Intense emotions are normal at big sporting events, but you would have to work pretty hard to find such an explosive mix as that produced by a Sunday at the Ryder Cup, especially when it's the most competitive and exciting such contest for years. A sense of proportion is, of course, the first thing to go. One wakes up on the Sunday morning frighteningly aware that this is not some game we're talking about here. Far from it. In this heightened state of anxiety, it is fair to say that one's entire future happiness seems now to rest on the day's coming events: ie, on the success of 12 keen and upstanding European chaps hitting a small ball into a series of small holes marginally more efficiently than 12 equally keen and upstanding Americans.

So I thought it might help (as a reminder for next time, if nothing else) to record A Few Good Reasons not to Attend a Ryder Cup Under Any Circumstances if You Value Your Emotional Equanimity.

1 The sense of time stretching

This phenomenon is well attested from battle-zone experience. It is a bit like running on the spot while the rest of the world goes by in slow motion.

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I think Einstein noticed something similar about trams passing at different speeds in Vienna, but, do you know what, I honestly don't care. Personally, I remember this sensation in particular from the 1998 football World Cup in France.

It felt like such an immense amount of time to be immersed in an event that I was convinced, when it was finished, that I had missed the millennium. “Did they have fireworks?” I asked. I expected to get home and find my cats all elderly and grey-whiskered, in bath chairs with ear trumpets. Instead of which, I was met by people saying, “Back already? Is it finished? Did anyone win?” The three days of the Ryder Cup pull this perceptual trick more completely and more worryingly then any others in sport. Basically, I have aged ten years since Thursday.

2 The rollercoaster feelings about the Europe captain

Establishing whether Nick Faldo is a bearable git or a resolutely unbearable one certainly adds to the tension. As the last day proceeds, and the consequences of his playing order are revealed, one's opinion of him dips and climbs, veers round corners with screams of “Aaaaaaaggghhhhh”, then doubles back and finally loops the loop before crashing into a wall. Should such important decisions ever be placed in the hands of a man who appears so dangerously unstable, one wonders?

Whoever does the job next time, provided it is not Paul Gascoigne, it is bound to be an immense relief.

3 The overwhelming temptation to draw mocking attention to the disparity in good looks between the teams

At times of high stress, such shockingly unworthy attitudes do tend to come out, I find. They make you feel better temporarily - before making you feel extremely guilty for having them. Not all the Europeans are pin-ups, but at least they mostly have shoulders, don't they? Many of them also have waists and can see their feet when they look down. Let's just say they don't all look like escapees from a penitentiary and/or The Bun-Faced Ugly House. Let's just say I'll stop there.

4 The strain of having to revise one's opinion of certain peacocky English players one formerly made no secret of despising slightly

Jolly hard, this one. “Conflicted” is the word and the effort is quite possibly killing me. Ian Poulter scored three points on the first two days, and, being picked to play the tenth match against Steve Stricker yesterday, was obviously intended to be pivotal on the last day as well. What an absolute stumper for any fair-minded person. Poulter was a veritable rock on those first two days, while others were (comparatively) broken reeds. Yet the effort required to see him in any kind of heroic light seems still to demand more mental fortitude than I am master of and I have to accept it as a failing.

5 The sneaking feeling that the Americans are better at organising everything

They even have little carts selling frozen lemonade - although such stuff should be approached with caution, because it can freeze your brain if you eat it too quickly. People can be seen clutching their heads with stricken expressions and toppling sideways everywhere around the course. But how typically thoughtful of the Americans to provide it. How unlike us. Beating oneself up about being British, when faced with the lovely manners and general hospitality of the host Americans, just increases the sense of mental turmoil already induced by points 1-4, above. “That wouldn't happen at home,” one thinks, miserably, every time a stranger says “excuse me” or “after you” or holds a door open.

6 Intense guilt about actually willing great players to play golf badly

Finally, how can one live with this appallingly unsportsmanlike feeling? “Oh no!” one shouts, as an American's beautiful 30-foot putt goes in. “You bastard!” one yells (inwardly) at the inoffensive Anthony Kim, for going two up against Sergio García on the 6th. All errors in golf are unforced, which is what makes it such a great test of personality. What a thorough betrayal of the game it is, for one weekend every two years, to thank God for every enemy drive that goes into the trees (“Yes!”), or chip that hops up and rolls back.