One by one, the others have dropped out for various reasons. Marriage. Children. That kind of thing.

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But not me and Martin. We may be married, not to each other I hasten to add, but we still manage to make time for our annual golf trip.

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Over the years, a few little traditions have built up that we make sure we stick to.

For instance, when one of us hits a chip shot close to the pin the other says, 'Howda you like that señor?' in a bad Spanish accent, as commentator Peter Alliss used to when waxing lyrical over Seve Ballesteros's magical short game.

And if we hit a shot that starts hooking or slicing into trouble we both make the sound of screeching tyres and mime pressing hard on PlayStation joypads to bring it back into play like you could on the Tiger Woods Golf video game.

But most of all, we know not to say anything when the other one makes a complete hash of it and starts whacking his bag with his club amid a stream of four-letter words.

Martin once swung his eight-iron so hard at his other clubs that he snapped the head of his driver clean off. But even then I didn't breathe a word, although we did have a bit of a chuckle about it in the clubhouse afterwards.

And anyway, experience tells us the red mist will have cleared in a couple of minutes and we'll soon get back to enjoying each other's company.

That and the fact we're on a golf course when we could be visiting the mother-in-law or being dragged round shops.

When I get back from one of these trips the Missus always asks me what we've talked about.

She never believes me when I say I can't really remember, just football and music and stuff. But it's true, I can't.

We're too busy having a laugh to talk about anything too deep like mortgages or jobs or pension plans.

Another thing we tend to discuss is highlights from previous golf trips away.

Like the time Andy got attacked by that pheasant in Scotland when he tried to reclaim a golf ball that had strayed close to its nest. Or when Andy melted the new oven in that holiday cottage after accidentally setting fire to his black pudding.

Actually, most of the funny stories from golf trips past seem to involve Andy doing something daft.

But now he lives in London with his wife and kids and goes to children's birthday parties thrown by trendy parents who've invited Liam Gallagher and Nicole Appleton because their kids go to school together.

Martin's going to be a dad soon too. That's why we decided to have our golf trip a bit earlier this year.

"Maybe we can meet up halfway for a game before the baby arrives?" he says, as he packs his clubs into his car at the end of this year's trip, ready for the drive home and impending fatherhood.

"Of course we can," I tell him. "That'd be great."

And I smile, because I know that while a few things in our lives may change, me and Martin both understand there are some traditions that are just too good to let go of.