP's Doug Ferguson did the same thing. The Tavistock folks could take note of being a complete golf-world laughingstock, but somehow, I don't think they care one bit.

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