For some unknown reason, deep-seated, embedded, ingrained, annoying (but not annoying enough for me to do something about it), this blogger refuses to start writing until the hour is moving towards witching and long after all the studies tell us we should be in bed and hitting deep sleep.  Perhaps it’s an Irish thing?  Or, more likely, a procrastinator thing.

Last weekend I was doing my bit for humanity – not going down to watch Spurs against Leeds, that can’t count no matter how dire we were in the first half – but going up to Stockport to be scanned as part of the UK Biobank project.  I signed up in 2010 to become part of “a large-scale biomedical database and research resource that contains the genetic, lifestyle and health information from half a million UK participants…

“The database, which now also includes genetic data for all participants and the heart and brain scans from over 50,000 participants, is globally accessible to approved researchers who are undertaking health-related research that is in the public interest.”

Well, Saturday was the scanning bit, including a brain scan, so presumably there was one in there somewhere.  I thought of Dad and his dementia as I was lying there listening – and presumably reacting – to various noises, quite relaxed really, knowing that I wasn’t about to be tortured or anything brutal.  Perhaps my scan, added to all the others, will provide some insight in to Alzheimers and the like and help counteract it.  Worth a try.

On the way home, having survived the short taxi ride back to the station, tight-lipped, driven by a lad who had no clue how to drive properly and seemed to forget he had a passenger in the back, I had to change at Crewe.  That got me thinking about the old song, a wartime number I believe:  “Oh Mr Porter, what shall I do?  I wanted to go to Birmingham but they sent me off to Crewe…”

Everything and everybody used to change at Crewe (Dai was born there, the town not the station, before the war) and every time I’m there I think of Mum and her sisters and friends waiting for their connections on the way home for leave or on their way back to duty.  Must have been a lot more chaotic than it is now.

The next day it was off down to north London to watch Spurs, who are now under the charge of Antonio Conte, a man used to winning.  He’s Italian and very demonstrative and if he can’t galvanise a lacklustre, dozy bunch, no one can.  From my seat I can’t see him clearly but on the telly afterwards, after a lucky 2-1 win, he was diving in, bear-hugging his players, some of whom looked shocked at the passion, the emotion, the intensity.  “They’ll all be a stone lighter by Christmas,” a fellow fan commented astutely, clocking just how much effort the players will have to put in to match the manager’s intensity and expectations.

Fortunately, before the match, if the coach gets there in time, no mean feat given the traffic en route, the chef at La Barca caff conjures up a mean omelette (or egg and chips or whatever) and provides enough sustenance to help us cope with whatever the game throws at us.  The length football fans go to to get to games and the ingenuity of their travel arrangements are vastly under appreciated.

I was a bit alarmed when a load of noisy West Ham fans got on my train at Stafford on Saturday – they’d been playing Wolves  and had lost 1-nil but even I had the sense not to mention that.  My geography’s not great but my immediate thought was that Stafford was north of Wolverhampton (it is) and this was not the obvious way back to London.  Turns out it must have been the quickest because the only stop between Stafford and London Euston was, fortunately for me, Lichfield Trent Valley.

I nearly played golf three times this week but my partner in the winter foursomes had a Covid scare and we’ve had to re-arrange for next month, health and weather permitting.  The game is still patchy but my chipping and putting aren’t too bad – though the technique leaves a lot to be desired according to the expert observer I played with on Tuesday.    No more delusions of grandeur here then.

Yesterday I caught the tail end of one of those excellent Open films, this one about Ian Baker-Finch, the lovely Australian who won the title in such style at Royal Birkdale in 1991 before crashing and burning as he tried to live up to the hype of being Open champion.  Guiltily, I remembered following him virtually every step of the way as he struggled to a 92 in the first round of the Open at Troon in 1997.  Feeling like some sort of ghoul or a hyena stalking a wounded animal, I was part of the pack who pursued him into the clubhouse, where he took refuge in the champions’ locker room and cried his eyes out.  Not my finest hour.

