WHEN all the emotion associated with Darren Clarke and his memorable Open triumph on Sunday has died down one big question will be asked.

What happened to the English challenge at Royal St George's on the windswept, rain drenched Kent coast?

Wasn't the winner supposed to come from England, with respect to a certain celebrated group of Northern Irishmen?

Luke Donald and Lee Westwood were the world's number one and two. Yet they never even made the cut. Neither did another fancy, Ian Poulter.

For me Westwood is like Andy Murray. Both very, very good players but ones who will never win a Major.

So instead of the fancied Englishmen it was left to yet another Northern Irishman to follow in the footsteps of Graeme McDowell and Rory McIIroy.

Who would have backed Darren Clarke before it all started? He was rated at 150-1 by the bookies, a complete outsider and at 42 surely past his best.

But he took to the task at hand like the ducks did to the water, the wind and the rain proving no barrier as he sailed serenely on, refusing to crack at the top of the leaderboard.

Americans Phil Mickelson, so gracious to the winner who had gone through similar health agonies, Dustin Johnson and Rickie Fowler all tried, but the portly individual which is Clarke refused to buckle.

He gave all of us hackers some hope that we can improve our handicap as this man of the people took the claret jug. Richly deserved too.