Well, this week we had four days of being glued to the telly and the Open Championship at Royal Troon and, amazingly, the sister and I have parted still on reasonably good terms.  Mind you, that’s not to say diplomatic relations weren’t at times strained – indeed, very strained.  As you can imagine the commentary from the two of us was unabridged with a degree of bad language and much hilarity.

Ever since we were small, whether we were watching sport or a film together, Patricia has had the annoying habit of announcing what would happen seconds before it actually did happen.  I used to think she had her own personal crystal ball.  Nothing has changed.  On Thursday morning Rory had got to the 11th tee at three over par and as he pegged up his ball she announced, “He’s going to put it on the railway.”  And sure enough – he did.  I blame her utterly but she was unrepentant.  Future invitations for shared viewing may need to be revised.

Sometimes I wonder if it ever crosses the minds of certain players that it is part of their remit to entertain.  If the fans don’t get anything back from the players, they may well take themselves – and their cash – off elsewhere.  Of course, I don’t mean or expect them to be joking around and a laugh a minute.  But really, why would anyone wish to watch Patrick Cantlay play golf?  There’s nary a smile no matter the brilliance of his play and his whole demeanour is, frankly, quite depressing.  He comes across as one of life’s drains, certainly not a radiator of happiness.  I’m sure in reality he’s lovely but that’s not how he comes across.

I can’t say it’s particularly joyous watching Tiger either. He looks in pain (which I’m sure he is) and he certainly doesn’t appear to enjoy a single second he’s on the course.  He got a wonderful ovation as he came down the last on Friday and yet he barely acknowledged the galleries, never mind rustling up a smile for them.  Time to stop raging against the dying of the light, methinks.

The Open usually throws up wonderful storylines and this was no exception.

Dan Brown had had six missed cuts and a couple of withdrawals because of injury in his ten tournaments or so before teeing it up in Ayrshire.  He was in the field at Troon courtesy of having come through final qualifying at West Lancs, holing a 20-footer on his last hole, to avoid a play-off.   It was delightful he was able to share the experience with his brother Ben, the 2023 English Amateur champ, who was on caddying duty.

A tied tenth position has guaranteed him a spot in next year’s Open at Portrush and, hopefully, a nice hefty cheque of just under a quarter of a million pounds will alleviate any financial angst so he can settle in for a relaxed and productive upcoming twelve months.

This is more or less what happened last year for Hoylake’s Matt Jordan when he earned his tee time at Troon through a top-ten finish on his home course.  This year he arrived at the Open a much more assured and rounded player and, blow me, if he didn’t repeat the feat of finishing tenth again.  No qualification worries for him either for next year – he can jump straight to booking his accommodation in Portrush and work on edging even further up golf’s greasy pole.

Right at the top of that pole at the moment is America’s Xander Schauffele, who a mere two months ago was major-less but now owns a brace of the big titles. He is also half way towards a career grand slam and will shortly be teeing it up at the Olympics as the returning and defending gold medallist.  I think it’s safe to assume that life is good for the thirty-year old and those who follow the game will know that he’s now reaping the rewards we all felt would, some day, assuredly be his.

The Americans do seem to like Royal Troon – or perhaps I should say, Royal Troon seems to like the Americans.  Seven of the Opens contested there have been carried off by players of that particular nationality and if Xander had indeed faltered, Billy Horschel was waiting in the slips – as was Scottie Scheffler until the last few holes.  Horschel’s beloved claret and blue golf bag with the West Ham crest was, as usual, much in evidence and a brilliant burst of three consecutive birdies on the closing three holes hoisted him into joint runner-up place.

The home fires, meanwhile, were kept burning brightly by the other runner-up, Justin Rose (who himself had come through final qualifying at Burnham &  Berrow), and the ever popular Shane Lowry and for quite a long time on Sunday it was impossible to call the winner.

There was, however, a welcome silver medal for Calum Scott of Nairn who scooped the much coveted low amateur award for Scotland.  It was a real blink-back-the-tears moment as he received his own standing ovation as he made his way up the last hole.  He may well go on to achieve a great deal in his life but that moment in the land of his birth will surely be hard to beat.

Some dreams were realised at Troon, many were dashed.  Undoubtedly, for some players, small and big strides were made in the realisation of dreams further down the line.

If you can’t do it yourself, isn’t it thrilling to watch from the sidelines and see how events unfold?  I certainly find it so.

