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.

 

 

 

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.

Well, you know what?  Wonder of wonders, the blog is starting with golf for the second consecutive week, my golf, so it’s not a game of any great distinction.  I hadn’t played for two or three weeks because of the heat and it was good to get out again in manageable temperatures.

I hit some decent shots but my putting was abysmal, tiddler after tiddler going astray, all in the same direction.  So, what does that tell you?  In the absence of yipping, an inadvertent, uncontrollable jerk of a stroke, it means, surely, that a single, simple correction to the set-up is all that’s needed.  Here’s hoping I remember that next time out.  And concentrate properly on the task in hand.

One of the good things was that my two playing partners, who have both had knee operations (avoid if at all possible is the advice I gleaned), managed 18 holes, one in a buggy and one walking, with her granddaughter caddying.  One was very respectable (32 points) and the other was so outstanding that she won the competition with 41 points.  Appropriately enough it was the Grandmothers competition and it was the first time she had walked a full round for a couple of years.  Amazing.  Many congrats.

Apologies Sue C but I didn’t take any photos.

You know how everybody’s always banging on about having the best players playing each other more often, going head to head – though usually that doesn’t happen because, like last week in Memphis, Rory was rubbish and Scottie was supreme, blitzing the field to win by eight shots.  And if it hadn’t been one of those poxy small field, no cut jobs, Rory would have been on his way home on Friday instead of Sunday.*

Anyway, I’m not particularly interested in these FedEx playoffs, all played in sweltering heat, with prize funds that are off the charts.  Ho hum!  Scottie’s won another three million.  Well done.  Hope he’s investing wisely.

Am I just becoming jaded and cynical?  Perhaps.  But sporting greed is becoming less and less appealing.

Which brings us neatly to the great god football, gobbler up of everything in its path.  Of course it should leave the summer to other sports, like cricket, athletics, anything really but it’s already well under way in Scotland and the lower leagues and if you watch Sky Sports it’s awash with transfer news; some teams will be unrecognisable to begin with and Totspurs have been spending madly and selling too.  Who the hell’s left?

This might be my last season of trawling up and down to N17.  There are lots of matches scheduled for half five on a Saturday evening and it looks as though Mondays at eight o’clock will feature regularly too, not the most fan-friendly of kick-off times.  Still, it’ll be worth it if the football brings us joy,  something that’s been missing from the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium for the last couple of seasons.  Frankly, we’ve been subjected to dross for far too long and deserve a break.

My expectations for this season are simple:  some entertaining football please (that includes defenders who know what they’re doing, can read a game and don’t give away daft goals) and perhaps a cup run, maybe two.  Results matter – we fans didn’t care that the 2025 Europa League final against Manchester United was dire because we won – but we’ve had enough of the rubbish and want to watch some decent football.  Is that too much to ask:  to enjoy the football?

Perhaps it is.  Perhaps enjoyment is at complete odds with professional sport where you’re judged entirely on results and winning is everything.  In the end, in most competitions, there can be only one winner, so where does that leave the rest of us?  Miserable losers?  Seeking consolation somewhere?  Or satisfied that we gave our all, tried our best and will crack on again next time?   That would be a start.

Admittedly, it’s tougher to be sanguine when the nearest, fiercest neighbours are the reigning champions, crowing, glowing and strutting with a confidence born of success.  I’m not expecting them to crash and burn, so the teeth will undoubtedly be gritted on a regular basis.  Hope my new crown can cope with the grinding…

On the domestic front, my new kettle has arrived and the jury’s still out but I was delighted to see that the mother and son combo of Shashi and Sanjay of the Spice Kitchen were on Dragons’ Den this week.  I can’t remember where I came across them but their range of lovely, fragrant spices make great meals – and pressies.  The dragons were very impressed but declined to invest because they didn’t want to spoil the magic by imposing demanding, money-driven targets.  Hope Shashi and Sanjay take it as the compliment it was and go from strength to strength in their own way.

*Interestingly enough, Rory, so at odds with his game last week, produced a first round of 64, six under par, this week, to share the lead.  Scottie laboured to a 72, two over par, not bad considering he was four over after seven.

Golf!  Just when you think it’s predictable, it reminds you that it’s a four-letter word.

