Ding! Ding!  Whoop, whoop!  Here it comes again – the major bus for Rory McIlroy!  The MASTERS major bus for Rory McIlroy.

Last year he dragged himself on board, battered, bruised and bleeding but triumphant and it took him a wee while to recover.  This year he hasn’t exactly hopped on board, but climbed up the steps rather wearily yet with the assurance of someone who always knew he’d a great chance of securing his seat once more.  This time there was a difference – he had already had a ticket before.  As he said himself, this year he felt he was playing with the house money.

And there was a difference for the ardent fan too.  Last year Patricia declared the start of the era of “Angst-Free Aprils” for all Rory supporters.  This year wasn’t totally angst free but the edge was certainly taken off the anxiety generated by hours of slowly unfolding drama by the knowledge that there was already a green jacket in the wardrobe.  Thank goodness.

One thing was demonstrably different this year and that was the lightness of touch in McIlroy’s preparation from every other year that he has had the good fortune to drive down Magnolia Lane to tee it up in the year’s first major.  For starters, he hadn’t competed for three weeks because of a balky back, so he took the opportunity to shoulder the school run, drop Poppy off in the morning, jump on his jet, shoot up from Florida to Georgia, have a practice round at Augusta National and be back in time to do the dishes.  Not great for the ole carbon footprint but I’m sure he offsets it.

The net result of all this was he arrived on the Saturday before the Masters feeling he had done all his work and feeling free to throw himself into enjoying all that comes with being a Masters champion.  He attended the final round of the Augusta National Women’s Amateur, handed out some of the prizes at the Drive, Chip and Putt (DCP) contest and played the course with his Dad on the Sunday.  Tuesday, of course, was the champions dinner and it was Wednesday before he began to switch gently into tournament focus and leave this place of relaxed enjoyment behind him.

This recipe suited him because for the first time in donkey’s years Rory opened with a sub-70 round, only the third time he has achieved this in eighteen goes.  Empowered, on Friday he went on to record his best score of the week, a 65, birdieing six of the last seven holes.  I staggered to bed that night rejoicing in his mind-boggling, but curiously unsafe-feeling lead of six shots.  This was Rory, after all.

Saturday was memorable, and annoying, in many ways not least because Scottie Scheffler woke up that morning and well, remembered he was Scottie Scheffler.  A dozen behind at the half-way stage that deficit was reduced to four with one round to go.  He lost a shed load of brownie points from me, however,  when after he had birdied the 15th hole he then proceeded to spit at the side of the green!  What’s with these people?!!!

And, just to prove I’m not having a go at Americans here (just at spitting) I was appalled at both Bob MacIntyre and Sergio Garcia’s behaviour, digging up the course, with lots of uncontrolled, audible swearing, giving the finger – petulance personified.  There was none of that at the DCP.  Perhaps they should both be made to attend that event next year – if they’re invited back.

It was another terrific yet ultimately heartbreaking finish (third) for Justin Rose, who had found himself two ahead standing on the 10th tee.  Others to leave disappointed will be Shane Lowry, who shot a final round 80 and Tommy Fleetwood, whose weekend scoring of 73, 76 rocketed him down the standings.

Somehow, some way McIlroy stood firm like a re-enforced sea wall repelling the batterings of multiple named storms.  His six-shot lead turned into a deficit at times but he was ultimately the last man standing – and was able to board the Masters bus once again.  But guess what, when he looked at the driver of said bus he saw his childhood pal, the oft, under-heralded Harry Diamond.  As always he was where he always is – at Rory’s side.

In the aftermath of this, Rory’s sixth major win, many early videos and footage of him playing as a youngster have emerged once again on social media.  One of these was taken a couple of weeks after McIlroy had turned sixteen and he was teeing it up in his second professional event,  the 2005 Irish Open.  At that time he was the Irish Boys’ Champion, the Irish Youths’ Champion and the West of Ireland Champion.  There is a familiar face on the bag, however, one of his Irish Boys’ teammates.  Have a look at the photo.

What a long way they’ve come in the game together and what a team they are proving to be.  It’s been quite a herculean task for them to catch that Masters bus.

And for the rest of us it’s been a helluva ride.

Thank you boys.

Well, what are we going to talk about this week?

That’s a very good question and I might have been able to answer it better if I hadn’t been persuaded (easily) to go to the pub with two of the in-laws.  We’d convened at mine to discuss the wine for the forthcoming wedding of their son.  Being a member of the Wine Society, I’m considered a bit of an expert (only a bit) and the important thing is they won’t be recommending just any old rubbish.

