Darren Clarke

He really needs a coffee. Sniffing a stale pot, he winces. “I’m gasping.”

We’re in a light and airy photo studio on the east side of London to interview and photograph Darren Clarke for the cover of GolfPunk. Darren arrived half an hour ago with Andrew ‘Chubby’ Chandler, his manager and confidante. Since then he’s been involved in intense trouser discussions with Soho tailor Mark Powell. Darren and Mark have just started working together and this is one of the rare opportunities that they’ve had to try on the dozen or so pairs Darren has commissioned over Christmas.

Chubby is impressed: “I might even let you measure me for a suit if you ask nicely,” he jokes. Darren’s too busy checking seams, colours and fit to get snarled up with Chubby’s good-natured jibes (“You’ve had some shockers in your time eh, Clarkey”), so Chubby retreats to a comfy chair to concentrate on laying a few quid on one of his and Darren’s many racehorses. It was running at Southwell on January 17 and by the look of despair on Chubby’s face it could well be nearing the final furlong by the time you read this.

Undeterred, Darren concentrates meticulously on the job in hand and while Mark is far too much of a geezer to be hopping around in a suits-you style, there’s no doubt who’s in charge. When a characteristically huge grin cracks across his face, you can sense the relief in the room.

When Darren’s happy, the world is a much nicer place. A fresh coffee is poured and the pause button is clicked to record. “OK, fire away.”

GolfPunk first met up with Darren Clarke the week before the 2004 Open. Having only been on the shelves for six months or so, we were new to the game and felt a little like gatecrashers at a golf party. For the Scottish Open at Loch Lomond, we set up an interview and studio space in one of the hotel’s splendid lodges. This is where we got our sneak preview of William Hunt’s now legendary Union Jack trousers, as worn by Ian Poulter for his GP cover shoot and, of course, a week later in Troon. Poulter was all over it, spraying GolfPunk graffiti on the photographer’s backdrop and playing Jack The Lad for the camera. We also shot Darren Clarke that day. Fully expecting more of the same, we were somewhat blind-sided. Civil, but not particularly communicative, he muttered: “I’ll give these guys five minutes,” to one of his team, before going through the motions.

As first meetings go, it was hardly encouraging. For months, a photo from that day of Darren looking at his watch was pinned on a wall in our office.

Fast-forward a year and we found Darren at the door of the GolfPunk clubhouse at St Andrews, two nights before things kicked off across the road on The Old Course. He turned up in faded denim and cowboy boots, his guard well and truly down and had a knock on the simulator with Monty, who’d also turned up out of the blue (many pros don’t go near the things, fearing the potential humiliation). Later in the week he turned up with Graeme McDowell. The clubhouse was rammed to the rafters, so Graeme made an early exit, but Darren stuck around a bit longer, jammed into a corner with Chubby and a few others, clearly at ease with his mates around him, happy to be just a face in the crowd, rather than the guy attracting all the attention.

It was another six months before we got to sit down with a tape recorder between us. We met at The Players’ Bar, off Hale Road, near Manchester Airport. Impeccably dressed in a navy Angelo Galasso suit, tailored shirt and dark tie, he looked like he owned the place – which he does, as it happens. It was set up by Darren, Chandler, Andrew Flintoff and Lee Westwood, adjoining a Marriott hotel with its car park heaving with BMW X5s. Pride of place goes to a shelf containing Clarke’s miniature Ryder Cup replica trophy from 2004 and the equivalent Ashes urn presented to Flintoff, containing the burned bails from England’s victorious series just a few months ago.

» Darren Clarke Part 2