The reviews by the RFU’s director of elite rugby Rob Andrew, the players’ union and the professional clubs, have found their way to the pages of The Times.

Not ideal timing when the RFU is looking for a chief executive and a head coach to replace Martin Johnson who chose to fall on his sword prior to the gory details of the infighting among players and officials being made public.

Is it any wonder that there is not an orderly queue forming outside Twickenham for the top two posts in English rugby?

The RFU has a shortlist of three for the chief exec role (salary £350,000) but two of the candidates are re-thinking. They are clearly pondering whether they want to be part of an organisation that is, not for the first time, in utter disarray.

Players more interested in making money than representing their country, drunken antics with the captain in the lead role, alleged hush money after dalliances with chamber maids. Ill-discipline and lack of leadership, on and off field, lackadaisical training regimes – just a few of the details contained in the reviews.

“You have to ask whether there is a sport in this country that is run more badly,” says politician and former England wing Derek Wyatt. “The need for a chief executive is great, yet even if they found one tomorrow he would not be able to start work for between three and six months. Sponsors are making threats and I cannot see why the RFU has not asked Francis Baron (the former chief executive) to come back and steady things.”

Identifying a coach is also proving problematic. Former South African coach Nick Mallett was the early leading contender but has since ruled himself out.

Another former South Africa coach, Jake White, who has expressed an interest, provides an interesting take on the situation. “I don’t know how I’d react if I was called by the RFU, one never knows until you are in that situation.”

White, or any other candidates, would be wise to consider the comments of Jeremy Guscott, a former England and Lions team-mate of the deposed Johnson.

“He didn’t have the CV to do the job but the RFU backed him and he backed himself and unfortunately and regrettably he came up short,” Guscott told the BBC – helpfully.

Not only did the Northern Irishman shred the record books, he also laid to rest the bogey of a dramatic capitulation at the Masters two months’ earlier. At Augusta National, McIlroy squandered a four-shot final round lead to finish nowhere. Afterwards he would say that the Masters was a “little speed bump but no more than that.”

At Congressional, he became the youngest US Open champion since Bobby Jones in 1923 and the youngest major winner since Tiger Woods triumphed at the Masters in 1997.

He posted rounds of 65, 66, 68 and 69 to finish 16 under par. Along the way he became the quickest player to reach -10 (after 26 holes), the first player to reach -17 and produced the lowest 36-hole total of 131 in a major.

Nursing a wounded reputation and recuperating from knee surgery, Woods, doubtless thumbing the pages of his latest Nike ad script, would have thrown envious glances at his TV set while McIlroy was etching his name in history. Woods himself won the US Open by 15 strokes at Pebble Beach in 2000.

He was on an inevitable journey to usurp Jack Nicklaus as the greatest major winner of all time. Woods had amassed 14 titles to the Golden Bear’s 18.

He was also one wayward dalliance from golfing self-destruction. Or 13 rounds of night putting, depending on your maths proficiency or tabloid reading habits.

Woods must now accept that he is not the most compelling golfer on the planet. That honour goes to a freckly-faced, tousled-haired kid from Holywood, County Down.

When Woods returns from injury he will confront a youngster who has the potential to dominate golf as he once did, and thus derail his attempt on Nicklaus’s record.

As for the Nicklaus himself, he likes what he sees in McIlroy.

“He’s got a great golf swing, his rhythm is beautiful,” Nicklaus says. “He also has a great short game and I like the way he walks. He is a little cocksure about himself and I like that in a guy, to have confidence in what you are doing.

“I think this kid is going to have a great career, no question. He has all the components, he has a lot of people rooting for him and he is a nice kid. He is a pleasant personality, humble when he needs to be humble and confident when he needs to be confident.”

As for the record, McIlroy has time on his side. For Woods, unless he can rediscover his aura, regain his form and gather up what’s left of his composure, the clock may have stopped.

The great British culture clash

Seems like the British Olympic Association has been a bit previous with the announcement of a ‘historic agreement’ with the English Football Association to field a British soccer team at London 2012.

No sooner had a triumphant press release dropped in the inbox than a joint statement from the other nations kiboshed the claim.

The BOA’s release said: “We are pleased the team will be selected from players across the home nations and I’d like to thank our counterparts at the Welsh, Irish and Scottish FAs for their understanding on a difficult issue.”

