The last time I took a caddie at TOC, (and it will be the last time), the gent slipped a large flask into the side pocket of my bag on the first tee. Not that he needed it, as he had already consumed plenty before taking my bag. Of course we had fun, but I'm afraid this lad of 40 or so years was not long for this world. He could barely speak...couldn't walk a straight line and must've sung "Oh Flower of Scotland" 100 times over the course of 18 holes. I gave him but a few months to live, his liver all but exhausted and his face permanently ruddy from drink.
I remember his advice on one hole after we had made the turn and headed for home: "Hett ett...et the wee steeple..." he admonished between hiccups. And I did. The ball flew straight and true. And I immediately began a confident stride to the green. And yet, when we arrived, a distance of some 70 YARDS lay between my ball and the hole. Sensing my displeasure over what appeared to be a perfectly played approached, my caddie missed not a beat, utteringly loudly for all to hear: "Not thet wee steeple....laddie...the EHTHER wee steeple!" Only then did I notice the many church spires dotting the horizon as I gazed eastward into the old grey toon. My mistake.
My caddie that day may have been on his last legs, but he knew sure and well, as all good Scottish loopers do: when things get rough it's wise to blame the player and not thyself. They are a prideful lot, the caddies of Scotland -- fast to take credit and never to be be found when blame comes looking.
Nowadays, I prefer Strokesaver and trolley over a Scottish caddie.