I was back at the driving range recently with my four-and-a-bit-year-old son and I’m pleased to report that there are encouraging signs of progress.

The club is being held the right way up for a start, the ball is now getting off the ground instead of skittering along it and the startling hissy fits, screaming abdabs and foot stamping tantrums have been tempered somewhat by these little glimpses of improvement.

As for my son’s golf? Well, he’s coming on in leaps and bounds. You knew that cornball gag was coming didn’t you?

The gentle, satisfying thwack of club striking ba’ in a relatively quiet practice bay is a sound far removed from the jarring racket being created in the game at large these days. Have you ever known a period of such relentless grousing, harrumphing, upheaval and uncertainty? Dear me.

From club golfers grumbling about the World Handicapping System right through to elite players moaning that they’re not getting paid enough compared to other elite players, while displaying the kind of unhinged entitlement that used to be the reserve of insane Roman emperors, the auld game is in a right pickle.

If it’s not moan, moan, moan, then it’s all me, me, me. With the real world mired in truly desperate straits, golf could do with getting a grip of itself.

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© Herald Scotland