I don’t want you getting the impression that I fritter away my life on a golf course, but when I was asked to join a Knights vs Commoners/Chairmen match at Sunningdale last week, I couldn’t resist, even though I’m injured. No better place to find out what’s going on in the racing world than shooting the breeze during 18 holes at ‘the dale’.

The Knights were led by Sir A.P. McCoy, who looks a bit like Bryson DeChambeau when he lines up to hit the ball, but not so much afterwards. His partner was Sir Francis Brooke, the King’s man at Ascot.

‘So you’re not playing, so you’re not?’ A.P. asked. Or something like that. ‘Lateral epicondylitis,’ I replied, shaking my head gravely. I knew he’d pour scorn on me if I let slip this was no more than tennis elbow. We’re talking about a man who holds the record in a cryotherapy chamber: minus 150°C while recovering from a broken back. ‘It’s all in the head,’ he said dismissively.

The Knights, who looked as fit as whippets, faced strong opposition, although there was a slight hiatus before the match because Mike Wainwright, chairman of Cheltenham racecourse, had left his clubs at a driving range – half an hour away. ‘That’s embarrassing,’ I said. ‘Practising before the match?’

Mike was joined by Roger Devlin, chairman of the Levy Board and a bit of an operator in the world of golf too. Roger arguably has one of the most important jobs in racing and, as one of the government’s appointees, presumably the ear of No.10, too. Sadly, the funds he can distribute back to racing via the levy are getting seriously diminished by the behaviour of another quango, the lunatic asylum known as the Gambling Commission.

After the first three drives had been spanked down the middle of the first fairway, Sir Francis swaggered onto the tee and took a swipe at his ball, which scuttled into the heather with a very sore head. ‘Breakfast ball?’ he suggested breezily. There was a lot of chuntering from the Chairmen, who grudgingly acquiesced. They probably wished they hadn’t for the next nine holes, as the Knights dovetailed, using their shots to great effect; Sir Francis had an air of Shane Lowry about him as he stalked the greens.

But class always rises to the top and on the tenth hole, Roger chipped in for an eagle to pull the score back to one down. And it was all square by the time we got to the hut. You may have heard tales about this great establishment. It was so popular in the old days that the guy who ran it was spotted turning left on a flight to New York.

Robert Sangster, Colin Ingleby-Mackenzie and I once managed two pints and ‘one to go’ during the Brian Taylor memorial competition the day before Royal Ascot. These days it’s a cup of tea and a sausage. Sir Francis and I didn’t even have a slice of the white processed bread. We must be picking up our calories somewhere else.

The match was hotting up, and I was beginning to run out of holes to pick the brains of these titans of racing. ‘Don’t suppose you’re too happy about the Gambling Commission, are you, Roger?’ I dropped in casually as we stepped onto the 12th green. He missed his only putt of the round and shuffled off shaking his head.

‘How are the new drains settling in, Mike?’ I asked innocently as he lined up a five-iron approach shot on the 13th. ‘Bit short of water?’ And he’d hit that club so well before. ‘Oops, I think we might find that,’ I added helpfully as he fired it into the trees.

‘So A.P., where do you really stand on the whip debate?’ I enquired as he took his three-wood out on the long par five. Wallop. ‘Oh, unlucky, I think that’s caught the bunker,’ I said sympathetically. I was quite glad he wasn’t in striking distance of me.

With hindsight, standing on the 17th tee, two down, probably wasn’t the moment to ask Sir Francis what he thought of the Goodwood/York racecourses’ recent proposals to create a Premier League-style split from other courses. His only bad drive of the day, if you don’t count his breakfast ball. He looked quite frightening as he stomped around in the rough trying to find it, not in the slightest bit like the urbane, jovial guy who meets the royal carriage procession every day with a big smile.

Things got pretty spicy putting out on the 17th. The Chairmen won the match and two presses, but they were still level in two other presses. The Knights should have gone double or quits up the last, getting an additional half shot, straight out of the Sunningdale playbook, but the rapier accuracy of Devlin’s irons knocked the stuffing out of them.

By the time I’d walked off the 18th green, I realised that I’d learnt nothing. But it was four hours well spent: as Mark Twain probably didn’t say, I had a good walk which wasn’t spoilt by trying to hit a golf ball.

Sadly I only make it to Sunningdale once a year, but I can’t say that I don’t get value for money from my subscription. As a member I’m allowed to change my shoes in the downstairs locker room, which saves a trek upstairs to the visitors’ facilities. Thankfully they were a bit short of water, so showering, which I’ve always thought was very public schoolish at golf clubs, was not encouraged.

An all-round bargain, although it turns out a golf course is a hopeless place to pick the brains of titans of racing.