As many of you (yes, most weeks the blog has more than one reader, for which many thanks) will know, I’m partial to a bit of alliteration (and a lot of convolution), so I must apologise for the headline/title because I’m not sure how much Ryder Cup stuff there’ll be in this piece.  Mo has plenty to say on the matter.

I was delighted that Europe won.  It was a mighty effort.  And it was a mighty effort at a historic comeback by the USA, who suffered the most heartbreaking of BBU’s (brave but unavailings for the irregular readers).  I’d have been pig sick (apologies to porkers everywhere) if the home side had pulled it off and I know at least one person who departed for bed (in a furious self-generated hail of expletives) when they saw all the red on the scoreboard and couldn’t see where the necessary halves were coming from.

Anyway, we (no neutrality here) made it somehow and I doubt Shane Lowry, as long as he lives, will ever know how he made that putt to rescue a half with Russell Henley.  Likewise Henley, one of the best putters in the world apparently, who has ghosted his way to world No 3, will never work out how he lost that match.  Tyrrell Hatton, who’s tyrribly, tyrribly good (as well as terrible – he’s such a perfectionist that he can’t hide his astonishment and loathing at shots that are merely adequate, perhaps even better than that), allowed Collin Morikawa to escape with a half.  And Bob MacIntyre, who’s still inclined to flakiness, somehow sneaked a half with Sam Burns, so the final score was 15-13.

That stopped some of the moaning about the envelope convention, agreed over many years but unused since the 1980s (I think) that saw the injured Viktor Hovland awarded a half with the unfortunate Harris English.  The Solheim Cup, rather refreshingly and unusually, takes a harder line:  if you can’t play, you lose the match.  Harsh but it avoids any suggestion of foul play.

Having got this far, I must pay tribute to Ludvig Aberg, who saw off the redoubtable Patrick Cantlay by 2 and 1, to post Europe’s only singles win.  And many congrats to Matt Fitzpatrick, a Ryder Cupper transformed this year, who was five up after seven against Bryson DeChambeau but pegged back to all square after 16.  The Americans undoubtedly thought that that was that but the last two holes were halved in pars and Matt had secured an invaluable half point.  Never, ever underestimate the grit, determination, stubbornness and sheer bloody-mindedness of a Yorkshireman who’s spent a lifetime supporting Sheffield United.

In amongst the tumult and the foul-mouthed abuse from crowds that displayed zero class and even less humour, it was good to see that the greens were devoid of unseemly scrums at the end of matches.  Players were allowed their moment of celebration – a bit longer in Shane’s case as he went leppin’ about the green in a state of shock and relief – and then it was (mostly) caps off, handshakes between opponents, caddies, captains and match official before celebrating with teammates and family.  As far as I could see, television and radio stayed off the green, to the side, with none of the mass media green invasions of yesteryear.

Last week also confirmed (for me anyway) that it’s well-nigh impossible to play five matches and have any juice left for the singles.  Scottie and Rory were running on empty, ditto Tommy and Rahm and even Bryson, who exists in a different dimension, found a win was a step too far.  Scottie, who’d lost his first four matches, was the only one of the fivers to win on Sunday.

Being abused day after day, as the Europeans were, out in the open with the spectators often very close, not enclosed in a stadium, takes its toll, on top of the normal tension and excitement of the matches.  It’ll be different in Ireland (in every way I hope) but for any Irish on the team the emotions will still be off the scale and the captain will have to factor in at least one session off for every player – or expect a loss in the singles.  Anything more is a big bonus.

So, blimey, we’re nearing the end of the blog and it’s been all Ryder Cup and golf.  Wonders will  never cease.  The Heavy Plant Crossing sign is there because it always makes me laugh and think of enormous, heavy-footed triffids and it’s at the back of the first green at WHGC where there’s still lots of mitigation work going on.  It’s HS2 related – though high-speed-train work elsewhere on the course has ground to a halt and is not expected to resume for a year or two….maybe even a decade….Don’t you just love it when a project comes together….

It’s been a tiring week for all of us invested in the goings-on at Bethpage last weekend – I’m still in recovery mode and thought I’d leave with you with a picture of sartorial elegance….  On Tuesday we had a needle match at Whittington:  the LC’s team (in orange or something akin) against the LV’s team (in the pink).  Captain versus vice, in case you’re confused and I certainly was because I thought I’d been asked to wear both colours, so I raided the wardrobe and came up with this…Ten our of ten for effort, surely?!

