As I write, Golf Channel has aired six episodes of my TV show, and if anyone hates it, they've been decent enough not to tell me so. In fact, it's allegedly the No. 1 show that has nothing to do with golf on the channel. I've got to tell you, though — it's a weird feeling having your own show on the telly. I've been on plenty of other shows, but this time it's my actual fault if something sucks! It's called Feherty, so it's pretty difficult to blame McCord, which is what I've always done in the past. And the scale of the production has been a bit of a "slap in the bake," as they say in Northern Ireland, where I've just spent two days, one of which was to interview Rory McIlroy, who may also be numero uno by the time this rag hits the stands.
I swear, I like that wee lad more every minute I spend with him, and I fervently hope that in the coming years he stays true to who he is now. But there will be pitfalls all along Rory's path. Trust me, during my obviously not-so-similar career, I frequently had to play three off the tee of stupidity, drop under severe penalty out of self-induced mental health hazards, and at one stage, even consider disqualifying myself from the mortal tournament altogether. But I was lucky enough to blunder into She Who Must Be Obeyed, and to be surrounded by people who either loved or at least cared about me. In Rory's case, he has a great family, along with the greatness of Chubby Chandler, Stuart Cage, and all the staff at ISM guarding his front, back and sides. If Rory gets to No. 1, he'll need Chubby.
But there's no way Rory McIlroy can continue to be warm and fuzzy the way he has been. If he continues to play well, the ruthless muckraking media (in which I am a totally covert operator) will knock that out of him. There will be endless press conferences, blinding lights will be shone up his kilt, and his closet will be infested with CSI types looking for skeletal remains. That's why my one piece of advice to Rory was simple: "Whatever it was you did, go ahead and blurt it out now, preferably to me."
I know what you're thinking — I worry about others too much. You're probably concerned that if this show of mine takes off swimmingly and my idea for a full-contact Antiques Roadshow also goes to number one, I could encounter problems similar to the ones Rory will face, and will become an unapproachable, gaping a-hole. "Too late!" says my editor, who, believe you me, is an absolute card.
The reason you never read or hear anything scandalous about me is not because I've never done anything scandalous — oh nay, nay, and thrice nay I tell you! No, I've spent the last decade telling people what an arsehole I was and still am, and because no one ever takes me seriously, the whole sordid pile of crap to which I have confessed has been swept under the rug at MDAM — the Mental Dungeon of American Media. Hugh Grant has a pile down there, as do Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Miles Davis and Eliot Spitzer. (Their most recent exhibit is an unfinished poop pyramid by Charlie Sheen.) My rap sheet may be relatively small, but it doesn't matter. As long as it's already been out there, no one can produce any kind of putrid scoop on me.
At least I hope they can't. Perhaps there are missing dastardly doings for which I am responsible, which spun completely off the wheel under my hat while my head-hamster was all hopped up on drugs. Not that there would be anything I could do about them now. If reliable witnesses showed up with a credible story, all I could do would be fess up and look remorseful. America forgives the truthful, and that's a fact.
Now, where the hell was I? Oh yes, Rory McIlroy. Actually, never mind. I'm pretty sure that boy will be fine at No. 1 — as long as I'm around to advise him.