It’s been a busy week, an unusually busy one for me these days, not least because it involved a trip to Scotland, where I played golf, attended a memorial service and caught up with friends.  Brill.  Must get out and about more often.

The golf was at Dundonald Links in Ayrshire, not too far from Troon, albeit not so venerable, on a glorious day.  I played most of the round in shirt sleeves despite so many years in the Midlands, as far from the sea as it is possible to get in England, that I’m probably now classed as a southern softie.  My golf was less wonderful than the weather but it was a joy to be on a links again and we even got to play a hole with Catriona Matthew, of Solheim Cup fame.

 

 

Catriona has retired from the day-to-day grind of tournament golf – it’s usually the travel that takes its toll – but is far from done with the game and one of her many roles is as tournament ambassador to the Trust Golf Women’s Scottish Open.  It’s at Dundonald at the end of July, 28th-31st, with a prize fund of $2 million.  Dr Prin Singhanart, the physicist who founded Trust Golf, part of a Thai-based technology enterprise, said, “We look to enhance and grow this historic event to sit alongside the best tournaments on the schedule….we aim to to grow the game and create the best opportunities for female golfers.”

There were two other very special females – not golfers – on hand to support the tournament, taking a brief break from their countrywide tour with their manager Andrew Cotter.  Yes, it was the global social media stars Olive and Mabel, labs without limits.  They’d been performing in St Andrews and, I think, Troon and were preparing to head for the ferry to cross to Belfast and then, passports permitting, Dublin.

With the labs, very down to earth for superstars, busy scavenging for food – don’t forget they’re the breed that put the nick into picnic – Andrew said, “With a lot of their family nearby in Troon, they look forward to this sporting event above all others.”

After a lovely, luxurious night at Dundonald Links, it was off to St Andrews for Renton Laidlaw’s memorial service.  Renton, who died last October at the age of 82, spent his life on the move as a writer and a broadcaster, radio and television, supreme.  He had the gift of the gab – everything invariably beautifully judged and paced, rarely lost for the mot juste – but above all he had a gift for friendship.  In a notoriously bitchy, backstabbing business, no one had a bad word to say about Renton.  Occasionally he’d be teased for his propensity to go on a bit – whenever he was accepting an award, say, or hosting a dinner – but he had a never-ending fund of great stories, so why not tell them?

He was a multi-tasking workaholic who wrote, broadcast, edited (The Golfer’s Handbook of blessed memory, a great resource) and still had time to be secretary, chairman and president of the AGW.  I used to joke that he was like a shark – he had to keep moving to keep breathing.  He’d fly to Phoenix for the day, then the south of France, Sunningdale, St Andrews, Augusta, Australia, there was nowhere he wasn’t known.  He was kind, generous, twinkly and was much loved.  He never married – he never stayed still long enough – but his friends, female and male, were devoted to him and gathered from all over the world to pay tribute to him.

The stands are already going up around the Old Course in preparation for a very special Open, the 150th, this July and nearly 300,000 spectators are expected during the week (10th-17th), with the whole show expected to generate around £200 million in total economic benefit to Scotland according to the SIRC (Sport Industry Research Centre) at Sheffield Hallam University in a report commissioned by the R&A.

This is an all-ticket Open – not quite so open then?  Gone are the days when you could pitch up on the day and buy a ticket at the gate.  Apparently when the ballot opened there were more than 1.3 million applications.

 

One of the great things about St Andrews is how compact it is and how cosmopolitan – it’s packed with students from all over the world as well as golfers.  It’s also home to hordes of gulls, big buggers who swirl around with malice aforethought, ready to outdo the greediest labradors as nickers of picnics and, afterwards, splatter whatever lies beneath – be it pavement, pedestrian or car.  If you’re a driver, make sure you have a big bottle of water and some kitchen roll to hand.  You’ll need it!

Some of the golf writers were on the tee on Tuesday, part of the pre-Open briefing and recce and they got a dry, grey and chilly morning for their game.  I was lucky enough to capture Derek Lawrenson’s opening drive (below).

Derek, golf correspondent of the Daily Mail, former chairman of the AGW and a happy Liverpool supporter anticipating an unprecedented quadruple, has been on my road-to-hell conscience for nearly three years.  He won the Golf Writers’ Championship in 2019 (at Royal Liverpool, Hoylake), for a record-equalling fourth time and I meant to send him a note welcoming him to the club – but never did.  Sorry Derek. Well done.  Welcome.