 

 

Early to bed, early to rise makes a man (or woman or anybody) healthy, wealthy and wise….Ah well, that explains a lot.  I really, really wanted to get to bed in good time this blog night because I’m off to the cricket in the morning, the first day of the third test between England and the West Indies, at Edgbaston.  And I have to make the cheese and pickle sarnies and get up early enough to get to the station in time to buy the train ticket.

Instead, yet again, those good intentions are paving my potholed road to hell and I find myself writing this while a particularly gruesome episode of Silent Witness is playing on the telly.  The golf had moved on to the Senior Open highlights from Carnoustie and I’d seen some of that earlier; it was good to see Woosie, Olly and other familiar faces still swinging away, unable to resist the siren call of the fairways.

Paul Broadhurst, from just up the road in Atherstone, appeared to be having trouble walking let alone swinging and was using a walking aid (more like one of those things from a hospital than a walking stick) between shots.  Somehow he managed to come home in 31, 5 under par, to share second place, a shot behind Stephen Ames.  Broadie birdied the 17th and 18th – at Carnoustie, for goodness sake.

By contrast, Lionel Alexandre, of France, who had shared the lead briefly, had a triple bogey 7 at the last, perhaps the most notorious hole in the history of French golf.  For those who don’t know, Jean van de Velde, the Frenchman for ever associated with Carnoustie’s infamous 18th, is playing this week and started with a respectable round of 75, 3 over par.  He parred the last.

Years ago, when the Open, the big one, was at Carnoustie, there was a wonderful aerial picture of the last four holes, with the Barry Burn looping its way here and there.  I looked and looked and looked but try as I might I could see no straightforward way of playing the holes.  It is possible – people have managed it quite a few times, as their scorecards prove – but no matter how good you are it is not a comfortable finish, in fact it’s one of the most nerve-wracking, if not the most nerve-wracking in golf.  And that’s when the weather’s at its most benign.

Earlier in the week, three of European golf’s most recognisable and enduring names were given honorary life membership of the DP World Tour, numbers 60, 61 and 62 in that elevated category.  Thomas Bjorn, Miguel Angel Jimenez and Paul McGinley were presented with their precious cards by Guy Kinnings, the tour’s chief executive, in recognition of all their efforts on and off the course.

“These three players have given everything to the tour and have shaped the tour with both their play and their personalities,” he said.  “They have given so much, whether that be through service on committees or as board members or through their service to the Ryder Cup as players, vice captains and captains.  It is all of this together which makes everyone recognise these three individuals as such huge figures…I am delighted for them.”

They’ve put in a lot of hard work and had a lot of fun and we’ve had a lot of fun being on the journey with them, marvelling at their triumphs, sympathising with their stumbles, admiring their determination and longevity and, especially in McGinley’s case, their loquaciousness – and thank goodness for sportspeople who are happy to talk.

Jimenez, he of the creative stretching exercises and large cigars, summed it up when he said, “Golf has given me everything in life and I’m very proud to be part of this world.  This is not a job for me, it’s a way of life.”

Gracias a todos.

We’ve got the multi-coloured March Of The Elephants in Lichfield at the moment, with a whole herd of beautifully decorated beasts dotted all over the city.  It’s to celebrate forty years of  St Giles Hospice, which is based in Whittington (and Sutton Coldfield) and this is one of my favourites, sponsored by Manor Farm Fruits of Hints, which reminds me that it’s time to go and pick my own.

And here’s another beauty, made up of many different animals: there’s a zebra leg, a tiger leg, a butterfly ear…what can you spot?

Finally, a very special offer, never to be repeated (by this blog at least) for anybody who might be visiting Barry Island, perhaps for the Gavin and Stacey TV location tour?   It’s a big thing now, you know, because the series has made Barry famous throughout the world, even though the place, not too far from Cardiff, has been around for a bit.  According to wikipedia, it is named after the 6th century saint Baruc and “its stretch of coast, on the Bristol Channel, has the world’s second highest tidal range of 15 metres, second only to the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia, Atlantic Canada”.

There’s lush.  (Or not.  Usage here probably dubious.)

Anyway, not so lush, if you’re trying to pay for your parking with what you think is a ten pence piece, is a token from Barry Island Promenade’s Fun Park.  I have four of them to give away, courtesy of the friend who has never been to Barry and acquired them she knows not how or where.  They have, as she discovered, no cash value outside the confines of a very small piece of the Vale of Glamorgan.