The ever affable IBF has admitted that deep down he didn’t feel he was one of the best players in the world and, really, had no burning desire to be No 1 but felt he had to push himself and strive to improve even though winning the Open had been his dream.  He was a very good player in an era of very, very goods and greats:  people like Tom Watson, Seve Ballesteros, Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Greg Norman and Nick Price, to mention just a few.

Baker-Finch gave up the unequal tournament struggle after Troon but stayed in love with the game and blossomed as a commentator, content with what he’d achieved, a career to be proud of and the admiration and respect of everyone he met.

 

 

 

 

 

This week marks a first for the blog – not a very distinguished first admittedly but a first nonetheless:  it was started after the shipping forecast (North Utsire, South Utsire – or is it Utsera?  Too late to delve in to the correct spelling forensically but they’re wee islands off the western coast of Norway apparently).  Anyway, that’s a pretty late start even by the standards of a world-class prevaricator.

The reason is that I had very important visitors, who required, nay, deserved my full attention, so I waited until they’d gone to bed and I’d done the clearing up (see above, fingers crossed) – and made my own bed, having taken advantage of a decent day to wash and hang out my sheets – before settling down to write.

I was going to write about golf for once but even Rory swinging sublimely in to an early lead in Dubai didn’t get the fingers tip-tapping.  It’s great to see him getting back to his best and bouncing up the fairways full of joie de golf but I think the truth is that I’m ready for a rest, longing for an off-season, waiting for events that really matter.  Or, even, an event near me that I can go and see in person.  That would do.  The last event at The Belfry, which isn’t too far from me, was still restricted and good though the telly guys are and hard as they try, there’s still a feeling of same old, same old.

There’s not much point writing about my own golf at the moment because there isn’t much of it and what there is is ordinary in the extreme – not always dire but always threatening to head that way.  That said, on Tuesday, in our stableford comp, I putted quite well but didn’t amass very many points, even allowing for it being over the winter distance of 15 holes.  It was, however, a joy to play with Bev Chattaway, who makes the game look easy and is one of those rare competitors who treats the twin impostors  just the same (Tyrrell Hatton take note!)  Whenever I’m playing with Bev, I try, rarely successfully, to suppress my groans and moans and tuts and ochs – after all who am I, hardly a haunter of the practice ground or a visualiser par excellence, to have any expectations whatsoever?

Oops, made a mistake there:  went and had a glass of water, sat down and dozed off….Could be a long night.

All being well, we at Whittington Heath will be playing throughout the winter, kept on our toes by a variety of routings as holes are taken out of commission because of tree felling or other housekeeping tasks.  Fifteen holes proved more than enough for me this week because I’d had my booster jab the day before and felt cream-crackered after what turned out to be nine holes – I had to check the temporary card to see just how many we’d played and was glad to discover later that I wasn’t the only one discombobulated by the changes.

At least we’ll have time to get used to them on the hoof, so to speak.  Last week, my Swedish friend Lena, who has lived in Helsinki for years, played her last game of the season and has put the clubs away for the next five months.  That could explain why she’s pretty good at table tennis!

I haven’t seen Lena in person for years but she tells me she’s put in an application for a new passport, so with a bit of luck will be testing her golfing skills at WHGC before too long.

Given that my golf isn’t bringing me much joy at the moment – even my new woods seem to have developed some disconcerting shots of their own (nothing to do with me guv, obviously) and there’s no sign of the new irons – it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas before hope can spring eternal once again.  Anyway, ever optimistic, I was rather relying on my bridge to take a turn for the better and give me a much-needed confidence boost but it looks as though that will have to wait too.

I was going to explain why but then realised that that would be giving too much away to the people I’m playing with – on Zoom – this evening.  I’ve said too much already.

Hey ho.  Perhaps somebody’ll give me a weekend with Andrew Robson for Christmas….Then again, that’s unlikely.  Bridge is as small a world as golf and he’s probably been forewarned and booked himself up for the next decade or two.  More chance of a game with Rory and Gerry McIlroy at Seminole….

Now there’s a thought to gladden at least one heart.

Oops, did I just hear “No bid” in an Ulster accent?

