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Yesterday was all about 44-year-old Justin Rose’s wonderful 67, the first chapter of what could become the greatest romantic story ever written by anyone from north-east Hampshire (providing we leave Jane Austen out of this). Hartley Wintney’s finest couldn’t right the nearly-man wrongs of 2007, 2015 and 2017, could he? Perhaps. Fingers crossed. Let’s see. Three days still to go. I may have lost my heart, but not my self-control.
Yesterday was also about Rory McIlroy. Somebody shouted “hallelujah!” when Scottie Scheffler hit his opening drive. Other well-worn biblical exclamations may well have been barked by fans of McIlroy, with some feeling, as he melted down on the homeward stretch, carding careless, clumsy, needless double bogeys at 15 and 17. Oh Rory. If we loved you less, we might be able to talk about it more.
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