The release also quoted FA general secretary Alex Horne. ”We’re delighted there will be football teams representing Team GB at the London 2012 Olympics,” he said.

The retort from the other home nations was blunt. “No discussions took place with any of us, far less [has any] historic agreement been reached,” it stated.

“The Football Associations of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland reiterate our collective opposition to Team GB participation at the 2012 Olympic Games in London, contrary to the media release issued by the BOA.”

The FA’s release follows the recent announcement that of the 2.3 million tickets that remain for Olympic events, 1.7 million of these are for soccer.

FPE has two questions on the subject.

Is the BOA/FA’s rush to announce a non-existent GB entry in anyway related to the sluggish take-up of tickets?

Just exactly how deluded is the English FA?

The young Irishman, you will recall if you were anywhere near a newspaper, web site or TV set recently, led the Masters by four strokes entering the final round only to come up  short. A succession of missed putts and wayward drives and a round of 80 handed the green jacket to South African Charl Schwartzel.

Soon after leaving behind the azaleas of the Augusta National, McIllroy ventured to Malaysia to begin the rehab.

Already laden down with emotional baggage, he arrives in Kuala Lumpur minus his golf clubs.

Cue the Evening Standard to run a front page picture story under the headline: ‘What’s Rory lost this time?’

The full story featured on page three under the title ‘Things go from bag to worse as McIllroy loses golf clubs after Masters meltdown’.

It went on … ‘First he lost his nerve in front of a global audience of millions, squandering the chance of a US Masters title’ the story ran. ‘Today life got even worse for McIllroy as he stepped off the long-haul flight only to be told his prized golf clubs had been lost in transit’.

The clubs eventually turned up and enabled McIllroy set about establishing a four-shot lead as the final round unfolded. McIlroy was still in contention after three birdies in four holes from the eighth, but his progress was halted when he three-putted for a double bogey at the 12th.

However, he responded with three further birdies to keep alive hopes of forcing a play-off with Matteo Manassero, only for a bogey at the 18th to end his victory prospects.

McIllroy’s exploits prompted headlines containing the phrases ‘more misery’, ‘another late collapse’, ‘putting betrays McIllroy again’ and ‘McIllroy let another chance slip’.

The truth is McIllroy will have to live with those headlines and those comparisons to Augusta for quite a while yet. Until he exorcises the demons with a major title one suspects.

The Irishman’s unraveling has inevitably drawn comparisons with Greg Norman’s deck chair moment at the Masters in 1996.

In one of the worst meltdowns in majors history, Norman carried a six-stroke cushion into the final round and lost the tournament to Nick Faldo by five strokes, shooting a Sunday 78 to Faldo’s 67.

The story goes that Norman’s daughter Morgan-Leigh, 13 at the time, passed by a  graveyard on the way to Augusta on the final morning. She held her breath, closed her eyes and prayed. When your dad is Greg Norman sometimes divine intervention is on the menu on Sundays. Her prayers went unanswered.

The final word on the matter goes to McIllroy himself. “The Masters was a little speed bump but no more than that. I will have lots of other chances to win majors.” At just 21 years of age, he may well be right.

In the past few days there has been a steady flow of reports suggesting that the opening race of the Formula One season in Bahrain next month could fall prey to civil unrest. Doubtless the scare stories are seeded in events on the streets of Cairo recently.

Race organisers have done their best to dampen down concerns that the grand prix might have to be cancelled with reassurances that they are monitoring the unrest in the country – the latest Arab state to face public dissent. The deaths of two protesters has done little to ease the situation.

Of immediate concern is the F1 test planned at the Sakhir circuit on March 3 – eight days ahead of the race weekend – a potentially easier target for agitators.

Nabeel Rajab, a representative of the Bahrain Center for Human Rights, warned:  ”For sure F1 is not going to be peaceful this time. There’ll be lots of journalists, a lot of people looking and [the police] will react in a stupid manner as they did today and yesterday.

“And that will be bloody, but will be more publicised. This will not stop, especially now when people have died. I don’t think it’s going to stop easily.”

Never one to exercise diplomatic restraint where a jackhammer will do, Ecclestone the diminutive F1 ringmaster, did little to allay fears when quizzed on the situation this week.

