For golf fans, it's almost that time of year again. No, not when we all gaze in wonder at the azaleas and perfectly manicured fairway of Augusta National.
Rather, it is when we have The Masters rammed down our throats by Sky Sports commentators who hail it the greatest thing since sliced bread - as a opposed to a sliced drive. You can barely get through a set of adverts on Sky right now without this elitist competition, which gets underway next week, being plugged.
I'm a big golf fan. I don't just tune in for the majors of Ryder Cup. I'd happily sit through four days of the Valspar Championship or Nedbank Golf Challenge. But, for me, The Masters is the weakest of the sports' four majors.
And much of that is to do with how it is marketed. Sky LOVES The Masters, and don't we just know it. It's history, we are told, is unmatched. Well get this, The Masters has LESS history than the other three majors.
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By the time The Masters started in 1943, The Open had already been played 68 times. The US Open had been on the go for almost 40 years while even the much-maligned PGA had been played 16 times. Nor was it immediately viewed as a big tournament. Until the 1960s, it was on par with the Western Open.
But what about it's much vaunted traditions? Like Augusta National limiting the amount of screen time for TV coverage? At a time many golfers talk about growing the game, the arrogant posturing of a few stuffy old men has limited how much of The Masters you can actually watch.
Everything about The Masters just drips of elitism. From forcing commentators to refer to spectators as 'patrons', to making the caddies dress in ludicrous white jump suits, and throwing out anyone who dares quicken their pace to a light jog.
The annoyingly twee par three contest is perhaps the most vomit-inducing day in sport. I have far more respect for the players who ditch this overly-sentimental pitch and putt contest to actually prepare for what is supposed to be one of the biggest tournaments of the year.
The Masters is also, at its heart, an invitational. Unlike the egalitarian Open and US Open, you need to rely on an invite from Augusta National. True romance is David taking on Goliath, and the beauty of the two Opens lies in the fact that, in theory, any one of use to pitch up and try to qualify. The PGA isn't an Open either, but at least it invites the top 100 in the world rather than just the top 50.
Don't get me wrong, Augusta clearly looks fantastic on TV. With its vast fairway and cacophony of colours, it is easy to see why people fall under its spell. But familiarity can breed contempt and the beauty of the other three majors is they provide a different test each year.
Carnoustie might not look as nice on a screen, but I know which is the better test of golf. All this is before we even get into Augusta murky past of overt racism.
So I'll watch The Masters as I do every year, hoping again for a Rory McIlroy victory. But don't expect me to join in the gushing praise for a tournament that is all style over substance.
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