After weeks of unbroken sunshine the weather here, in Europe at least, seems to be stepping up now to play a part in the running and the outcome of some important golf events.

Last week at The Belfry the Husqvarna British Masters hosted by Sir Nick Faldo endured in excess of nine hours of weather delay.  Torrential downpours first flooded the greens, then the bunkers, causing major headaches for tournament organisers, greenkeeping staff, spectators and players alike.  How they managed to complete 72 holes is beyond me.  Witchcraft must surely have been involved.  The result, on the other hand, certainly had the feel of a fairytale.

You may have heard of Joe Dean?  It was he who triumphed last Sunday finishing birdie, birdie and stampeding to the finish line with a closing 63.  Posted early in the afternoon, because there was no re-draw after the conclusion of the third round earlier on Sunday morning, his score stood up all day and he eventually won by three shots.

Joe’s is the sort of sporting story we all love.  This is only his third season playing on the DP World tour, having won his card at Q school at the end of 2023.  Lack of funds, however, prevented him from actually playing any tournaments at all until February of 2024 and it’s well documented that he scraped his finances together by driving a supermarket delivery van.

Sunday’s payday banked him €510,934.24.  Yep – thirty months after returning the keys to his van he’s depositing over half a million euros into his account.  That’s a lifetime of shifts at the supermarket.

In July he secured the very last spot in the Open at Royal Birkdale through a new initiative, the Last-Chance Qualifier, to make his second appearance in the world’s greatest championship.  He got married the following week and with his wife, Emily, caddying at the Belfry together they found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

This is what golf and sport is all about for me.  In the week that Scottie Scheffler won his second consecutive FED-EX Cup and surpassed Tiger Woods as the PGA Tour’s all-time official money winner (very well done, Scottie) – he has amassed more than $130 million dollars whereas poor old Tiger only has $120 million or so – it is Joe Dean’s story that captures the imagination.  That’s why LIV Golf didn’t register on most fans’ radars and why it’s the majors and team competitions that pique our interest.  Most of us simply can’t relate to the vast sums of money on offer – but we think we can relate to Joe Dean.

While Joe was trying to get his head round his life-changing week, South Africa’s Casandra Alexander was sloshing round to good effect at the K Club in the KPMG Women’s Irish Open.  This was her second win on tour and comes towards the end of a somewhat frustrating season for her.  She has had five runner-up spots this year but her patience and shot-making through a long, tiring, rain-soaked week paid off with a wire-to-wire three-shot victory.  Unsurprisingly, she has also stretched her lead at the top of the Order of Merit.

Another bright little ray of sunshine through the gloom of the Irish weather was Leona Maguire’s fourth place finish, her best at her home Open, just in nice time for her fourth consecutive Solheim Cup appearance next week in the Netherlands.

It’s been a tough old time recently for Leona with a season littered with missed cuts – eleven out of nineteen and six out of the last eight.  Her weekend scoring of 63/68, 13 under, must be a welcome relief to her and reassurance that she’s on the right track with her swing changes.  And, let’s not forget – match play is a different beast.  The newly retired European captain Anna Nordqvist must also be very happy with the Irishwoman’s return to form.

I’m hoping the weather plays ball for the next ten days for three events that I’ve been waiting for all year.  The first of these, the fourth playing of the Women’s PGA Cup, started yesterday at Carden Park in Cheshire, my old stomping ground and not that far from where I live.  It’s also where the effervescent David Llewellyn, current captain of the PGA, has his base and I know he’ll make sure all the players receive a right royal welcome..

The Women’s PGA Cup is, essentially, the Solheim Cup for women club and teaching pros.  There are five players on each team for the 54-hole strokeplay tournament with the best three scores counting each day.  This is the first time the competition has been held outside the United States and the event is gaining prestige with more countries playing each year.

Heather Macrae, a four-time winner of the Women’s PGA Championship, has the honour of leading the team from GB&I and is more than equipped for the task.  She and Holly Morgan are the sole survivors of the team that played in Oregon in 2024 and form the experienced backbone of the team.  They are joined by Tracey Boyes, Sian Evans and Hazel MacGarvie and it was a thrill for me to link up with them at the start of the week, although I was very quick to turn down their invitation to join them in a segway team-bonding activity – I prefer to keep my feet on terra firma.