“The danger is obvious isn’t it,” he ventured. “If these people wanted to make a fuss and get worldwide recognition it would be bloody easy, wouldn’t it?

“You start making a problem on the start grid in Bahrain and it would get worldwide coverage.

“It’s hard to establish exactly what is going on. I’m speaking with the Crown Prince later on. We’re watching events closely. We’ll rely on what they think the right thing to do is. He is a very realistic person. I have never had any problems in Bahrain in the past and I’m happy to walk around town there. But we don’t know now. The world is changing.”

Indeed it is Bernie – and so has the F1 footprint in the past few years, at your behest, to include a number of races in politically combustible destinations.

Ecclestone’s renowned powers of persuasion face a stern test in the coming days.

His most recent instalment came last Friday during commentary of the England v Wales Six Nations tournament opener.

Early in the contest a camera panned the Twickenham bleachers and found Alastair Cook, freshly returned from a prodigious Ashes tour.

Moore and co-caller Eddie Butler were moved to comment. Butler said: “What a  magnificent series he had Down Under. Didn’t he do well.”

Moore added: “Couldn’t happen to a nicer race”. A reference to the heavy defeat inflicted on the hosts. He went on … “I’ll probably get into trouble for that.”

The fact is he didn’t get into trouble but the insult should have at least merited a quiet word from the BBC taste police. He should have had his collar felt for this verbal offence – and a string of others.

You see the Pit Bull has previous. Plenty of it.

He once posted a Gary Glitter joke on Twitter which went thus … “Apparently Gary Glitter is the new Aston Villa manager … He heard the strikers are Young, Bent and possibly Keane, boom boom.”

The post drew criticism. The Justin Campaign, which works against homophobia in football, asked Moore to publicly apologise for what they described as “a vile homophobic joke”.

Moore refused, saying: “I will not apologise for your misinterpretation and disgusting insinuation”.

In 2009, on BBC radio, he was forced to apologise for mocking Thalidomide victims on air prior to an England v Argentina match.

He recalled a previous encounter against Argentina when his England team-mate Mike Teague did “a full-on impression of a Thalidomide” by failing to pick up a ball.

One listener reacted: “For someone who achieved so much in sport to get a kick out of mocking people disabled through no fault of their own is appalling.”

The shame is that Moore can be an insightful colour man particularly on his specialist subjects – scrummaging and referees.

He pulls no punches when saying that an official has got a decision wrong and he should be applauded for it. Why then does he choose to let himself down so often?

Last year, Moore, who won 64 caps for England and is a practising solicitor, released an autobiography under the title Beware Of The Dog.

The pages contain detailed accounts of childhood abuse.

The revelations gave rise to apologists pleading clemency for Moore’s acerbic on-air rantings. They cited the book’s contents as an excuse for his incessant spiting of the Scots, Irish, Welsh, French, Australians – in fact anything non-English.

One forum contributor wrote: “Some of Moore’s comments about Scots recently have been verging on racist as well but when taken with his recent revelations about his early life I suspect that the truth is that he remains a troubled and confused character who should be given the benefit of the doubt.”

No one doubts Moore’s childhood was deeply unpleasant and he has our sympathy for that.

But we are all “troubled and confused” at some stage of the week. Most weeks.

The fact is we don’t have a global platform such as a BBC commentary role as a release valve for that trouble and confusion. Nor should we use it if we did.

Some years ago, I encountered Moore for the first time in a central London bar on the eve of a rugby writers’ awards dinner we were both attending.

The greeting was convivial enough at first. Upon hearing my accent he turned decidedly vitriolic. I put that down to him being troubled and confused by half a dozen whiskeys.

Last month Sky Sports two lead soccer commentators lost their 15-year jobs following derogatory remarks captured while the pair – Richard Keys and Andy Gray – were unaware the microphones were on.

They were dispatched because their sexist comments – calling into
question the credentials of a female linesperson and suggestive comments by Gray to a female colleague – were deemed by Sky to unacceptable.

Moore was absent for the England v Italy match this Saturday – a fixture in which you would expect him to be riding shotgun with Welshman Butler.

Perhaps the BBC were fearful of what he might utter at the Italians’ expense.

