Caddie to Paul Lawrie: Coming to the US Open as a frequent visitor to major golf tournaments you are aware that it is going to be XXLarge. The rough is bigger, the holes are longer, the crowds are bigger and they have got attitudes to match.

Bethpage Black offered everything, it was a bit like the fast food offer of " the lot" - more than you could possibly consume in one sitting.

New Yorkers are known amongst a traditionally vociferous nation as loud-mouths. Even the second-round deluge could not dampen their opinionated spirits. For European golfers to step onto the Long Island rostrum and have abuse hollered along with encouragement was not what they were accustomed to back home. At many events you would be lucky to have a couple of sheep and a goat peering over a distant fence towards the isolated competitors. Did anyone notice the lack of enthusiasm at the Great North Open in Slaley Hall?

With 40,000-plus motor-mouthed New Yorkers on your case it felt more like being at the last call at the pub on a Saturday night. Abuse for missing a putt, hooting and hollering for making a putt. Despite the stage fright of many of the overseas players, the mob were just zealous observers who wanted to see the competitors get the ball in the hole as quickly as possible. My own player was being bawled at as "Paulie", with a heavy B sound for the P, as if he was a local hero from Little Italy.

The professional golfers' insistence on absolute silence for each shot has got to be questioned after the racket in America. A general noise would be as comforting for the players as total silence to enable them to focus on their shots. The former was the easier option in Bethpage, where the crowd seemed to whisper like baritones in a canyon.

Jeff Maggert's caddie wanted to get some phone numbers from the crowd as he figured they could have a good conversation with his wife, who thought she knew everything there was to know about anything. These people, he thought, knew more. "How's your diarrhoea, Tiger?" one fan asked the champion as he emerged from a portaloo between shots.

Craig Stadler, our third-round playing partner, was given a hearty "W-A-L-R-U-S" chant as he arrived on each tee. Their affection for him ran out on the 12th green when he took a chunk out of the verdant green-side rough after duffing his chip shot. The more formal "Stadler" replaced the affectionate "Walrus" as one guy growled "put your divot back, Stadler, that's not golf, that's vandalism."

His caddie asked the concerned spectator to "put a muscle on it, buddy" and as Stadler waddled off towards the next tee he mumbled about "knowing how Monty felt over here, that's the first time I have been heckled in my own country". I trotted up behind him wondering where the movie director was hiding.

Of course Sergio Garcia's response to the mob on the 17th green was the wrong one.

In true American fashion the young Spaniard gave them the bird. This gang were the most offensive, many of them the worse for a long day's drinking. The good thing about Friday's deluge, one spectator noted, was that the beer glasses of some fans were always full.

The mood about "El Nino" was that he should be fined for slow play. Those of you who have suffered in any way with ticks or twitches during a round will appreciate the strain of taking the club away at all on some occasions.

One wise guy asked if Sergio could put a good word in for him with his girlfriend Martina Hingis and set him up with her doubles partner Anna Kournikova.

If you think the Kid from Castellon had a rough time in New York spare a thought for the owner of the local paper recycling plant. His premises is located along the circuitous route from the clubhouse to the 10th tee. Given the present security climate, there was an unusually heavy police presence. The police sniffer dogs got whiff of a suspicious odour in the vicinity of the recycle plant and, it seems, managed to unearth a truck load of marijuana and fireworks.

The scene in the caddie-shack was more akin to the country-club locker-room: The television screen in the corner; the private phones to the side; the linen table cloths adorning the dining tables. There were three masseurs at the weary toters' disposal from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. from Monday to Sunday and the service was free.

Yet nothing could have prepared us for the demands of Bethpage, where the size was XXXL and the enthusiasm of the patrons irrepressible.