While the girls are doing battle at Carden Patricia and I have found ourselves in the Emerald Isle to cheer on our boys in the Walker Cup at Lahinch.  I must say the whole village and club is decked out as if for a state visit with a wonderful integration of club and town ensuring the visiting golf fans have everything they could wish for right here at their disposal.  Mind you, years of hosting the South of Ireland championship, as well as the odd Irish Open, means they are all old hands at this, but this is undoubtedly the jewel in the men’s amateur game.

The opening ceremony takes place this afternoon with two days of great competition ahead of us and the blissful opportunity of walking on the fairways alongside the players.  So, please, please may we have some decent weather to see these exciting golfing talents.

So, this week Ireland, next week the Netherlands and the Solheim.  Gosh, it’s almost like being back on tour.

It has to be done, so no apologies whatsoever to the readers who not only have no interest in football but also absolutely HATE it (that would be me then!).  Well, how on earth could I love it these days, being a Spurs supporter for more than – wait for it – sixty, yes SIXTY, years?  There’s no getting away from it, we’re not very good.  In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, we’re crap.  Apologies if that’s one of those words that television presenters are contractually obliged to apologise for but it’s spot on, a fact.

We (not quite ready to give up the allegiance just yet) have spent millions on transfers in the latest window and if I’m being optimistic, there’s bound to be a period of bedding in, getting to know the manager’s system, the other players, all that sort of stuff.  Even so, despite the endless stats and ever-complicated combinations, football, at base, is about running, working hard, passing to a person in the same shirt and never, ever giving up.  It undoubtedly helps if you have a few players who understand those basics and if, happy days, they know how to look about them, assess the situation, read a game, you’re away in a coach.  At the moment, Spurs are away in an ambulance.

Last Saturday, Essie and I, ever hopeful, drove down to the match against Newcastle, the first home game of the season, at 1730.  We’d had a summit meeting to discuss our options and decided that the last train home, at 2035, was just too tight for us, so the car it was.  It rained most of the way down but wasn’t so manky on the way home, although it’s a bit of a gunk to be driving back in the dark.  Especially when you’ve lost.  Outplayed, outthought, outrun, outeverythinged.  Again.

You’re absolutely right:  football fans are stark, raving mad.  We’re bonkers.  Absolute basket cases.  What on earth are we doing!!

It wouldn’t be so bad if the golf was any good but it’s almost as depressing as the still tottering Totspurs.  Every now and again I do manage to hit two half decent shots in a row.  But the putting!  Horrendous doesn’t do it justice.  Last Tuesday, our competition day, none of the three of us, all reasonable golfers on our day, could  cope with greens with a bit of grass on them.  Three putts were the order of the day, despite all our exhortations to “hit the ****** ball harder”.  We reminded ourselves – and each other – endlessly but did we bloody listen?  We did not.

To make matters worse, I’ve completely forgotten how to hole anything from 14 inches in.  I’m pretty sure I’m not yipping – yet.  For non-golfers, that’s an involuntary jerk, totally out of your control – violinists, pianists, anybody who has to initiate a movement from a standing start, will also know – and dread – the feeling.  The only good thing is that it’s pretty much the same thing – a woeful push to the right – every time, so I’m hopeful that I’m not yet beyond help.  At a bare minimum it’s adding three shots to every round, probably more like five or six.  Believe me, non-golfers, that’s A LOT.

To get away from the golf, a friend and I took the train in to Birmingham last Friday afternoon, to listen to the CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra).  The band – or a part thereof – were set up in New Street station performing two wee concerts for nothing and handing out vouchers for £1 tickets, to encourage everybody to support their orchestra and give music they’d never given a thought to a go.  If you had a West Midlands postcode and could get online quickly enough on Tuesday 2nd September, you could snaffle two tickets for £1 each for a concert of your choice from a large list that ran through this year and a large part of next.  It’s a brilliant offer but not without its pitfalls.  One friend didn’t get it quite right and ended up paying 80 quid (still a bargain) for two tickets.  At least it was something he and his wife really wanted to hear, so it wasn’t quite a disaster, darling.

Back to the football and the near impossibility of getting in touch with the club to sort problems out.  They’re always going on about how important we fans are, the heartbeat of the club and all that sort of stuff but when it comes to looking after us, providing something that could vaguely be described as customer service….well, bollocks to us all.  I was trying to transfer tickets to a friend and he’d given me all the appropriate details – name, number, perhaps it was the rank that was missing or not high enough to register; anyway, it didn’t work, so I rang the ticket office.  Did I get through to a person.  Of course not, even though my call was important to someone, or so I was reassured on a regular basis.