 

It’s a while since I’ve given any thought at all to Bubba Watson but watching the men’s European golf yesterday, there he was.  “What on earth’s Bubba doing in Denmark?”

The two-time Masters champ, who took himself off to LIV, is playing as an invitee, a wild card and he’s still a player worth watching because there’s nothing predictable about him; if you want to see the unexpected, shots beyond the imagination of others, Bubba’s your man.  You want him to miss fairways and greens in the wrongest of places simply because his powers of recovery are often magical, beyond belief.  Dull he ain’t.

He’s playing in the Danish Golf Championship at a new venue for the tour, Great Northern, in Kerteminde –  “the garden by the sea” – on the island of Funen, a couple of hours from Copenhagen.  You can read all about it on the DP World Tour website in a piece by Mathieu Wood.  It’s a Nicklaus Design course, described as “the passion project of Thomas Kirk Kristiansen, a fourth-generation member of the Lego Group family”.

It looks spectacular on the telly, with dramatic elevation changes and lots of water and to avoid building hospitality stands in front of the clubhouse, the two nines have been flipped, so the 18th this week is the usual 9th, a wicked-looking par three with a green surrounded by water.  Daunting enough on a calm day but if the wind blows…

In the US, the men are playing in the FedEx St Jude Championship in sweltering Memphis, Tennessee.  I was there once, when it was the FedEx St Jude Classic and the great, the charismatic Seve Ballesteros was completely ignored by hordes rushing past him to catch a glimpse of one of the pro-am celebs, a bloke called Michael Jordan.  It was an eyeopener for me – I knew nothing about basketball and had never heard of Jordan and couldn’t believe that the maestro Seve was being upstaged.

A lot of the basketball fans knew nothing about golf and had eyes only for their hero and one over-enthusiastic eejit desperate for a better view dived under the ropes and hurtled across in front of the 1st tee just as Andy Bean (it was a long time ago, look him up) was hitting his drive; he managed to semi-abort and an untimely death was avoided.

I have no memory of who won the tournament but I still mourn the loss of one of my all-time favourite earrings, part of a pair that featured a spider in one ear and a web in the other.  Think the centrepiece was a moonstone and whichever one I lost, it slipped out of my sweaty ear lobe and disappeared into the thick, lush grass at my feet never to be seen again despite my desperate, on-my-knees-grovelling efforts.  It was the sort of rough to be avoided at all costs, however strong you were.

It’s too hot for golf here, for me anyway (36 degrees Centigrade) so a large part of my week has been taken up with skulking inside, behind closed curtains, studying kettles.  I need a new one because my faithful Kenwood (quiet, quick) slipped off the bonnet of the car as I was cleaning the dust off my windscreen and window wipers.  It looks fine but after boiling it up without any alarms I noticed a pool of water on the kitchen counter.  Oops.

Inspired by the Rare Tea Company, founded by Henrietta Lovell, who wants us to enjoy proper tea again and ditch the bags, I started to look at kettles more closely, pondering a temperature-controlled model that allows us to brew our teas to perfection. It’s time, surely, to revive the tastebuds and sip with sensitivity and feeling, not glug mindlessly….

The Rare Tea customer support team have been very helpful – thanks to Thomas and Will – and Which?, which is a must for its reviews on items of all sorts, has put numerous kettles through their paces.  I’ve been trawling through the results, with the added complication that I’ve been considering plastic-free models, heeding a friend’s dire warnings about microplastics.

There’s the super-duper SAKI Luna Pro – not a bit of plastic in sight – but you have to order it from America and since it retails at about $169 or thereabouts, it’s a no-no, even for me at my most extravagant.  That’s too much of a stretch for somebody who thinks £40 is nearing top of the range.  Then there’s KitchenAid, Cuisinart, Bosch, Sage, Fellow, Haden, Ascot…. You’ll be beginning to understand why I am still without a working kettle.

It was a relief to forget the kettles for a while and head out to observe the eclipse the other evening.  We broke out the colanders, as instructed but never did work out how to use them properly.  Fortunately, one of our number had a pair of slightly battered cardboard glasses designed for viewing an eclipse, however partial and they did the job well enough.  In the end, though, the clouds won.