He returned yesterday alongside Butler for Ireland v France and was a model of diplomacy.

But in the light of the BBC’s pledge to clean up its act following a spate of phone quiz irregularities, editorial misjudgments, and the departure of chat show host Jonathan Ross in the wake of questionable on-air remarks, Moore is surely one tasteless remark from a red card.

In these times of forensic scrutiny of the BBC licence fee and the ongoing eradication of dinosaurs with microphones across the media spectrum, Moore is an endangered species.

A first Ashes defeat on home soil since 1987 has left national pride badly disfigured. Navel gazing and scapegoat searching have become popular pastimes in the great southern land. From the Murray’s green basin to the dusty outback – there is little waltzing of Matilda right now.

Former Australian Test players have been queuing up to heap scorn on the captain Ricky Ponting. The sanity and credentials of national selectors and administrators has been repeatedly called into question.

Numerous newspaper columns carry those same armchair experts’ bylines.  No shelter from the storm of protestations. Admirably Richie Benaud is the lone beacon of reason amid a hail of media sniper fire. Though even the doyen himself has landed the odd glancing blow.

Throughout the current contest, the contribution of Australia’s top six has been paltry at best. Their ineptitude against England bowling in swing-conducive conditions reached its nadir on Boxing Day in Melbourne when they mustered just 98 in their first innings. As each Australian batsman made the long, lonely return journey to the Members’ Pavilion, so too did any hope of recapturing the little urn.

Australia’s cause has not been helped by a baffling selection policy. Spinner Xavier Doherty and Michael Beer have been plucked from obscurity at the expense of regular twirler Nathan Hauritz. Mitchell Johnson, or Myth Johnson if you are an acerbic English cricket correspondent, is dropped after one Test only to return and blow the opposition batsmen away in the next.

That performance owed as much to leaden skies and prevailing winds as it did to guile. Frustratingly, Johnson seems destined to be an enigma unfulfilled.

Steve Smith, a leg-spinning all-rounder, we are told, is the best No.6 batsman in the country. Phil Hughes, a belligerent opener of questionable technique continues at the top of the order despite a spate of rash strokes and low scores.

Reports of disaffection in the home dressing room abound. Stand-in captain in Sydney, Michael Clarke, he of the flash cars and flashier girlfriends, is at the heart of that alleged unrest.

By contrast, there is unity among this England team despite the presence of a Zimbabwean head coach (Andy Flower), an Australian fast bowling coach (David Saker), a Pakistani spin bowling coach (Mushtaq Ahmed) and four South Africans (Andrew Strauss, Jonathan Trott, Kevin Pietersen and Mathew Prior) among their ranks. Shades of Unified Team (circa Olympic Games 1992).

In truth this Australian Test team has been confronted by an opposing XI consistently at the top of their game – a temporary aberration in Perth notwithstanding. They grind out big scores, hold their catches and uproot stumps with relentless intent. Sound familiar?

How telling it was then that into the rubble of the current Ashes debacle stepped a 24-year-old batsman of Muslim faith.

A diminutive left-hander by the name of Usman Khawaja, whose strokeplay has more than a passing resemblance to the former West Indian lefty Alvin Kallicharan, wore the Baggy Green cap of Australia at the Sydney Cricket Ground.

Occupying the No.3 spot vacated by the injured skipper, there were fleeting glimpses of a precocious talent before a top edge off a mistimed sweep brought his dismissal for 37.

From a position of 111/2 the hosts subsided as they have done many times this series to be 134/4 at the end of a rain-interrupted first day.

While not quite the apparition some pundits would have us believe, Khawaja did at least provide bright patches on an otherwise dank day for Australia. The kid himself was none too fazed by it all. “Being the first Pakistani-born player to play for Australia is probably a bit more significant than my religious beliefs because they’re quite personal to me,” he said.

“I was probably most emotional when I got my baggy green in the morning. As soon as I got out there it felt like the best thing ever. I was out there playing for Australia, the crowd was right behind me, it was awesome.”

Khawaja’s inclusion may yet serve as a watershed in Australian cricket. Like Australian Rules football, both rugby codes, soccer, athletics and tennis too, it may just trigger interest from the ethnic minorities of a multicultural society watching from afar.