In the end I sent an email and, you’ll be unsurprised to learn, I’m still awaiting a reply…

Finally, to cheer us all up, my favourite pic of the week, used with permission.  Thanks Pamela.

 

 

 

I’m a little mystified as to how, or when, things began to change but gradually, little by little, I think I’ve been turning in to an old person.

Conversations that used to exasperate me a few years ago no longer do.  Now I happily discuss with the best of them the idiocy of the banning of Cheshire residents from their local tip, which happens to be in Shropshire.  This is our dilemma and an easy, eight-mile drive for us has now become a nightmare of a 34-mile round trip.  Is it any wonder fly-tipping is on the increase?

Recycling seems to be a favourite topic among folk my age, ditto the pros and cons of cataract surgery, night driving and how it really is SO much more sensible to have your main meal in the middle of the day.  And the cost of everything…!!!  A sandwich in a cafe nowadays is half the size that it used to be and double the price.  Tut!  Tut!  And just when did it become compulsory to exhale audibly, and with feeling, every time I sink into a chair or rise from a sofa?

And then, while indulging in that mindless 21st century pastime of scrolling through one’s phone I came across an inspiring little video of the US Senior Women’s Open which was played last week at Barton Hills Country Club in Ann Arbor in Michigan.

Mike Tirico, the peerless American broadcaster with the velvety voice and brain the size of a planet, is a resident of Ann Arbor and was the starter for the final round.  He’s one of my all-time favourites and while it implies a degree of familiarity to say I have actually worked with him I have, indeed, been fortunate enough to be part of the same broadcast team when covering a couple of Masters tournaments.

His calm exterior, easy manner, quick wit and friendliness make all around him feel instantly at home, confident in his handling of entire sports broadcasts with nary a stutter or breath out of place.  It is impressive to watch him on the box but even more so when you are actually there in person witnessing the hullabaloo that surrounds live golf programmes.

So, last weekend there was Mike, doing the starter’s job and in ringing tones announcing lots of my pals and fellow pros on to the tee.  There was Becky Morgan, the defending champion from Wales who was part of my Welsh training squads back in the day;  Trish Johnson was also playing as were Catriona Matthew and Karrie Webb and the obligatory clatter of wonderful Swedish players, one of whom, Maria McBride, nee Hjorth, (see pic at the top) carried off the spoils this year.

Mimi, as Maria has always been known, had a four-shot lead going into the final day but soon relinquished that to the formidable Annika Sorenstam before chipping in for eagle on her ninth hole.  That gave her the belief she needed to go on and cross the line a couple ahead of her compatriot.

Boy, how I envied them all – still out there competing, all with aches and pains no doubt, but all doing their best and having fun.  They are a bit younger than me and the swing speeds aren’t quite as of their youth but the guile, the nous and the determination more than offset the inevitable physical limitations.  Bravo to them all.  As I said, inspirational women, one and all.

The summer is galloping on and the next golf I will be watching in the flesh will be the Walker Cup at delightful Lahinch where the sister and I will be staying with Irish golfing royalty Valerie Hassett.

Valerie is a serial achiever.  A former British Seniors champion, a past president of the Irish Ladies’ Golf Union and an Irish international, Valerie is steeped in the game.  Speaking to her on the phone during the week we were recalling being drawn together for the qualifying rounds of the Irish Close one of the years it was played at Lahinch.  The opening hole was a par 5 for us in those days and we both knocked it on in two and sank our putts for matching eagles!  What a start to the championship.

As an amateur I played countless times at Lahinch and the club had a very reliable, if unusual, means of forecasting the weather.  The club emblem features a goat and back in the day there were three or four goats that lived on the course.  I know you won’t believe me but one of the goats only had three legs.  That piece of info is not important to the yarn, but it is a fact, I promise.

Whenever you arrived at the club and found the goats huddled in the porch it was wise to take heed and not venture out because it meant the rain was on its way.  If you saw them happily out on the course grazing away, you were good to go.  It never failed.  They were never, ever wrong.

It was only years later I learned how this worked.  Apparently, goat’s hair has no lanolin in it which means that rainwater soaks straight through to their skins – and goats do not like being wet!  That explains why they so instantly head for shelter when rain is on the way.  Simple.

On the other hand, sheep’s fleeces do contain lanolin which makes them waterproof and so they will happily endure any number of downpours without batting an eyelid.

I’ll be intrigued to learn if there’s a new generation of goats foretelling the weather for those golfing at Lahinch.

I really do hope so.