 

 

 

It’s mentioned, too often perhaps, that this corner of the blog is, too often, lacking in golf content.  It was brought to my attention that someone, a friend who will remain nameless, even put it in a comment -and it was approved, by my sister – shock, hurt, indignation.

They contend that the clue is in the title but my contention is that they fixate on the golf bit, forgetting that the other component, the madill bit, gives us licence to roam wherever our meanderings take us.  Sometimes the golf doesn’t inspire or appeal and it’s important to remember that, heaven help them, there are a few loyal readers (sisters-in-law mainly) who know nothing much about golf and care even less.  They shouldn’t be neglected and it’s a challenge to keep them reading all the way to the end!  Heartfelt thanks for your support.

This week, while waiting to be inspired by the golf on offer, avoiding ghastly, heart-rending pictures from Ukraine and Boris making excuses in India, I pounced happily on Carol Klein getting stuck in to her spring gardening. What a joy, so spring is the starting point of the blog and the subject of the featured image (the wee pic that, fingers crossed, appears at the top of the piece).

It’s another classic from the magic lens of the ridiculously talented, never-stops-learning Mary McKenna but just in case it doesn’t like the device/format you’re using, here it is again, full size.  I got a red warning notice to the effect that the image was the wrong size to be picked up by Facebook and other social media sites and I apologise.  It’s an SEO issue apparently but the technicalities were beyond me and it was too late to consult my expert (Mo).

That reminds me, have you read Tulip Fever, by Deborah Moggach?  A brilliant book, not a long read.  And I’m told the film is pretty good too.

Lichfield is pretty good at tulips too and still makes an effort with its formal gardens – long may it last.  (This is not the place to discuss the recycling and house-building policies, baffling and bewildering as they are to many of us.)

In a corner of the park, not far from the tulips, there’s a very grand statue of Commander Edward John Smith RD RNR (1850-1912), captain of the Titanic, which hit its iceberg 100 years ago and sank on the 15th of April 1912.  He was born in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent but was unveiled here in Lichfield in July 1914.  The bronze statue, set on a plinth of Cornish granite, is 2.34 metres tall (7 foot 8) and is the work of Lady Kathleen Scott, widow of Robert Falcon Scott, of the Antarctic, who died in March 1912, having been beaten to the South Pole by the Norwegian Roald Amundsen.

There was more sad news the other day when we heard that Jack Newton, an irrepressible Aussie who was good enough to be runner-up in the Open of 1975 (pipped in a play-off by Tom Watson) and the Masters of 1980 (four shots behind Seve, alongside Gibby Gilbert), had died, just a few weeks after his great mate Bob Shearer.

They both won an Australian Open and added to the gaiety of golf, lighting up the European Tour in the 1970s – and well beyond – with their exuberance, zest for life and considerable golfing skills.  They were likely lads but no mugs and both remained married to the English girls they met at a tournament early on in their golfing adventure.  Jack married Jackie and Bob married Kathie and our hearts go out to them and their families.  At least we can be sure that life was never dull.

Jack lost his right arm and right eye in an argument with a plane’s propeller in 1983 but reinvented himself as a commentator, devoted advocate of junior golf, fund-raiser and one-armed golfer.  Bob played golf to the end and moved into golf design.  Whenever Kathie, who ran the best press rooms anywhere, was asked if she’d like to accompany him on his travels, she’d reply:  “Only if there are brollies in the drinks and choccies on the pillows.”

There’s a lot of talk about trying to increase diversity in golf and Wales Golf came up with a genius idea to encourage more Muslims to try the game during Ramadan.  Thanks to The Golf Business website for the story about Parc Golf Club, near Newport, just down the road from Celtic Manor, who opened up their facilities for late-night lessons for people who were breaking their fast and had energy to burn.  Very creative and a great success.  Well done to everybody involved, including professional Sahra Hassan.

Finally, another bit of golf for your delectation and delight, one of my favourite cartoons, by an unknown artist.  Amazing how he’s made the golfer look so shifty.  It always makes me laugh.  And Snoopy is always a bonus, hating the par 5s that you can’t reach in 42 – there seem to be more of those as I get older.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My sister blogger is sometimes very critical of how little golf there is in these blogs but sometimes there are very good reasons for that.  There’s no denying that, at base, I’m a golf tragic but even so, time after time, I’m reminded how little I know about the game and that you have to make room in your life for other things.

