Pink turns struggling Darren into a dazzler

With the drizzle easing, it was time to dip into the pink. Off came his jacket to reveal a fetching sweater and off went the Northern Irishman on a spurt of birdies which brought him back to one over.

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As the fearsome final three holes loomed into view, however, another burst of cerise inspiration was needed if Clarke's round was not to be picked apart like many others.

Little did the spectators crowded around the 16th tee suspect that the inspiration would come in the form of a pair of pink slacks so garish that even the fashion adventurer that is Ian Poulter would think twice about adorning them.

Add in the pink band across his shoes as well as the pink ribbons on his visor and the collar of his shirt and Clarke would have stood out even to a passing satellite.

Rest assured, the wolf whistles which accompanied him stripping off his black waterproofs were coated in irony. Clarke grinned.

He knew prior to setting out that he would be opening himself up to ridicule, but it had to be done.

Three pars later and last year's Ryder Cup hero had shot a 72. He had also proved loyal to his late wife Heather and the fight against breast cancer — the disease which claimed her life 11 months ago.

Clarke said: "I'm doing a lot of work for breast cancer awareness at the moment. Trying to raise money for putting scanners into a few different hospitals in London. It was for Heather and for breast cancer. Early detection for women is the best cure. The more lives we save, everybody is happier that way.

"I probably couldn't have turned my round around like that a couple of months ago. But my game's moving on a little bit, my life's moving on a little bit and I'm comfortable playing again.

"I am quite pleased that I managed to get it back. It wasn't nice standing on the sixth tee three over and hitting another ball. You could not print what I was thinking when I put my drive out of bounds."

Presumably his thoughts as he strode to the first tee through driving rain early yesterday morning were equally unsuitable for public airing. It had been raining in Dublin, too, for last autumn's Ryder Cup, but there Clarke had been carried to the first tee by a wave of love and sympathy over the death of his wife.

Barely a soul noticed him make the short walk from the putting ground yesterday.

Five people with umbrellas peered down from the grandstand at the side of the 18th green while from the comfort of the Carnoustie Hotel, a guest peered down, cup of coffee in hand and no doubt warmed by a roaring fire.

The affection for Clarke was obvious, though, with quiet words of support as he struggled through his opening holes.

Then, as the putts began to drop, more raucous cries of encouragement. On the 17th, the Irishman strode towards the green ahead of playing partners Michael Campbell and Chris DiMarco.

Was he trying to milk the applause? No, he was answering a call of nature. Off beyond the ropes he went, clambering over a bush and into the middle of a thicket.

"We know what you're doing," the cry went up. Clarke returned beaming. He was enjoying himself again. Thoroughly in the pink.