Countless men and women have graced the sporting fields of Australia from diverse backgrounds. What makes Khawaja stand out is that he happens to be from Randwick-Petersham via Islamabad.

Right now Australian cricket can do with an infusion of new blood – whatever the ethnicity or creed.

It begins with the onset of national fervour fuelled by wanton jingoism. It is triggered by column inches of coruscating hope.

As the condition takes hold, the tell-tale symptoms include a rash of flags of St George on every white van, family sedan, rooftop, shop front and crisp packet across the land. At its height, normally just a few days into the tournament, it infests all it touches – home and abroad. Dashed promise has turned to abject despair and there is no cure.

And yet, it could all be so different if only for a dose of reality and a spoonful of common sense.

If only there was an acceptance that England has no divine right to win a World Cup. A recognition that Rooney, Gerrard, Lampard and Co should not be mentioned in the same breath as Ronaldinho, Messi and Ronaldo.

And, most of all, an acknowledgement that 1966, home ground advantage, lucky breaks and optically-challenged Russian linesmen, should be consigned to sepia. For good.

If only there was a realization that Rooney is a red card waiting to happen, Lampard is an overpaid braggadocio with seriously limited footballing ability and Gerrard, an alleged motivator of men, cannot string two syllables together let alone a sequence of passes.

If only England could embrace the idea that its national soccer team is likely to fall short on a world stage – again – the tournament would be infinitely more enjoyable for the rest of us.

In the UK, hospital emergency wards would see a drop-off in cases of clinical depression and incidences of public house and domestic violence would shrink. Bar owners and random passers-by on the streets of Bloemfontein would be spared criminal damage and aggravated assault.

The roots of England’s misplaced optimism stem from that vainglorious day in 1966 when Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet Trophy at Wembley.

Ever since, deluded England supporters take it as read (those that can), that they will rule the soccer world every four years. Tabloids implore the nation’s bricklayers and plasterers to ‘support the lads’, swill strong lager and urinate on all things un-English in the name of patriotism.

The English media ensnares it prey in a web of zealotry in the interests of an audience spike only to poleaxe the coaching staff and players from their pedestals at the first whiff of futility. And all the while the strap lines tell of a miscarriage of sporting justice at the hands of Johnny Foreigner.

For over 40 years, it has been a familiar pattern. Reckless hope leading to humiliation and despondency.

When England depart the current World Cup in South Africa, probably at the quarter-final stage, players who incur the wrath of officialdom (Wayne Rooney please note), will have their effigies torched on fickle English High Streets – Mumbai-style.

Referees will receive death threats and ‘fans’ will revert to their tribal hatred for the very same players from opposing club teams who wore the three lions of their country in Joburg, Durban et al.

The much-lauded Fabio Capello, will have questions raised in the Commons about his £6million annual salary and White Van Man will pour bile on Don Fabio’s foreignness, his commitment to the cause and the ‘lads’.

His failure to transform a bunch of talentless, gormless egos into a crack unit of world-beating sportsmen, will be the subject of rainforests of post mortem.

Drunken, balding, tattooed, obese adult males will be reduced to weeping babes, wives will be beaten, law enforcement officers will be targeted for retribution, and a prolonged period of mourning will ensue.

The Daily Mail’s Des Kelly, one of the few pundits to swim against the tsunami of optimism, summed it up best in borrowing the John Cleese quote from the film Clockwise.

‘It’s not the despair – I can take despair,’ said Cleese. ‘It’s the hope I can’t stand.’

Despite the pre-season hype, which suggested that the racing would make the hairs on the back of Cheryl Cole’s neck stand on end, the 49 laps were limp, dull, lifeless.

The portents were thunderously promising. Four world champions including the seven-time title-winner Michael Schumacher sliding his angular jaw into the cockpit of a Mercedes. For the romantics there were the names of Lotus and Senna, two Brits banging wheels at McLaren, and rapid peddlers at Ferrari and Red Bull.

As it turned out the first race of the 19-event calendar was as scintillating as a waterlogged Guy Fawkes’ night.

Speaking of combustion, hands up anyone who thought that a dodgy spark plug (four for £16.99 at Halfords while stocks last) would deliver the one moment of drama during the race?

