This blog’s interests are wide-ranging but its area of expertise is, if not quite non-existent, paltry at best.  As far as golf goes it does not stretch to holes-in-one, although I have had two in a golfing lifetime that is staggering into its 56th year.  Not much of a return for all those swings and, in the early days at least, all those lessons and expert advice.

Even worse, I never saw either of them!  The first one was in a club match    at Oxley Park, just up the road from Molineux and the tee was a bit below the level of the green, which was guarded by a bunker, so I hit some sort of finagle with a wood.  When we got up to the green, there was no sign of my ball, so I looked in the trees behind the greens.  Still no luck and it was only as a last resort that I looked in the hole – and there it was.  My first ace.

It was also a bit embarrassing because I was already a lot up and when we got in, there was hardly anybody there, so I bought a bottle of sauvignon blanc and twisted the arm of the lad behind the bar, who agreed to have a lemonade or cola of some sort.  A cheap gig but a  disappointing celebration of a momentous (for me) occasion!  The rest of the family welcomed me to the club and wondered why it had taken me so long.

My only other hole-in-one was at the old 13th, currently the 12th, at Whittington, always my least favourite hole.  It’s not long but is surrounded by bunkers, so I have to take a wood, do a bit of fiddling and hope for the best, usually a good bounce off the slope on the lefthand side of the green.  This time I hit it well, there was no sign of it in the bunker to the left, so I thought it had kicked merrily on and over the green, down the dip.  Still no sign, so my playing partner, on the way to her ball, had a look in the hole and, glory be, there it was.

Yesterday morning, on that self-same green, my partner and I shook hands with our opponents in the Winter Foursomes, beaten by 7 and 6, known as a dog licence by older readers who remember the days of shillings and pence when pets did not require insurance.  The consolation was that they played well – 8 over par for the 12 holes, by my count, including a double bogey at the 11th, where we had a shot and I had a tiddler to win the hole and missed.  The darned computer kept wanting to put “toddler”, something even more costly than my tiddler…

This talk of holes-in-one was prompted in part by Miguel Angel Jimenez’s latest victory on the senior circuit in America – officially the PGA Tour Champions.  The colourful Spaniard, still going strong at the age of 58, won the Cologuard Classic in Tucson by four shots from Bernhard Langer, even more evergreen than Jimenez, and Woody Austin.  En route to his second victory in three events, Jimenez had two holes-in-one, one in the first round and one in the third and final round.  He’s now had 13 in tournaments.

If you think about it, it’s pretty amazing that there aren’t more holes-in-one in professional events, given the level of skill and the number of players having four goes per round (at least; that’s not counting drivable par 4s). The conclusion must surely be that an ace is, essentially, a fluke?!  A happy fluke, deserving of celebration and commemoration but a fluke nonetheless.

At the top of this piece is a picture proudly featuring the three holes-in-one achieved by Moor Hall’s Tony Clayton, whose funeral was last Monday. (Note that for one of them he used a ball from the Masters, cool or what!)  TC, a great friend, who died just short of his 84th birthday, was an enthusiastic golfer but didn’t always give it his full concentration.  One of his regular playing partners, whose wife did all their cooking, complained more than once that Tony was more interested in sharing the intricacies of his latest recipe for black bean soup than giving a putt his full attention.

Tony was a Villa fan, so I’m sure he’d have enjoyed this picture, WhatsAppd to me by a friend after Tottenham’s exit from the FA Cup at the hands of Middlesbrough.  Boro were at home but they’re a division down from Spurs and most neutrals would have expected us to win, flaky though our form has been.  Boro won 1-nil, in extra time and it looked to be thoroughly deserved.  Not one of the Spurs fans I’ve spoken to was surprised….

A glutton for punishment, I entered the golf writers’ PYP (Pick Your Pro) competition again this year in the hope of improving on my most notable performance thus far – finishing last and getting my entrance money back – but things aren’t looking good.  My choice for this week’s Arnold Palmer Invitational?  Bryson DeChambeau, the defending champion, a man who was bound to play.  Wasn’t he?  Well, no.  He’s got some sort of injury and has withdrawn.  Nul dollars this week.  Unless Lydia Ko plays well in the HSBC Women’s World Championship in Singapore….Go Lydia.

