I currently have the bizarre task of helping to put together a magazine for the members of a well known swanky golf club. Although the word swanky is slightly redundant, isn't it, as there aren't many down-at-heel golf clubs here in the UK, and when I search for decrepit golf club I'm directed to a site selling a Natural Anxiety Remedy known as Zoloft. "Do something for your health today!" it says. Under the heading Precautions for Zoloft it says:

Avoid taking MAO inhibitors (e.g., furazolidone, isocarboxazid, linezolid, moclobemide, phenelzine, procarbazine, selegiline, tranylcypromine) within 2 weeks before or after treatment with this medication. Oh, and make sure you don't go to a decrepit golf club.

Well, this golf club certainly isn't decrepit. Despite having no experience of golf save for a pitch-and-putt triumph in Luton at the age of 10, I've had to write a 1500 word article about the history of this place over the last couple of days. The acres of gorgeous fairways, the major tournaments that have been played there, the time Sandy Lyle whooped Nick Faldo's ass, and so on. Sadly I couldn't mention ass-whooping within the text, and instead I had to say something about him beating him nine points to seven, or whatever. You'll find a similar lack of ass-whooping in respected world history books – Richard III failed to whoop Henry Tudor's ass at the Battle Of Bosworth Field etc. – so I thought I'd stick with that non-ass-whooping model throughout. My only source material for writing this feature was one solitary book called "The History Of [Golf Club Name]" and it felt like writing a school essay from an authorized text-book – distilling the material down, taking out all the long words you don't understand, like Ballesteros. Man alive, it was a boring task.

Today, I'm having to put together various pages of products which the wealthy members might vaguely be interested in. I'm ringing PRs and being told about bottles of whisky that cost in the region of £1200, tennis racquets encrusted with jewels, yachts packed to the gunnells with foie gras, that kind of thing. They are all singularly failing to send over samples of these foie gras-stuffed yachts, which is annoying, cos that's the kind of thing you could sling on eBay, sit back, wait for the auction to end, and realise that you accidentally put it in the Alternative:Punk:7" Singles section, and end up having to sell it to a confused teenager from Tring for about £1.49. Still. That's what I'm doing, in case you wondered. Hello? Oh.

In other news, my favourite French prog rock band are back on the road. Their website suggests that we go along to a show, and "hear Magma in its total unrestrained glory as the whole band strains every muscle and ligament to blow the fuse of the cosmos. Audience must wear seatbelts." You'd need more than a restraining strap across your chest to cope with the fuse of the cosmos blowing, I'd imagine, but I suppose they're talking figuratively.