Turns out it was the other Pat(ricia) who’d been asked to do double duty.  Duh!

 

Not all of you will have heard of Tayto crisps, although they are often cited as the best in the world.  Perhaps they are, perhaps they aren’t but if you buy a packet at Belfast International Airport, aka Aldergrove, it’ll be about 20 pence a crisp (by my reckoning, imprecise perhaps but not too far off).  Mind you, they went well with the pint of Guinness, to celebrate a successful visit to the old country and getting to the airport in plenty of time to relax before the flight back to Birmingham.

And Tayto, as befits one of Ireland’s iconic brands, boasts its own castle (apparently).  What’s not to like?

A friend from school, who had emigrated to Australia with her family at the age of 17, was back on this side of the world doing a bit of a grand tour that took in England, Scotland, Iceland, Ireland and Germany (to name but a few), so one of her best mates organised a wee bit of a reunion at her home in Ballymoney.  The common denominator was that we all went to Coleraine High School (now defunct) and grew up in Portstewart.

Dai and I had spent time with Tricia at her home in Perth – golf will take you anywhere – and her husband Brian, who sadly died far too young, tried to teach me how to do the back crawl in their kitchen….He was, among other things, a swimming coach and I returned home to make laboured but technically correct progress in the slow lane at Wyndley Leisure Centre in Sutton Coldfield.

For one or two of us, it was a bit “This is your Life”-ish – you haven’t seen each other for 50 years – but the chat was non stop and the stories and the laughter and some tears flowed.  Wherever we’d ended up, there was nothing dull or boring about it and I headed home thinking:  “Wow, wow, wow.  What an amazing bunch of women.”

I’d put a picture in here – I even managed a half-decent selfie (at the second attempt) with everybody smiling and looking in the right direction – but I haven’t checked that all the members of the group are ok with appearing in the blog, so I’ll make do with the bread of heaven.

Travelling with hand baggage only, I obsessed over every centimetre and was worried that my bakery items – and a bottle of Coleraine whiskey, purchased at the airport – would be relegated to the hold at great expense.  Fortunately, nobody paid a blind bit of notice to the Waitrose bag for life that contained the goodies and my raincoat – miraculously unused – and I reckon my luggage was some of the lightest on board.

The security queues at Aldergrove on the way back to Brum were a breeze (almost non-existent) but I was still making a mental note to avoid airports from now on if at all possible.

On the way out, I left home at 0550 for my 0835 flight, hand baggage only, checked in on line.  Train at 0613 from Lichfield City to Birmingham New Street, 0706 t0 Birmingham International (right by the airport); at security by 0720-ish but my heart sank when I saw the length of the queue – as far as the eye could see.  I should have paid however much it was to be fast-tracked (no queue).  To compound everything I went to the wrong gate – Belfast City, not Belfast International.  Bugger.  Back the way I’d come, with the board saying it was one minute before the gate closed.  Aaagh.

No sweat after all.  There was another queue but it wasn’t moving.  Phew.

Note to self:  If you ever have to fly again, make sure it’s a latish flight or stay at the airport; don’t rely on public transport or traffic letting you get to the plane on time.

This week has been a bit less manic than last week – unless you’re in New York preparing for the Ryder Cup.  It all kicks off today (Friday) with the first set of foursomes, perhaps my favourite form of the game.  It suits my lazy nature and if you hit a rubbish shot in to the boondocks, it’s your partner who has to work out how to extricate you.  Similarly, if you charge a putt way past the hole, you’re not the one who has to rattle in the return.  Who’d want to play with a selfish git like me, you ask!

Some people hate foursomes because it’s sometimes hard to get in to a rhythm when you’re only playing every other shot; or they are so busy worrying that they’ll let their partner down that they forget to play their own game.  If one person (or pair) is playing poorly, it’s very hard to stay in the match, so some foursomes scores can be eye-watering  – like Scottie Scheffler and Brooks Koepka being beaten 9 and 7 by Viktor Hovland and Ludvig Aberg in Rome two years ago.  Who saw that coming?