The fact is had Sebastien Vettel’s Red Bull not lost power with 15 laps to go, allowing Fernando Alonso and Felipe Massa to claim a Ferrari one-two with Lewis Hamilton, similarly benefitting from Vettel’s misfortune, inheriting fourth, Borerain was nothing more than a very expensive procession.

As it was the only legitimate overtaking of note at the sharp end was Alonso’s pass on Massa as the lights went out.

Starting from third on the grid, behind Vettel and Massa, the Spaniard got by his team-mate between turns one and two on the opening lap and was in position to seize on the pole man’s misfiring Red Bull as the flag loomed.

Hamilton and Button both moved up places, but only during the brave new pit stops, which inflame the passions much as rugby league scrums do.

Ah yes, the refuelling ban.

What has it proven so far? For starters, it has made race strategy largely redundant. Qualification is all important – a bit like the final line-up for the Olympic 800 metres title being decided by a 100 metre dash in the semis.

So settle back and prepare for 19 Monacos – i.e. you finish where you qualify.

Button’s take on Bahrain went thus: “It was pretty much what we expected. All the cars stop at the same time and don’t overtake each other.”

Schumacher concurred. “Overtaking was basically impossible unless somebody made a mistake,” he said. Or had a mechanical failure, Vettel might have added.

“That is the action we are going to have with this kind of environment of race strategy. With no refuelling, it will be difficult to see any overtaking, so after the first lap the positions will be set.”

Lewis Hamilton weighed in with: “You start with fuel, you do one stop and it’s pretty much a train all the way.”

At least on this occasion most of the ambulance chasing is coming from within. McLaren’s Martin Whitmarsh calling for mandatory two stops and “edgier” tyres led the rumblings.

When was the last time the Formula One Paddock was so introspective? The last time the lavish lifestyles of those who pack a suitcase every two weeks was threatened one suspects.

Before the season, the teams, worried that the refuelling ban would lead to processions, discussed introducing a rule that would force drivers to make two stops.

Whitmarsh drove the proposal and was the first to call for “immediate rules tweaks” after the Bahrain snoozefest.

“We do need to look at mandating stops, we do need to look at the tyres and make them more fragile, and we do need to work on making the cars capable of racing close together and easier to overtake,” he concluded.

The refuelling ban has also meant that the monocoque on the 2010 cars had to be lengthened to accommodate the increase in fuel load with cars on full tanks from the off.

The result is that the most advanced racing machine on the planet resembles a hearse. The Sauber, bereft of any trace of sponsors logos, is particularly grotesque with that air box stretching back to the rear wing like most of its rivals. Shark fins indeed. Great White in the case of Sauber.

It seems that even some with a vested interest in proceedings found themselves unmoved. Hamilton’s mum was quoted in the Daily Mail as saying the race “so boring”.

The car-to-pit dialogue, never riveting to be sure, now centres on tyre management and fuel consumption. Wake me when it’s all over.

So, this weekend, will Melbourne deliver the spectacle Bahrain failed so dismally to do? F1 had better hope so.

If ever there was an object lesson in media and public relations bungling, then this was it. When his reputation landed in the rough last week, he was found wanting.

Throughout his career, Woods’ alienation of stakeholders has become legendary. Broadcasters were told to dance to his tune, promoters were required to fork out large chunks of appearance money, police escorts ring-fenced him on the links of St Andrews.

And, all the while, Joe Public was regularly snarled at and instructed to respect his privacy.

Well now we know why.

Now we know that Tiger had turned cheater. And when the lurid allegations began to fly, the tabloids gorged themselves, figuring that it was payback time.

By turning away the Florida State Troopers on three occasions and fobbing off the public, Woods and his handlers created an information vacuum into which wild speculation flowed.

Theories abounded that his wife had pursued his car armed with a three-iron, taking out several windows of his Cadillac Escalade as he attempted to make good his escape only to collide first with a fire hydrant before his inglorious progress was halted by a tree.

In the hours and days that followed, the disdain with which the media was treated by his spin surgeons and legal counsel, served only to ignite the desire to dig a little deeper.

Willing accomplices were unearthed. A society glamour puss here, a cocktail waitress there. Taking succour from tabloid cheque books, they emerged by the day. The count is now nine and rising.

Buying off one or two of the consorts in question was never a smart tactic by Woods’s people. Not when those negotiations put his lawyers head-to-head with tabloid editors.