It’s a bit like having a season ticket for the tottering Totspurs – I’d probably have been quite a wealthy woman, possibly even a bit of a catch (I’m watching a very old episode of First Dates as I write this), if I hadn’t taken over Dai’s membership share of the Wine Soc.  Admittedly I don’t have to be tempted by all the offers and my liver might be a bit resentful of my lack of restraint but when John Arlott has proposed your beloved for something (he proposed Dai for the Wine Soc), it ill behoves you to ditch the membership.

I don’t think you have to be proposed nowadays but it’s a wonderful story and there’s a letter somewhere to prove that it’s authentic, not made up.  If you have no idea who Arlott is, please look him up – and if you can, listen to his voice.  A broadcasting and cricketing legend.

After the wine chat, we headed for the Horse and Jockey, not quite my nearest local at five minutes’ stroll (legend has it that Lichfield used to have about 200 pubs) but one of my favourites.  It’s also in need of our custom because it was closed for a while after a high-powered car smashed in to the front window.  A friend was very lucky that he wasn’t killed – and I realised I’d been in that self same seat just a week before….

There was football on the telly and it just so happened that we were in sight of the screen (small) showing Nottingham Forest and couldn’t see the screens showing the Villa game.  This bro-in-law is a Villa fan but wasn’t too stressed because they were in total control of the Europa League tie against Bologna and ended up winning 7-1 on aggregate.  Sadly, we (Spurs) have to play Villa at their place soon – probably another nul points.  I fear we’re doomed.  Relegation beckons.

It’s back down to N17 this Saturday, for the match against Brighton, who are in decent form – five wins in the last six matches I think – so there’s no way in the world we’re anything but second favourites.  Bear in mind that we haven’t won a single solitary league game this year, so no wonder I’m struggling to remember the last time I left the stadium feeling buoyed up and cheerful.

Now, how could I ignore the Masters and Rory’s defence of his title, such a rare feat that only Jack Nicklaus, Nick Faldo and Tiger Woods had ever managed it?  Of course, we can all expect a different winner next year because no one’s ever won the green jacket three times in a row and there must be a reason for that:  it’s too blooming difficult.

The old saw is that the tournament doesn’t begin until the last nine on Sunday and time after time it has proved to be the case.  Last Sunday was beyond confusing, with any number of players in the mix.  Justin Rose must be kicking himself – irrespective of his bogeys at the 11th and 12th, the killers were his rush-of-blood three-putt par at the 13th and missed putt (not quite a tiddler – the only sure thing at Augusta is the length of Rory’s tap in at the last) at the 17th, for an untimely bogey.  If any player deserves a Masters title it’s Justin and if he does win, he’ll replace Nicklaus as the oldest champion.  Unlikely as the years roll on but not impossible.

We watched the golf on the telly but really, in my heart of hearts, I’d rather listen on the radio – or combine the two somehow.  The pictures are great but there is something spine tingling and magical about hearing an exciting sporting event unfold on the wireless.  What a dinosaur I am….

Amazingly, I won the money in our family and friends sweep because I had Mr McIlroy.  He was my second pick and none of the others had him as their first choice either – perhaps we didn’t want to tempt fate or didn’t believe lightning could strike twice, all that stuff.  Glad I succumbed, albeit a bit belatedly.

My last pick was Haotong Li and he was chugging along nicely in the last round, on the fringes of real contention.  He was playing with Scottie Scheffler, the world No 1 but that wouldn’t have fazed him because they played together in the last round of the Open at Portrush when Scheffler surged away from the rest to win his first Claret Jug.

We saw quite a bit of Scottie – and he finished second in the end – but nothing of Haotong.  Wondering what was happening to one of my main men, I looked him up on the Masters app and saw he’d had a mare at Amen Corner:  six at the 12th and ten at the 13th, eight over par for the two holes but nary a mention by the broadcasters.

Disasters of a golfing variety are a tradition like no other at Augusta, they’re the stuff of legend, so to let them pass unremarked is dereliction of the first order.  I found the footage on the app and it looked as though his third shot at the 12th hit the pin and rebounded back into the water.  At the 13th he was deep in the azaleas and foliage to the left of the green, had a hack or two, got to the back of the green, hit the ball too hard, in to Rae’s Creek and so on, with Scottie, waiting to putt, watching patiently on.

Haotong, far from inscrutable, endeared himself to the crowd/gallery/patrons by lifting his arms in the air in mock triumph after sinking his final putt.  That’s the way to do it.

He’s my first pick for the Open at Birkdale.