Normally Mo and I would spend Masters week together, leaving Brian to escape the endless, ultra-nerdy golf chat as best he can but this year covid intervened and we didn’t get together until the final day, the Sunday that I tested negative at last and felt safe to travel.  How I’d missed our usual pass-remarkable major-watching binge, poring over the runners and riders, checking the progress of our choices and wondering just how on earth Harry Kane (wearing Nike off the pitch as well as on) had made it from Brum on the Saturday afternoon (Spurs away at Villa, 4-nil to us somehow) to the fairways of Augusta National on the Sunday.  Harry’s a 4-handicapper apparently, whatever that means these days:  don’t give him too many shots I suppose.

Seven of us, via Zoom, from Inverness to Lichfield to Wrexham to Nairn to Cheshire, paid a tenner each and got six picks.  We drew cards to determine the order of choice and I swithered between Scottie Scheffler and Cam Smith first up but plumped for the Aussie.  Wrong!!  Pam, next up, picked Scottie and scooped the winnings.  Brian, whose men performed woefully (Spieth, Schauffele and Koepka) or not at all (Casey) got his stake back because of Rory’s final round fireworks.

Thank goodness I’m not a gambler because nowadays it’s too too easy to bet on the proverbial flies working their way down the window pane; the score at 63 minutes; the second corner; the third throw-in; the first penalty; the lowest score in the threeball; closest to the pin at the 13th or wherever; number of bunker shots holed at the 18th, whatever.  You can’t escape it, it’s insidious and dangerous.  Gamble responsibly.  Yeah.  Right.  Of course.  That’s why it’s a multi-billion business.

I first had a bet on the Grand National when I was nine, just shy of ten (Team Spirit in 1964) but it never developed much beyond the odd annual punt.  I realised I wasn’t cut out to be a gambler when I had a fiver to win on Red Rum one year and found myself shaking ever more uncontrollably as the race progressed.  He won but ever since then my punts have been few and far between and very modest.

It also helps that my picks are usually far from inspired, mostly rubbish in fact.  Admittedly, I had fairly sustained interest at Augusta this year thanks to Smith, Shane and, more briefly, Sungjae Im.  Adam Scott made the cut but perhaps I now have to file him and Justin Rose and Gary Woodland, my other two choices, under “been and gone and done it”.

The golf writers have this competition called Pick Your Pro (PYP), which Dai always thought was daft (which it is ) not least because you have to choose your winners at the start of the season before a shot has been struck.  There’s a certain tolerance for the congenitally tardy but it’s a tough task – and my best effort was the year I came stone last and got my money back!

Whenever I enter, my first ambition is to have my picks actually play in the event; then I want them to make the cut and some money; and, finally, miraculously, I want to pick a winner.  So far this year, I’ve fallen short on all three counts but on the bright side, I’m far from last and there’s still hope.  I may have picked Bryson DeChambeau to defend the Arnold Palmer Invitational (didn’t play) and Nelly Korda to win the Chevron Championship (ditto), Spieth to win The Masters (missed the cut) but how do you think I’ll fare with my other major choices, top three, men only?

US PGA:  Dustin Johnson, Koepka, Rose.

US Open:  Rory, Max Homa, Justin Thomas.

Open:  Shane, Francesco Molinari, Patrick Cantlay.

Mmmm.  Yes.  Well.  Bear in mind that you can’t pick a player multiple times (bar end-of-season tour championships).  I see I have Scottie Scheffler winning the Memorial Tournament at the beginning of June – can his run last that long?

Ever optimistic, for the truly historic AIG Women’s Open at Muirfield I’ve gone all European:  Leona Maguire, Georgia Hall, Anna Nordqvist.  Now, that really would be brill and amazing.  But, really, who knows who’ll be doing what at the beginning of August?

This week, a bit further down the playing chain, the Rose Ladies Series, founded by Justin and his wife Kate to help women make their way in professional golf, continued at Sunningdale New.  Georgina Blackmann won in a play-off against Ince Mehmet and picked up a cheque for £10,000.  Nothing to the Saudis and Greg Norman but a handy sum nonetheless.

 

 I was looking forward to going to St George’s Park for the first time last Tuesday, to watch England’s under-19 women play Belgium in a qualifier for the European Championships in the Czech Republic later in the year.  Covid killed that outing but England won 3-nil to secure their place in the finals, so I’ll be cheering them on this summer.