 

 

 

Thanks to Anne Tracey for the photo above (fingers crossed), of the old clubhouse being demolished, very carefully, very neatly, very permanently.  It was a right warren and a bit of a wreck but it was full of happy memories and it worked, more or less, so we’re all a bit sad as we see it leaving this world.       On Tuesday, when this picture was taken, we had a par competition, which was won by Karen Crarer, who finished 4 up on the course, an amazing performance.

My own golf was little short of dire, in even more of a mess than the old clubhouse and I finished dead last (not counting the poor soul who had to go in because she was feeling ill.)  The only good thing about my round was an eagle three at the current 13th – it used to be the 14th and is a shortish par 5, often gobbled up by the better players and a reasonable par chance for the rest of us.

By some miracle I’d hit two decent shots and was not too far short of the green.  “Might get a 5 here, I thought.”  No shot, so only a half but they’d been in such short supply that it was a heady ambition.  Then I thought, “That’s pathetic, be more positive, Dad would have been thinking of holing it from here.”  He was a demon chipper and putter and lo and behold, I made a decent contact and the ball disappeared in to the hole, a minor miracle, a bonus for the eclectic and a bauble on the birdie/eagle tree.

In the end, I finished only 9 down (would put the screaming emoji in here if I knew how) and made everybody else feel much better, whatever their score…

I see that Rory McIlroy, who’s been searching for the game that laid all those golden eggs in his gilded youth, has reinstated Michael Bannon as his main coach, relegating Pete Cowen to a consultant’s role, or some such.  There’s nothing that Bannon, who taught a curly-mopped, fresh-faced McIlroy as a junior at Holywood, doesn’t know about Rory or his game and with travel restrictions easing, he can be on hand more often.  At least that was my take on what I read.  Let’s just hope that Rory has the nerve and nous to win a few more majors – after all, he’s only in his early 30s and should just be coming in to his pomp.

This blog needs no excuse to mention the sainted Rory but he was going to get in anyway this week because of a young man with a wonderful name (and a wonderful mane):  Oihan Guillamoundeguy.  He’s French, still an amateur and led after the first round of the final stage of qualifying for the Alps Tour in Rome, so there’s a photo of him and he reminded me of someone.

Oihan had a 78, six over par, in the second round but that’s golf – all ups and downs.  A bit like haircuts.

As you know, you have to take anything you read here with a grain of salt – or sand or whatever your preference is.  It’s very rarely serious and it is written by someone who tries, quite hard, to avoid cliches but was reminded the other day that there really is no fool like an old fool.  Having mentioned sand, I  remembered that I was going to worry about Saudi Arabia and whether the women should be playing there; and not worry at all about Greg Norman’s role in the Saudis’ bid to outbid the PGA Tour or whatever it is they’re planning.

Instead I’ll talk about money – and greed.  Because that’s the only word for it.  How else do you explain an online phobic’s decision to dive into bitcoin, scrolling down from a golf round-up on the National Club Golfer website and being seduced by a piece about the dragons in the den all investing in one particular company and offering you a chance to give it a go yourself and get rich quick?  It’s not as though I really want to get rich – I don’t want a bigger house or car or anything much really.  I’ve paid my subs for the year; am keeping an eye on the energy consumption; don’t really have to keep The Wine Society afloat singlehanded; and have a freezer stocked with edible stuff that’s more or less in date.

So what madness made me keep clicking on despite the warning bells tolling “if it sounds too good to be true, it is too good to be true” and images of Mum being furious when I tore up the letter asking her to invest a fiver or a tenner in the promises of a Señor Oro and Mme Riche many years ago?

Not only did I keep going, I talked to two people, separately, for quite a long time.  Then, I woke up in the night with the screaming abdabs, unable to believe what an eejit I’d been.  The woman at the bank’s fraud department was very helpful, told me not to beat myself up about it but, honestly, what a plonker.

It’s a salutary reminder not to scroll down beyond the golf.

And to hand over lasting power of attorney to a responsible adult.

And who really needs a Lamborghini these days?  Great colour though.

