Vive la France. The diarist is in gay Paree – well, some south west suburb of it anyway – for the Ryder Cup and, over the past few days we have been getting au fait with the lingo.

“Croque Monsieur?” asked the waiter in the media centre canteen as he caught a glimpse of me hirpling around at the counter.

“No, my Y-fronts are just a bit tight,” I replied gingerly.

“Mon dieu!” le garcon responded before darting off to alert a security guard. Ah, the auld alliance is alive and well. Well, it was until the subsequent altercation with le garde de securite.

Having calmed the waters with some nonchalant Gallic shrugging, the diarist set forth for an exploration of the sights, sounds and smells of this grand transatlantic tussle.

It’s a fair old bonanza at Le Golf National this week. Rather like the growing obesity crisis, everything’s big at the Ryder Cup these days.

A wander round the spectator village the other day brought the diarist to a sizeable replica of Samuel Ryder’s little gold chalice made out of Lego.

“As a Dane, I am proud of one of my country’s most famous exports – the Lego brick”, gushed Thomas Bjørn, the European Ryder Cup captain.

The original trophy is 17 inches tall, around nine inches wide and weighs in at about four pounds.

So broadly equivalent to the measurements of Jimmy Krankie’s school uniform then.

The exhibit plonked on site for folk to point and gawp at, meanwhile, was a trifle bigger.

Weighing in at 88kg and standing at over two metres tall, this carefully constructed tribute took 264 hours to assemble while the whole erection consists of 169,397 pieces. It’s a bit like The Herald’s sports section on a Saturday.

“That’s a lot of bricks,” whispered a passer-by as the diarist gazed at the intricate majesty of the edifice standing before me. It’s a fitting construction for a nerve-jangling week. Let’s face it, when the players took to the first tee yesterday, a few of them were, well, bricking it too …

*Dressed for success? The European players arrived in the media centre the other day wearing bright yellow jackets that made them look like they’d spent the night in a jar of piccalilli.

Immediate comparisons were made to that good old holiday camp caper, Hi-de-Hi, with Thorbjorn Olesen almost morphing into Gladys Pugh as the Danish rookie discussed affairs in the home team room. By all accounts, the Europeans appeared to be happy campers. Look, is that Ruth Madoc mulling over the fourball pairings? Ho-di-Ho …

*Staying with Olesen, the eligible bachelor arrived at the event’s Gala dinner in the splendour of the Palace of Versailles without a partner.

As the rest of his team-mates posed and preened for the cameras with their respective WAGs, Olesen marched in alone. The diarist had offered to go as Olesen’s significant other but he thought my blouse and pearls clashed with his tie ...

*What a palaver. The decision to host both Betfred Cup semi-finals at Hampden Park on the same day has caused a considerable amount of grousing and groaning.

Apparently, playing two matches within a few hours in Mount Florida is the “best and most practical solution” according to the SPFL secretary Ian Blair. Is that not what Lord Cardigan said about the Charge of the Light Brigade?

Clearly determined to get the most out of the national stadium, those in charge are also keen to shoehorn in a Rod Stewart concert, a wedding fair, a model railway exhibition and an antiques roadshow between the kick-offs. Nae bother.

*Guid gear comes in sma’ bulk. The diarist was intrigued by tales from Latin America of the rising popularity of Microman, the smallest star in Mexican professional wrestling who packs muscles, power and a gallus swagger into his three-foot high frame.

It’s a queer old difference from the behemoths from the UK wrestling scene of yesteryear when a heaving, grunting embrace between Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks provided an eye-opening education like no other and at least gave you more of an insight into the complex mating procedures and elaborate rituals that had to be employed by the dinosaurs if they were to successfully breed without shattering their spines.

*Keep on runnin’. At the sprightly age of 85, Geoff Oliver still has plenty of oomph in those legs.

The redoubtable Hinckley Running Club veteran recently set a new world record for endurance running by clocking up over 77 miles in the space of 24 hours.

“Most of the new runners seem to prefer distances under 10 miles,” Oliver once commented. Those bloody layabout young ‘uns eh?