Worryingly, it’ll make Scheffler, now the runaway world No 1, even more dangerous this week, determined to erase the pain and humiliation.  It was a record defeat and you don’t forget those.

Most people think that it’s now virtually impossible to win away from home, with home crowds becoming ever more raucous and partisan and New York fans are not renowned for their decorum.

Still, I’ve got it down as a draw/tie/halved match:  14 points all.

That means Europe retain.

Play away please.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is unprecedented.  It’s the weekend (whatever that is) and I’m writing the blog several days in advance; it’s unheard of and who knows if it’ll work or not.  There’s no reason why it shouldn’t because it’s not really driven by the news agenda (whatever that means).

Well, that didn’t work so well.  There was so much sport on the telly on Saturday and Sunday and a birthday lunch with friends that it’s already Monday and barely a paragraph done!

Fortunately, because of the dire weather forecast, we decided to abort a trip to Edgbaston to watch the first day of the county game against Essex.  It proved to be a wise decision.  The torrential rain* held off but it was blowing a hooley and at the time of writing (mid-afternoon), not a ball had been bowled.  It was so windy that it was dangerous and I, not the smallest or lightest of people, had trouble making any progress at all fighting my way into the breeze on my way home from the shops.

Anyway, best intentions notwithstanding, here we are as usual on a Thursday night finishing the blog.  So much for early release…

On Tuesday, it was our ladies’ captain’s day at Whittington and we had a shotgun start at half past nine, preceded by a group photo on the clubhouse steps.  We played our course as per the card of the Old Course at St Andrews – to the confusion of many but it was good fun.  We started at our 8th, a par 4 of some length and failed to score a point between the three of us because the 8th at St Andrews is a par 3 called “Short”.  To balance it up, our 13th is a par 3 and the 13th on the Old Course is a par 5, so my three was an eagle and my partners’ fours were birdies….You get the picture?

 

Thankfully the wind had died down and I don’t think it rained at all – weariness and brain fog are setting in; I nearly nodded off towards the end of Black Sabbath The Ballet yesterday afternoon and that’s not a particularly quiet gig.

Rachel, our captain, had organised a posh afternoon tea but I excused myself because Spurs – you knew they had to get a mention – were playing their first Champions League game, against Villarreal, a match not to be missed.  Last season, the Europa League tickets were £30-odd but this one was £96 – adult, junior, senior, all the same.  Blimey.  No wonder the stadium wasn’t quite full – there certainly didn’t seem to be any Villareal fans to speak of.

I nearly didn’t get there either.  The drive to Birmingham International station, which is by the airport and the NEC, went smoothly enough despite the never-ending roadworks (of the mega, years-long variety) until I reached the junction.  Familiar though it is, it’s almost obscured by cones, barriers, traffic paraphernalia of every variety, all under the guise of “improving the junction”!!!

And there’s been a recent tweak, a new fork that completely threw me; instead of heading up to a roundabout, there’s now a choice of left or right and, true to form, I got my 50-50 chance wrong and fell in to the maze that is the NEC.  Fortunately, I had no particular train in mind, let alone a flight, so had time to chat to the man at the ticket desk and he was kind enough to say that he and his colleagues had taken several days to work it all out.

I dozed most of the way down to Euston and took time to stretch myself out and wait for the carriage to empty.  On the way out I noticed a phone – black, so not easy to spot – on a seat.  Oops.  There was one other passenger left but it wasn’t his and there were no train staff to hand it over to.  Walking down the platform I kept expecting to see a panic-stricken bod legging it back to the carriage but no one came.

Then I noticed the phone number stuck on the back of the phone.  It was a London number, so I rang it:  “You are through to the Cabinet Office….” it tells me….Blimey.  For some reason that cheered me up no end – I just had to laugh.  A very pleasant-sounding guy answered quite quickly and was grateful for my call.  When I said I couldn’t hang around because I was going to a football match, he said somebody would collect the phone from the lost property office.

Finding said office was a bit of a faff because it’s tucked away and bills itself as “Left Luggage”  first and foremost.  Bear that in mind on your travels.  And, if you ever need to get hold of the Cabinet Office, the number is 020 7276 2222.

