Diary. This morning.
Damnit, I suspected I'd put the cat among the penguins when I told the guys at the caddy grog-up that Tiger is a black ****hole. Surely that's categorised as "informed comment?"
Anyway the media dweebs are in a self-righteous lather. But not it turns out, for likening Tiger to someone's backside, but because I mentioned he was black. None of us Kiwis are racists. Everyone gets a fair shake in Enzed. We still let in Orientals, Islanders and Aussies, though we should have drawn the line at the Welsh.
Why don't these guys just write the truth?
When I minded Tiger, his world ranking was Number 1, but under my instructions no longer, he's 56 and heading South faster than Scott. (The polar bloke, I mean, not Adam who's a real white man). How many events have I won since we split?
One and a bit. Tiger?
Zip. He'll soon be playing pro-ams at joints like Balmacewen.
The media gives my achievements zero recognition, so today I've decided to hire a ghost-writing flunky to do another book, and set this right.
It's time you bozos knew how things really worked with Tiger and me. Who it ACTUALLY was that won those majors, and then the chump change events too.
Well with the roar of the crowds, and the fat guys having heart attacks, it was hard to hear what really went on between us. Read this, then you be the judge.
We'd start at the first tee, usually a long par five. I'd give Tiger the driver, and does he quibble?
Course not, there's not a peep. He knows who's in charge, and he just whacks away with what I give him. When we get closer to the green, say 120 out, he'll say: "What's next boss? Good long three wood?" The kid hasn't a clue. I'd give him the sand wedge, tell him to hit it three quarters, no more no less, and he says: "Yes Mr Steve, three-quarters it be." Mostly he'd bang it to within a couple of feet, which shows how precise my instructions are.
I found Tiger particularly tiring on the greens. He'd wander here and there, squinting at this and that.
Finally when he's totally foxed, he'd remember to seek a higher opinion.
"Four inches left to right, and did you tell them its six Speight's afterwards? None of that Budweiser rubbish."
"Sure, Mr Steve, four inches and six Speight's. You prefers a glass, sir?"
Then he sticks it in the hole, as per. But you're asking if Tiger resented this master-servant relationship?
To be candid he sometimes did. You'll have noticed when Tiger was playing his expression was always like he just sucked on a lemon. He hadn't, and the lemon face is just him getting uppity with me.
I made sure to keep a proper distance with Tiger after golf.
Sometimes Tiger would say: "Hey, Mr Steve, wanna party tonight? We'll have fun - girls, girls, girls." I always said "no" because you don't know where social contact like this may lead.
Perhaps to a mixed marriage.
And marriage between a caddy and a golfer is bound to end in recriminations.
The more Tiger prizegivings I watched, the more I realised how ungrateful he was. When one of the white boys won - this happened sometimes - like as not in their acceptance speech they'd close their eyes, get teary, and say: "And most of all I want to thank My Lord and Master." But did Tiger ever give thanks to me like this?
Not once. Still, if Tiger did lose, I got a break because for the next week I didn't have to listen to him endlessly telling people his favourite joke. "Where do you find 150 white guys chasing after one black man?"
They'd say a Klu Klux Klan rally, or Obama press conference, and then he'd ping them with his answer. "The PGA Tour." Old hat I know, but Tiger thought that was a ripper.
I once suggested Tiger would get better TV recognition if he wore a Steve Williams bib. But just when it seemed my common sense would prevail, his management said Nike didn't want to share the space. So as you see, I had his best interests at heart, which makes it even harder when idiots accuse me of biting the hand that made me rich - especially as it's me's the one made Tiger's fortune, and I've done it happily, never wanting more. If you tithe at church, you'll know the Lord's share is exactly 10%. And that's precisely the same as Stevie's, except the Lord doesn't have to lumber the bloody clubs.
• John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