 

 

 

 

 

Well, glory be, would you Adam and Eve it, some golf – or golf-related stuff at least – in the blog from the beginning.  There was a full moon the other night – was it also blue?  That could lead to some sort of football riff about how Spurs did at Manchester City last Sunday but then there was Burnley on Wednesday, so we’ll move swiftly on to the golf….

A friend had two tickets for the bunkered golf show at the NEC near Birmingham, so we decided to brave the storm warnings, take our chances with Eunice and make the journey.  We weren’t alone.  It was much busier than I expected but then I realised that all the shows last weekend were outdoorsy and we’d been confined to barracks for so long that people were desperate to get out and about.

Two oldish (not that we like to admit it), opinionated (guilty as charged) dolls wandering round being pass remarkable (saying what they think) are maybe not the target market of most of the exhibitors but if you’re trying to sell something, NEVER dismiss somebody on the assumption that they’re no use to you.  You NEVER know what or who they know.

My mate was much taken with the Blademoore Contour360pro, a platform that could rotate so you could practise from uphill or downhill lies.  It also had “interchangeable grass” so you could practise from the fairway or semi-rough.  She was never going to buy one herself – she has a smallish garden – but she contacted her coach and told him that he HAD to get one.  We chatted with the guys on the stand, one of whom had invented/devised the device and went on our merry way.  A few days later, my friend told me that her coach had bought one!

There was a wee stall touting university accommodation at St Andrews for this year’s Open and ever hopeful, we approached but it was long since sold out.  I entered a competition to win accommodation and tickets (I think) – not even a quiz question to answer, just give us your email address – but may have to borrow a tent from the camping enthusiast brother-in-law.  Dai and I stayed in one of the halls of residence one year and it was great – bathroom across the corridor admittedly and outside a protective seagull that dive-bombed you if you went anywhere near its earthbound progeny but once parked the car never moved.  Bliss.

Most of the golfers I know suffer from aches and pains, some are even held together by nuts and bolts and various more sophisticated bits of metal – it’s not just golf clubs that use titanium – so we love a massage and a hot tub.  Even better, Gemma from Troon could also offer a pool that promised the “experience of endless swimming”.  Wellis is the name of the company and the water looked very inviting.  Sadly, I don’t have the space, though I checked my Wine Society reserves and I do have the champagne.

We didn’t join the queues to compete at chipping, putting, long driving or bunker escapology – getting a coffee took time enough – but we did manage a chat with Bernard Gallacher, former Ryder Cup captain and current captain of the PGA.  He wondered what Dai would have made of the proposed Saudi golf league and associated shenanigans, coming to the inevitable conclusion:   “He’d have had plenty to say!”

My friend bought a trolley and some shoes and while I was waiting for her to complete her tranasactions, I channelled my inner Desmond Morris and observed what I thought was some very rare behaviour:  men shopping for clothes.  And enjoying it!   They were even checking that their mates approved of whatever garment they were trying on.  Astonishing.

“Well, it’s not really clothes shopping,” my friend said when I reported my findings.  “It’s sports gear, isn’t it?”

Navy, black and brown seemed to be the order of the day for most of the showgoers – practical colours that don’t show the dirt – with the odd splash of red and pink here and there but it takes a bit more to attract the youngsters.  Golphin, a company whose aim is “inspiring golf’s next generation” via the schools, caught the eye with a line of wee bags in vibrant colours that made me jealous.

Some of the junior swings on display were nothing short of awesome, jawdroppingly good, with an ease and grace that made this creaky would-be swinger weep with envy.

Sad to report that in the Rye Greensomes comp last Tuesday it was my partner who was weeping.  Not because of the early rain and the blustery conditions but because she was, to quote one of Bernard Darwin’s less elegant phrases, “tied to a turd”.  Darwin, who was a decent enough golfer, used the expression of himself, in sheer exasperation, when he partnered the incomparable Joyce Wethered in the Worplesdon Foursomes.