 

Tiger Woods beamed his way round nine holes at Augusta National on Monday, radiating the joy of a man who knows that he’s lucky to be alive, for whom every second is now a bonus.  He’s been astounding the golfing world since he first picked up a club and he shows no signs of stopping now, with a Masters masterclass on his return to major competitive action after the car crash that nearly killed him just over a year ago.

“I know how to play golf and I know how to play this golf course,” he said after a first round of 71, one under par, on a tricky day when he plotted his way round the course with the nous and assurance of a man who has won five green jackets already.

Good and all as Tiger’s game was at his peak, it was his mind and his indomitable will to win, a ruthless single-mindedness, that kept his rivals floundering in his wake.  That determination and dedication kept him going through his painful rehab (pain is nothing new to someone who has had numerous surgeries throughout his career), with never a day off as he set his sights on striding the lush green fairways in Georgia in April.

Can he keep it going?  He’ll be doing his damnedest.  And he’ll be cheered every painful step of the way.

Rory isn’t one of my picks this week – though I’d love him to win and he’s been on my mind a lot.  He’s an Irish all-time great whatever he does from now on but if he remains on four majors – won in 2011, 2012 and 2014 (two) – where does that put him in the greater scheme of things?

A nearly-great I think.  A could-have-been great.  Almost but not quite.  A  brilliant career but not the career it could have been.  He’s not going to match Jack Nicklaus’s 18 major titles (plus a staggering 19 second places) or Tiger’s 15 (so far).  But I’m hoping he’ll have another little run and pick up another clutch of titles and become the winningest (horrible word but it’s getting late and it’ll do the job) European.

To do that Rory has to reach 8, to finish ahead of Harry Vardon (six Opens and one US Open); Nick Faldo (three Opens and three Masters); James Braid (five Opens); James Henry Taylor (five Opens); Seve Ballesteros (three Opens, two Masters).

Of course, if Rory puts us out of our misery (not to mention himself out of his) and wins the Masters this week, he’ll elevate himself beyond mere numbers because he’ll become only the sixth player to win all four majors, joining Nicklaus, Woods, Ben Hogan, Gene Sarazen and Gary Player.  Hard to argue that that wouldn’t be greatness.

I have my own reasons for wanting him to get to 7 at least and I think it would a magnificent achievement to come back as a grizzled veteran (my God, he’ll be 33 next month) after setting the golfing world alight as a tousle-haired youngster full of bounce and bravura.  He must have thought this stuff was easy-peasy and then he found out that it wasn’t. Mostly anything but.

Rory admitted this week that it’s hard for him to rein in his extravagant side, to play what he can’t help feeling is “negative” golf; to play the percentages; to play away from the pins; to go for the sensible rather than the spectacular; and at all times TO LIMIT THE DAMAGE.

It’s NOT CHEATING, Rory.  Just ask Jack, Tiger, Tom Watson (8 majors and new honorary starter at The Masters).  Watch Tiger.  It’s skilful, it’s clever and it’s the way to win more majors.  You won’t win them all but you’ll stop beating yourself.

The trouble with Augusta is that every single shot demands your full concentration and attention, you daren’t switch off at all.  It’s mentally exhausting even if you’re striking the ball well and the top players are tested to limits that lie dormant a lot of the time.

I’d love Rory to come off the course every day and say, “I could not have SCORED any better.”  If that didn’t win him his green jacket, he wouldn’t be too far off.

I’ve done it only the once – if I haven’t bored you with this rare moment of triumph, you’ve been lucky – and I was cream-crackered, utterly shattered.  I also won a trophy and it’s one of my proudest possessions because the competition was at Pedrena, Seve’s club.  Viva Espana.

Talking of trophies, Jennifer Kupcho won the first major of the season, The Chevron Championship, at Mission Hills Country Club in Rancho Mirage, California, last Sunday.  It was the American’s first LPGA title and she became the last player to take the leap into Poppie’s Pond before the move to Texas next year.  The end of one era but perhaps the beginning of another.

Last Sunday we had our captains’ drive-in and the official opening of our new holes and course at WHGC.  Unfortunately I had to miss it because I tested positive for the ubiquitous covid and I’ve been lying low – and testing positive – ever since.  Fortunately, there were lots of people taking photographs, so many thanks to them – not sure who took which pic, sorry – and congrats to everyone involved.

Mo is still hors de combat but my covid, so far, fingers crossed, has been no worse than a bad cold.