We won the footie 1-nil, with an own goal in the fourth minute, a shot that their goalie helped on its way in to the net.  Not a classic but any win will do.

*I wanted to use the phrase “mooted monsoon” here because I liked the ring of it but, as so often with my smarty-pants phrases, it had to be binned because it made no sense whatsoever.  Thank goodness for the dictionary.

 

What’s with us?  People I mean.  In general.  But, I suppose, mostly me.  Apologies but I’m testing out the short, sharp sentence approach, which I consider very American and it won’t last long here as you can see.

What’s brought this on?  Well, I was sitting on my bed the other morning, looking at the chaos in the bedroom, a place that is meant to be a sanctuary, a haven of rest and relaxation.  You’re not supposed to get up and think, “What the hell is going on here?  How has it come to this?  Why is my wardrobe on the floor and the chair?”

And however shambolic this looks, you should see the windowsill – no, on second thoughts, you SHOULD NOT see the windowsill; no one should.  What’s the use of looking after your gut, feeding it with kefir, kimchi, pure peppermint tea and all sorts of other goodies when you’re breathing in dust of the most dubious variety…

In my defence, there’s no point getting stuck in to the dust mountain before tidying up the clothes and putting them safely and neatly back in the wardrobe, out of harm’s way.  And, of course, the wardrobe itself had to be dusted and cleaned before the clothes could be put back in.

Fortunately, we’ve had some torrential rain over the last day or two, so even I couldn’t find an excuse to ignore the mess; there was no golf; no singing; no tai chi; no washing up; no dog to walk; just the blog to write – so that meant I had to find something, anything, to footer about at…

Often I’m reluctant to describe myself as a journalist – they’re people who head to Gaza, Ukraine, any number of war zones; spend hours understanding the machinations of Westminster and politics; uncover scams and scammers; trawl though endless documents to enlighten us on things people would rather we didn’t know; that sort of thing.  They’d follow the money (always good advice) and I think if I wanted to be someone who specialised in golf – or sport – these days, I’d have a degree in economics and not switch off when I came across a string of noughts.

So, whatever my limitations, I was heartened to come across a puff piece Adrian Chiles – a smart bod who knew about economics and used his Brummie accent to his advantage (always underestimated) – wrote for The Guardian about wooden spoons.  He was putting off writing whatever it was he had agreed to do, so he decided to boil his wooden spoons – he’d read somewhere that it was a good idea.  The reality was, apparently, utterly disgusting and I won’t be doing it.  Though I did get diverted enough to take a pic of some of my wooden stirrers.  And, like Adrian, I got a few words out of it.

Golf?  Did some soul mention golf?  I didn’t see the end of the Walker Cup because I was in a hotel in Llandudno that didn’t have Sky – and it was more important to be having a good time with friends than trying to sneak glances at what was going on at Cypress Point.  I love match play and I love watching it – though my nerve has gone so I don’t play on teams these days, too unreliable and who wants to let their teammates down?

Individual stuff is different because it really doesn’t matter if I haven’t played for weeks and have forgotten how to chip and couldn’t hole a putt to save my family but the goose at the top of the piece is speaking the truth…”Is my friend in the bunker or is the bastard on the green?”  It does tend to bring out the worst in you.

Mind you, if you’re playing a half-decent player, they won’t worry about being in the sand and you’ll have to grit your teeth and say “Good shot” when they splash out dead and you have to concede the putt.  If they’re on the green, you have to be convinced that they’ll hole it, however monstrous it is, so that you’re not in shock and can say “well done” then follow them in with insouciant aplomb!

I must say that I felt really sorry for Joakim Lagergren when the sainted Rory holed from 30-feet for an eagle three at the last at the K Club to muscle his way in to a play-off.  The Masters champion won the Amgen Irish Open at the third extra hole and there were a few cheers when the Swede’s shot to the green ended up in the water.  He’s only won once in his time on tour – at least that’s something – but victory would, I argue, have meant much more to him than to Rory.  Hey ho.  At least Joakim had a good first round at Wentworth yesterday.

There’s lots to like about Llandudno, where there’s no end of good golf within reach, though like a lot of seaside resorts it’s seen better days.  There were plenty of coaches about, so it’s still a destination and some of the buildings are still stunning.  The White House, not in use, is one of my favourites.