However (comma), try explaining all that, through the wind and rain, between shots, to someone who had never heard of Darwin, Wethered or Worplesdon….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the moment football seems to be taking up more of my attention than golf, not least because it takes a lot more organising to get to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium from this neck of the woods than it does to get to Whittington Heath Golf Club.  My golf and my team’s football are currently pretty similar and could be summed up in one little four-letter word:  poor (or similar, beginning with ‘c’).

I have an excuse:   I’m getting on a bit, don’t practise and lack ability.  What’s my team’s excuse?  None of the foregoing certainly.  Being a glutton for punishment I watched Match of the Day 2 when I got home last Sunday and this comment, well into the second half, just about summed it up:  “Probably the best move we’ve seen from Tottenham [killer pause]….Not a particularly high bar….”

We (the way we’re going that’ll be ‘they’ before too long) were well beaten by the mighty Wolves, who were gifted two goals early on and kept an iron grip on the match on a day that became increasingly wet and miserable, for the home side and supporters if not the visitors, who probably didn’t notice.   They picked up three precious points and were warmed by the knowledge that there was nothing fluky about their 2-nil win.  They looked like a team who knew what they were doing; we on the other hand looked alarmingly clueless.  It was hard to argue with the jubilant Wolves fans who sent us on our not-so-merry way with an unsubtle chant of “Spurs are shite”.

Before the game, just outside the stadium, a young man with a beard (don’t they all look alike these days?  I confess I can’t tell one beard from another) asked if I’d like to have a chat with him and his film crew (well, there were three of them – the talent, the cameraman and the clipboard man, a well-funded operation obviously).  Those of you who know me will be astounded to hear that I declined.  Passing up the opportunity to pontificate?  Unbelievable!

I told a little white lie and said that I was camera shy.  I think he said “Pity” but if he did, it could only have been because there aren’t that many old dolls strolling up to the stadium on their own – there are plenty of us scattered about but we’re usually accompanied, having hooked up with fellow Tottenham tragics.  I wasn’t ill and I wasn’t short of things to say but I’d just eaten a delicious wrap and the truth was that I was afraid I’d got jerk chicken or coleslaw (homemade) or coriander – or all three – stuck in my teeth…

Sunday’s game kicked off at 1400 hours and I left home at 0730 and got back at 2100-ish.  Bonkers or what?!!  The night before I’d been at a Valentine’s Day dinner at the golf club that meant I struggled to give my full attention to Ireland’s so-near-yet-so-far heroics in Paris (late kick-off, sorting out outfit, rooting out uncaked make-up, unladdered tights, comfy shoes) and was not in bed as early as I should have been.  Bonkers or what?  Not really, no.  It was a good night out with friends, a long-denied joy in this age of the pandemic and well worth the detour.

There was no time for breakfast the next morning but amazingly I was organised enough to prepare something earlier for eating on the coach and it gives me a rare opportunity to do that picture-of-what-I’m-eating thing that seems to have taken over Instagram, Facebook and other such outlets. It may, luckily or unluckily for you, dear reader, be a first for the blog.

Talking of food, we’ve just got a Michelin star here in Lichfield – not in this establishment where gunges or cold collations cobbled together tend to be the order of the day – but at Upstairs, a relatively new restaurant starring Tom Shepherd.  Congratulations to him and good luck to anyone trying to get a reservation after his elevation.

Flicking idly through the channels the other day – probably with a gunge on my knee, against all the advice about how to eat healthily and mindfully – I happened upon the 2006 Ryder Cup at the K Club and was shocked to see how young everyone looked:  Tiger, Phil, Lee, Henrik and of course Darren Clarke, whose wife Heather had not long died from cancer.  It couldn’t have been a more emotional week and what memories came flooding back…

More of those another time but to make up for the lack of golf this week here are a couple of questions arising from that match:  where are J.J. Henry, Vaughn Taylor, Brett Wetterich and Chad Campbell now?   Also, can you name the six players to have a hole-in-one at a Ryder Cup?  To make it easier, Paul Casey and Scott Verplank both aced the 14th in 2006, so that leaves four more, all in earlier matches.  And, finally, name the first left-handed Ryder Cupper.  There have been three.