 

Well, it had to happen some time and I suppose it became inevitable when I took delivery of an outdoor brolly – patio parasol if you want to be a bit posher – a few days ago.  The sun started disappearing, the breeze got up, then there were rumbles of thunder, scary flashes of lightning and, inevitably, before too long, torrential rain.

The brolly’s now nestling inside but hasn’t yet been packed away in the shed because, ever optimistic, I’m hoping I might need it this coming Bank Holiday Monday.  Yeah, right.  The sun’s going to shine again on a bank holiday!  Perhaps I’ll put it up anyway and find out just how waterproof it is…

There’s been lots of flooding here in Lichfield, with Beacon Park acquiring some new lakes and Severn Trent called out to cope with blocked drains and the often unsavoury consequences.  A couple of my neighbours had to head out early in the morning in search of sandbags and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I stay high and dry.

The sainted Alice is staying at mine for a few nights and the other morning we had to venture out in thunder, lightning and heavy rain for the non-negotiable pee and poo run.  She, being a working lab designed for such conditions, couldn’t have been happier to head out  – me not so much.  I had to root out my waterproof walking boots, my long waterproof coat and a waterproof hat, not forgetting the poo bags and the front door key.  We weren’t out for long.

We did manage a longer walk in the afternoon when the weather eased off a little – and I noticed that the golf at The Belfry, not that far away, had got under way as well.  It’s the Husqvarna British Masters hosted by Sir Nick Faldo and Ulsterman Tom McKibbin, a refugee from the imploding LIV, was leading at five under par after 13 holes.  Play is scheduled to resume this morning at 0730 and the second round won’t start before 1345, weather permitting.

As I write this, the rain is hammering down again and the thunder is rumbling, there’s a bit of lightning and I’m looking out a couple of lifebelts for Alice and me.  Might have to break my Amazon embargo.

This weather reminds me of why I was always delighted that I was never in charge of any golf tournament.  However inconvenient or irritating delays were for the rest of us, it was the poor souls running the event who had the hard work to do.  Ben Groutage, the DP World Tour’s tournament director at The Belfry, described the difficulties:  “We managed to play two minutes first thing this morning before we came off for lightning.  [All golfers take note, this is an absolute must, don’t even think about waiting for a signal to leave the course, head off at once.]

“We got back out there and unfortunately had so much rain that the bunkers became unplayable.  The rest of the golf course is actually very good but we just couldn’t keep the bunkers playable, so it wasn’t fair.  We suspended again.  We were off for nearly four hours and we managed to get back out and play another three.”

I confess I have no interest in who splashes through to victory here or in Atlanta – where I think it’s only hot and sweaty, with a wee bit of rain, for the moment, at the Tour Championship.  That’s entirely selfish because my PYP (Pick Your Pro) choices aren’t playing – well, that’s not entirely true; one of them is playing, just not in the right place.

Alex Fitzpatrick, younger brother of Matt, was my pick for the aforementioned British Masters but he’s had such a good season that he’s playing in Atlanta instead.  Corey Conners, the Canadian I plumped for at the Tour Championship (field of thirty, no cut), failed to make it, so that’s nul points this week.  Since I’m already bottom of the table, my only hope is that I’ll be getting my tenner entry fee back at the end of affairs in November.

I’ve been bottom before but the only time I was delighted not to claim the booby prize – a bottle of champagne, the proper stuff no less – was many years ago at The Oxfordshire, never one of my favourite courses.  I’d had my first – and last – video lesson that morning and was so horrified by what I saw that I could do nothing right out on the golf course that afternoon.  How I managed to accumulate as many as 13 points, only the golfing gods know.

I steeled myself as the booby of the day was announced and prepared a rictus grin and a merry quip…The winner is – name long forgotten – with a grand total of….15 points…

I applauded loudly, more than delighted to forego the bubbles and the humiliation.

My golf’s been a bit better than that these last couple of weeks, though nothing to crow about and there’s absolutely no reason why I should have any expectations at all.  Do I practise?  No.  Do I warm up?  Barely, bar a bit of stretching.  Have I worked on improving my dire short putting?  Ah.  Pass.  That’s another no then.

To finish on a much higher level, Anna Nordqvist, Europe’s Solheim Cup captain, has announced her retirement from the professional grind after this week’s FM Championship in Boston..  At the age of 39, with three major titles to her name and a lot of angst and heartache to go with the successes, she’s had enough and is ready for a different life.

We wish her all the best and wouldn’t it be lovely if she signed off with another Solheim triumph next month, at Bernardus Golf in the Netherlands.