Zeus, reigning Greek god and golfing nut, is sitting on the throne in his marble retirement condo on Mount Olympus, a new sub-division south of Golden Beach with its own 18 Greg Norman-designed hell holes.

He is playing Potty Putter, a new game (which I saw the other day in the gift section of a Coolum pharmacy) which allows people with nothing better to do to practise their putting while on the loo.

“Godammit!” he says.

“I’ve got an eternity to practise and I still can’t get this damn thing into the cup!

“Hermes, as the god of messages, I want you to tell my no-good son Ares, the god of war, to wipe out the Scots – including the damned fool who invented this infernal game at St Andrew's.

“I have the power to create whole worlds, bring civilisations to their knees, cloud men’s minds and sweep women off their feet.

“But I can’t get my handicap under 20.”

Hera, Zeus’s golfing widow, pops another grape in his mouth along with his blood pressure pill and wipes grape juice off his beige cardigan.

“Relax, dear. Why don’t I switch on the mortal portal: television I think the local yokels down here call it?” she says.

“There is nothing like channel surfing the human soaps to make you feel superior to them.”

“Agh, Hera, what’s the use!” the grumpy old god rants.

“TV has not been the same since Murdoch started trying to play me by ruling the world!

“I’ll just see what sport is on by flicking through the remote ... look ... the PGA is about to get under way at Coolum!

“Here’s my chance to get even with a game that is entirely godless.

“I might not be able to control my slice, but I certainly can play with the minds of the basket cases on the professional circuit.

“Hera, remember the time I got cute with the Shark by letting that skinny kid that nobody had heard of sink that 140 footer in the US Masters back in ’87?”

“Yes dear, a million times … and about how Ian Baker-Finch owes his commentating success to your yips,” she says.

“I’d had a ball that day with that Mize kid … gave him six birdies but kept him squirming with five bogeys and, then, bang – the play-off,” he boasts.

“He actually thought he’d won something other than a gold straitjacket and a free passage to the shrink’s couch.

“You know Larry’s best results in the past seven years at Augusta … tied for 25th in 2000 and 42nd in ’06.

“At least Norman had the sense to give up serious golf and take up tennis stars.

“Hera, look who’s teeing off. It’s Nick O’Hern.

“The guy’s such a trier. He never stops believing in himself. So I feel sorry for him.

“After toying with Nicko and Pete Lonard last year at the 18th hole play-off, I gave him his day in the sun.

“And, guess what? It has all been rain clouds ever since.

“For a second there he’s in the top 20 and thinking, yeah, I can do this and, then, bango … back to 45 and sliding ever so surely to towards 51, which means no free invite to the majors.

“But my all-time favourite is our local boy, Stevie Bowditch.

“There’s a guy you’ve got to admire for just getting out of bed in the morning and he has the absolute heart to play a game where a triple bogey and an eyebrow barber lurks at every tee!”

Hera says: “Zeus, he seems like such a nice masochist and it was so nice of you to let him finish second in the NZ Open for a tidy little pick-up.

“Can’t you go easy on him over the next four days? Maybe even let him win something?”

“Well … it just might be his turn to think his luck has changed,” Zeus says.

“So you’ll smile on him?”

“Nah, I’ll let him shoot an opening 70, mix in some bogey-birdies and see how I’m feeling when I wake up tomorrow.”