I’m off to batten down the hatches in preparation for Eunice, the storm sweeping in to wreak more havoc just behind Dudley.  Keep safe everybody.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good grief, as Charlie Brown might say, there’s another week gone already.  Just how did that happen?  No golf for me this past week, for a variety of reasons but football was back on the agenda, although my friends thought I was daft (some of them weren’t that polite) to go to a game that kicked off at 2000 hours and was on the telly, terrestrial no less.  What’s more it meant that I was in transit while Ireland were playing (mangling) Wales in Dublin and Scotland were shocking England at Murrayfield.  What was I thinking?  I suppose some people just can’t be relied on to plan ahead.

Spurs were at home to Brighton in the 4th round of the FA Cup and not only do I have to pay extra, over and above the season ticket, I have to change seats so the away supporters (they have an extra allowance for cup games) can have my usual pew.  The good thing is that I can try out different views and in many ways this was the best one yet.  It was a cracking game and we won, so that helped make up for the fact that I got home just before 0300 hours.  Then I watched a bit of the Olympic curling and the recording of Ireland’s marvellous win.  Tragic really but who needs to get up early!

Those of you who follow football will be glad to know that I didn’t go down to the Southampton match on Wednesday evening and watched the highlights on Match of the Day.  It seemed to be a cracking game for the neutral and for fans of the Saints but we Spurs bods were gutted because we lost 3-2, outplayed probably but suckered too.  We have a lot to learn.

I don’t often remember dreams but the other morning I woke up feeling weighed down and confused.  I was at some sort of golf tournament, in Dubai or Saudi or somewhere sandy, I had a suitcase of some sort and was trying to find my way to a bus or a car, where Dai was waiting, in searing heat, agitated (more likely furious) because there was no sign of me.  There were lots of twists and turns, no clear way to where the transport was and I went through a door, more a hole in the wall really and found myself interrupting Iain Carter, BBC radio’s golf correspondent, in the middle of an interview.  There was a dog there too, some sort of small bulldog and it tried to bite me, so I was trying to remember what I’d learned from the dog walkers and calm him down when I woke up!

I’ve only been to Dubai the once and have yet to visit Saudi and don’t quite know what to make of all the shenanigans surrounding the proposed league/tour backed by Saudi megabucks and fronted by Greg Norman, who was an advocate of a proper world tour many years ago.  Norman, an Aussie, is never going to back down from a fight and the PGA Tour and the newly named DP World Tour (previously the European Tour) seem to be taking a hard, defensive line against the threat to their longtime dominance of the professional game. To the neutral, untutored eye, it’s all macho confrontation at the moment.  Whoever “wins”, will it be golf?

As several people have pointed out, golf could splinter like boxing and then where would we be?  Well, most of us would still be playing, hacking away happily as usual, without a clue what professional is doing what where.  How will the world rankings be worked out?  Basing things on earnings would become more skewed than ever.  How will the majors make up their fields?  How will they maintain their allure if players decide the game is all about money and sod the glory?  Professionals play the game for a living, to provide for themselves and their family, so do they care if anybody knows their name as long as they’re being paid a fortune?

As someone much wiser than I pointed out:  take one brick out of the wall and unintended consequences abound.  Also, why should anything be set in stone?  It’s an old Chinese curse apparently but we seem to be living in interesting times.

Two bits of good news though:  Stacy Lewis has been appointed US Solheim Cup captain for the match in Spain next year and it’ll be great fun seeing her and Suzann Pettersen in opposition; and Dave Cannon, photographer supreme, has been named as the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award in Photojournalism by the PGA of America.  Many congrats to both.

 

Finally, to explain the wee picture, aka the featured pic, at the top of the piece (glitches permitting of course).  Last week I asked what the growths on the tree were, knowing, I admit, thanks to a friend who’d hit the internet, more or less what they were.

An American friend, based in Texas, described them as “clumps of crud” (thanks for the title Bob) and suggested they looked like dormant bees’ nests.  The common name seems to be witches broom (spelling and apostrophes your choice) and its more proper name is gall and here I quote my trusty Chambers:  “an abnormal growth on a plant caused by a parasite such as an insect or fungus, or by bacteria”.

Anyway, thank you all for enlightening me but the prize goes to a Mr Elliott who assures me that trees don’t have image rights.  How does he know?  He checked with one of their branch offices…..