IT wis the best o links, it wis the warst o links. It wis a skelf o bricht green grass ablow an azure sky, it wis a broon an drouth-scaurred daud o dust atween a diddy wee toun an a cauld grey sea. It wis fower deys oot fir the super-rich tae mak deals, netwark, drap a few notes an hae a braw time. It wis fower deys fir the ordinary fowk tae grab as mony gowden goupins as possible afore the cash-carnival flittit awa.

Private jets screiched owreheid, choppers birlt abuin, ferrying fowk owre fae the bonnier hotels o St Andras. Some o the warld’s real siller wis aboot. The richest 1% were in toun.

The Carnoustie Open. Ane o the maist kenspeckle events in gowff, at ane o its auldest hames. A record 172,000 fowk attendit, in a toun o a population o fowerteen thoosan.

Yet, the toun wisnae in ony sort o fyke, wi ainly a few businesses doun the high street daein a roaring trade.

Fir aa its chairms, The Open maks clear the divide atween the rich an puir, an hou the latter can ainly benefit in a sma, finite wey aff the former.

Ma first mindin o The Open was whan I wis aroon 13 years o age.

I wis pairt o a wee crew o cludgiecleaners.

Masel, ma braar, twa ither young fowk an some aulder migrant warkers wad be pickit up ilka mornin in a minibus an tane doun tae The Open fir oor twal hours wark.

I met doun there on ma first dey the first twa non-white cheils I’d spake wi in ma life. It wis a formative experience that illustratit tae us that there are twa warlds, an that fir aa ye micht mix them up fae time tae time, they sib tae ile an watter, they will aye sinder an return tae their naitural states.

The first laddie wis an African cheil. He hud twa jobs. He warkit aa nicht at the nichtclubs o Dundee, sellin cologne an lollypops in the cludgies. Then, efter aroon three hours sleep, oor minibus wad stap at his hoose in a gey puir pairt o Dundee an aff we’d gang tae the gowff fir him tae clean oot mair toilets. His life wis keich, in ae sense.

Aa the puir craiter wantit wis a wee twenty-minutes kip on the bus, but I wis awfy excitit tae meet a body wha kent sae muckle aboot twa airts o infinite mystery an glamour: Africa, an Dundee’s nichtclubs. He wis the sleepiest cheil I’ve met afore or efter, his big broon een reid an wattery, his talk slaw an saft.

The seccont cheil wis a great gallus, fat an strang African American, an he pit the absolute fear o God intae us. Masel an the wee fowerteen year auld lassie that wis ma supervisor were in chairge o twa toilet blocks. We shut ane aroon noon, as it wis absolute bowfin. I waded in aboot it wi the bleach an the buckets tae dicht oot the warst o the mornin’s damage wi the result that a lang queue quickly formit at the door tae the ither ane.

I wis up tae ma oxster in Christkens-whit whan I heard ma colleague gettin pelters ootside.

“Open the god-damned thing up!” I hears, in a brash American accent. I ging oot, aa fower stane o peelywally teenager, mair plukes than pubes, tae finn this ginormous fella lourin up like a sodger owre the lassie I warkit wi. “Here lea her alane…” I says, a bitty blate.

“Oh here comes the big man, huh? What, you wanna fight me, is that it?”

I absolutely didnae want tae fecht him. This wis pruived tae be ane o ma decadal guid ideas, as the big bully proceedit tae push past us like I wis a bitty litter an awa intae the hauf-cleaned cludgie ahind me he gaed.

I wis peyed £1.10 an hour fir ma efforts. Less than fowerteen pund a dey, fir ma twal hours. I dinnae ken whit ma African colleague wis peyed.

There economic airgument fir The Open is a strang ane, wi official figures suggestin that the last Open hostit in Scotland, at Royal Troon, brocht in £110 million. Braw news.

Ye could see that in the howffs an cafes o Carnoustie daein a fine trade, siller batterin through their tills.

Houaniver, this isnae guid eneuch.

Wi the economic system in place, its nae lang afore aa the thrang is awa, an the siller gangs wi them. Then it’s back tae the food bank fir Angus.

Maist o thon hunner million wilnae be investit in onythin lang term. It’ll ging intae the pooches o fowk wha yaise it immediately on rent, on food, on the absolute basics.

Naethin is changed, an the hail creaking, exploitative edifice o the modren service industry is kept alive fir anither week. The unhealthy, insecure lifestyles o temp employees is maintained.

The Open, an ither siclike events whaur serious dough is in toun, is nae better nor whan the auld kings would gang through the land, pittin theirsels up in new airts ilka wee whilie. Whan there, their court wad buy hunners o things wee an big fae the community, armour, claes, foodstuffs, bevvy. Aabdy wad feel flush an that wad be fine. Then the hail clamjamfrie wad move aff, leain a recession in their wake.

There is nae lang-term benefit tae Angus, ane o the puirer pairts o Scotland, tae hostin this Open.

The king an his court hae flitted elsewhere, an noo its back tae auld claes an parritch. This is proof, gin mair wis needit, that the current economic system isnae warkin.

The rich stey rich, an dae whit they like. The puir are still doomed tae sprauchle aboot through the same dub an mire they’ve been clartit wi fir a millennia.