You’re looking at it, friend. Nothing is going on. Nothing but the rent. 

In late July, Adam Scott was asked the same thing – what’s doing, Adam? You’re a suit-of-sorts. Any mail? To which Scott replied: “There’s really been no developments since earlier this year. So, I would say don’t hold your breath.”

And if anyone asks, even rhetorically, “who cares?” about the LIV-PGA Tour imbroglio, tell them Scott’s last four words would lead many digital news bulletins. 

In the meantime, status quo rules, and it’s not okay. We, the people, the game’s consumers, are being sold a pup. Never the twain shall meet.

Well, they may meet. But they may never agree how to reunite top-level professional golf, by which one means divide up all that money.

Because: all that money. 

Good times on the LIV Tour for the Stinger, Charles Burmester. For how much longer we don't know. Why not decades? The Saudi have more of it where that came from. PHOTO: Getty Images.

All that money means, for mine, there won’t be a “merger”. They’re businesses. And they sell quite different products.

One business is sure of the righteousness of its cause and the other one just wants to be accepted, if not as an equal, as a complementary member of the global golf ecosystem. Please love us, Golf World.

Yet the Big Daddy PGA Tour says: No! There will be only one! And that will remain us. For it is our job to further enrich super-rich sports people by entrenching our Tour’s hegemony and monopoly of most of the world’s best golfers who can carry on “growing the game” by spending a week each year in the UK and another fortnight “overseas” in Hawaii.

I don’t get these super-rich weirdos at all. How can you be concerned only with becoming ever-super-richer? Do you need nine fishing boats? How much gold can you eat? Can you, with a straight face, proclaim to be “growing the game” by adding zeros to your own digital “worth”? 

I say, a pox upon these people. Well, not a pox. We’re not sadists. But certainly an itch on the flesh of their inner thighs, on Tuesday mornings, say, and Friday nights before bed.

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I don’t get it. By which I mean top-end, fully-sick money. I’ve always thought money would drive LIV players back onto the PGA Tour, and not because they’d be paid more, because that would appear impossible. But rather that the sponsors of PGA Tour events would be doing the driving.

I thought John Deere, Charles Schwab, Rocket Whatsits, all them, would want Bryson DeChambeau, Brooks Koepka and Jon Rahm in their fields, and thus attract the most eyeballs upon their brands.

Apparently not, according to Scott. “I think it’s less of a consideration than it’s been made out to be. I don’t think the tour can change the way it sets its competitive format,” he said.

C’mon, Aussie. They could do whatever they like. They just don’t want to. What they’re doing instead, it appears, is waiting for LIV Golf to die.

Players have "made their choices and there’s kind of a divide in what people want to do,” according to PGA Tour Players Advisory chairman, Adam Scott. PHOTO: Getty Images.

The PGA Tour – or, more to the point, their commercial wing, PGA Tour Enterprises, funded by Fenway Sports Group – seems content to wait it out, to see how long the princelings who control the trillion-dollar petro-fund will be okay with transferring so many riyals to Peter Uihlein, Richard Bland and Charles Howell III. 

Yet LIV could live for a lifetime, ever-flush, apparently, with the Saudis’ investment in respectability, hanging out there on the YouTube and Channel Seven’s digital gibber, largely unwatched, unloved, until February, when 100,000 extras descend upon Adelaide and turn The Grange into a live theatre production of LIV Adelaide: City Of Churches Gets Batshit Jiggy.

Meanwhile, we wait. And wait. And we may wait many years, even decades, given the House of Saud does have rather a lot in their advanced savings account, and there’s more where that came from.

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Plus admitting that they were, like Fonzie, w-w-w-wrong, would mean losing lots of very important face. Dear, sweet, important face.

Yet Big Daddy’s Tour is denuded, too, with a three-division structure that’s effectively: a) double-money, no-cut events for the famous, rich elite; b) generic 72-holers for the wannabes and nuff-nuffs; and c) a reserve reserve-grade tour named after Korn Ferry, whatever that is, could be a hedge fund, could be a Danish cruise liner, could be a death metal band from Budapest. 

Give it up for Korn Ferry! Aaaghgkkck!

Regardless, you want to know what’s going on? You’re looking at it, friend. Best get used to it. Because the guys at the top are fine with the air up there. And they don’t give a shit what you think.