 

 

 

 

I’ve nicked the title from Channel 4 News, where I glimpsed it before switching to something less challenging – although de-cluttering a busy household of four women was no easy task and proved positively life-changing.  COP (Conference of the Parties) 26 is on in Glasgow for a fortnight, which must be a logistical nightmare over and above the strain of trying to save the planet at “one minute to midnight” as Boris put it.

The chimney sweep, Mr Grimes (yes, honestly – though he’s very neat and tidy), came a couple of weeks ago and I confess I have used the log burner a few times in the last few days, feeling guilty every time.  Am I accelerating the destruction of the planet?  Should I just be wearing a few extra layers; switching off the lights; abandoning the telly and the car; cycling everywhere, whatever the weather, pedalling through flood and mud, putting my life in the hands of the selfish bastards who are still using their cars – even more dangerous if they’re electric because you can’t hear them coming?  So many questions and not that many answers – yet.

I’d go and get a cup of tea to mull over the conundrums (dra?) but what damage am I doing by putting the kettle on yet again?  I suppose a glass of red is the only answer – even though it’s come from South Africa, Australia, Chile or Argentina via Stevenage (The Wine Society).  That’s a lot of air or nautical miles.  More guilt?

Chatting to an avid cyclist the other day made me re-think my timid decision to put the bike away for the winter – all that mud, rain, cold, ubiquitous temporary traffic lights and the crowded roads added up to a very feart two-wheel wobbler.  So, in a noble bid to do my bit to save the planet, I decided to take steps to resist using the car for the roughly three-mile trip to the golf club.  This, admittedly, is a good intention that is liable to end up filed under ‘R’ or ‘H’ as in Road to Hell.  In fact, I think that our new, long and winding road up to the clubhouse high on its hill adds another mile on to the journey.

Still, in preparation for my winter cycles I drove up to the club to deposit my clubs in their locker and my trolley in the trolley shed.  I’m ashamed to say that I had to ask where exactly it was, having acquired a nice, neat trolley that folded up easily and fitted snugly in the boot of my Fiesta – a few centimetres narrower and it would have been living in the locker.  As it was it took me a good half hour to sort things out, what with all the chains and padlocks I had to struggle with; masochistic perhaps, kinky absolutely not.

The shed is secured by one of those poxy little padlocks that require you to get four numbers in a neat row – all very well if you can see without your glasses and if your now far from nimble fingers aren’t numb with cold – also assuming you can remember the code of course.  Trust me to be attempting this delicate manoeuvre on the coldest day of the month so far with a nasty hack on each thumb; it’s a wonder I didn’t bruise or even break a toe kicking the door in frustration.  Perseverance is a virtue, allegedly.

Two friends and I played 18 holes at Northamptonshire County GC on Wednesday, a prize we’d won at least two years ago but been unable to use because of the pandemic and lockdown.  I reckoned it was nearly 50 years ago that I’d first been there – and I was nearly right:  it was 1973, for the British Girls’ Championship and the girls’ home internationals.  I wasn’t playing but caddied for Mary Governey (now Culliton), the Irish champion, who came back from five down with five to play to halve her match with Suzanne Parker, the English champion, no mean feat.  Off the top of her head, Mo said that she thought Anne-Marie Palli had beaten Nathalie Jeanson in the all-French final – and she was right.  Thanks to the much-missed and lamented Golfer’s Handbook for the confirmation.

As regular readers know, this blog is canny enough never to guarantee the accuracy of any facts contained herein; it tries its best but leaves all claims of infallibility to others.  Thanks, therefore, to Neal Stewart, who has written from Glasgow to tell us that it looks as though the longest hole in the UK is not at West Midlands GC, as they claim but a little further north, at Westray GC, on a little dot of an island in the Orkneys.  The 3rd hole there is a par 6 of 738 yards – on Neal’s card it’s down as 731 yards but it was re-measured last year apparently.

I imagine that there’d be days when the hole plays nearer 1000 yards, a veritable par 10 – but then, surely, all sensible golfers would be inside instead of being blown off their feet?  Och, don’t be daft, woman.  Who’s ever heard of a sensible golfer!

Finally, just a word about the sainted Alice, who was the perfect guest and behaved immaculately.  It’s very quiet without her, albeit tidier and less muddy.