As one tacky tale followed another, Woods, acting on poor advice and misguided logic, cowered behind bland statements on his own web site, rather than confront the imbroglio head on.

“I am dismayed to realize the full extent of what tabloid scrutiny really means,” he wrote.

“But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy.

“For me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one’s own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn’t have to mean public confessions.”

Fair enough Tiger but the moment you chose a little extra-curricular night putting over your family, it was no longer a private matter. It was a media matter and by extension a very public matter.

Woods is a richly talented golfer, with 14 majors in his locker. In 2008 he earned over US$100 million from winnings and endorsements. He is the world’s foremost individual sports brand with personal worth of US$1 billion. He is icon and role model. It is on this last point that the world feels let down.

Woods is not a crisis communications pro, nor is his attorney. That is evidenced by them breaking all of the fundamental rules of crisis communications in the build-up to and aftermath of that 2am accident.

On three main counts they failed. 1. Have a plan for when crisis strikes; 2. Tell your side of the story – quickly, honestly and accurately; 3. Establish and control messaging.

The warning signs were there at least a week before it all started to unravel. The tabloids had linked Woods to New York nightclub host Rachel Uchitel, who was reported to be in the same Melbourne hotel as Woods while he was competing in the Australian Masters.

Woods had time to ponder the impact of the two issues – first that the media sharks were circling over claims of a dalliance, and second the confrontation with a fire hydrant and a tree near his Orlando home.

Woods ignored at least three opportunities to talk with police investigators about the incident. He delayed, losing opportunities to take control of the messaging. The delay aroused suspicion and media speculation grew.

To compound the situation, Woods’s statement about a car crash hinted at wider issues, possibly even alleged personal indiscretions. The sharks scented blood.

“This situation is my fault, and it’s obviously embarrassing to my family and me. I’m human and I’m not perfect. I will certainly make sure this doesn’t happen again.

“This is a private matter and I want to keep it that way. Although I understand there is curiosity, the many false, unfounded and malicious rumours that are currently circulating about my family and me are irresponsible.”

Light the blue touch paper.

Woods’ evasiveness and stonewalling rendered his personal web site a shooting gallery.

One comment read … “The longer you procrastinate, the more spin – negative or otherwise – there is out there. If you need to tweak the truth, so be it. But you should fire your PR advisors now. They’re doing a horrible job, and if you don’t have any, I suggest you pick a good one up from here on out. Step up – take control – move on.”

The duck-and-cover ploy didn’t work this time. It only contributed to the widening sentiment that Woods had been hiding facts, not to mention avoiding the authorities.

Woods employs an armada of advisers – charitable foundation communicators, personal spokesman, IMG luminaries. Either they didn’t offer the reputation management he needed or he didn’t listen.

Sometimes no news is bad news.

Take Teresa Enke, the widow of German international goalkeeper Robert who confronted the media to explain the suicide of her husband earlier this week.

Teresa’s performance was brave and heart-rending. She spoke with solemnity about how her husband had been battling depression brought on by family tragedy. 

Enke took his life after fearing that his adopted daughter would be taken from the couple by authorities if his illness became known. He had also struggled to cope with the death of their biological daughter Lara, who died at the age of two in 2006 of a rare heart condition.

Enke, 32, walked into the path of a train near his home in Hannover having left a suicide letter in which he apologised for hiding the condition of his mental state.

Teresa, dressed all in black and fighting her emotions, said: “I tried to be there for him, said that football is not everything. There are many beautiful things in life. It is not hopeless. We had Lara, we have Leila.

“I always wanted to help him to get through it. He didn’t want it to come out because of fear. He was scared of losing Leila. It is the fear of what people will think when you have a child and the father suffers from depression. I always said to him that that is not a problem.”

She continued: “When he was acutely depressed, then that was a tough time. That is clear because he thought there was no hope of a recovery on the horizon for him.

“After Lara’s death everything drew us closer together, we thought that we would achieve everything. I tried to tell him that there is always a solution. I drove to training with him. I wanted to help him to get through it.”

Enke was hit by a train travelling at 100mph as it passed through a level crossing on its route between Hamburg and Bremen.

He could be proud of the manner in which his wife brought distinction to his memory.

English WAGs please note.