What to write about this week?  Well, I’ve polished up the trusty winter boots, taken them to our long-suffering, ever-accommodating professionals – nothing is too much trouble – and had some new, proper, old-fashioned spikes put in, ready for the out-of-lockdown off next week.

I hate soft spikes in the winter, don’t you?  They don’t give enough grip, they get clogged up too easily – even Whittington’s been a bit mucky lately – and that makes them positively lethal, plus they don’t make that wonderfully evocative, click-clackety noise as you’re walking to the 1st tee.

People are champing at the bit to get back out on the course, so we’ve introduced 8-minute intervals – down from 10, a very civilised gap – and are asking people to play in fourballs if possible, preferably quickly, so everyone has a chance to get in as many holes as they can before it gets dark.   I’m out, weather permitting, at 0740 next Wednesday, when golfers in England are allowed on the course again.  I’ll be studying Maureen’s tips over the weekend, in the hope of finding the secret and trying to remember where I’ve stashed the clubs….

Or perhaps there’ll be a Black Friday/Weekend/Pandemic deal on a new set?

There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask for a while but haven’t got around to looking up:  what’s the difference between speaking and singing?  And, what exactly is a note?  Thanks to the inspiring Helen I know a lot more about singing than I used to.  For instance, in attempting Over The Sea To Skye the other day I realised that I could hear the waves in the music – well, those of us lacking soul are a bit slow on the uptake – but I also know that I’ll never be a singer, notes are quite beyond me.

It’s  a salutary day when a show-off has to concede that she really does have no outlet for her exhibitionist streak.  Cue sighs of relief from her family and friends.  Until they realise that Tyrrell Hatton is about to launch a John Daly inspired line of multi-coloured hoodies.  Hope it’s not just a rumour because if they fit John, they’ll certainly fit me….And, hallelujah, Abba dabba doo, there’s always karaoke of course.

It was pouring with rain in the south of Spain on Thursday, as the LET players sloshed their way round the Real Club De Golf Guadalmina on the first day of the Andalucia Costa Del Sol Open De Espana.  It was reminiscent of some of the weather during the Ryder Cup at Valderrama and brought back happy memories of all those tournaments in that neck of the woods and meeting up with the Ancient Britons, family and friends who lived on the Costa del Sol and now live on in our hearts.

Excuse me while I have a bit of a self-indulgent blub but I’ve been softened up, as always, by the late, great Maeve Binchy.  A friend lent me her book Evening Class, which I hadn’t read for years and there I was devouring it late into the night, just like the old days, despite swearing that I was only going to read a few pages and WAS NOT going to keep going into the wee small hours.  But I did.  I’m a sucker for a happy ending and Maeve drags me in every time, the characters so well observed, the dialogue brilliant.

Out in South Africa, at Leopard Creek Country Club, Adrian Meronk, of Poland, was doing a bit of trailblazing.  He led the Alfred Dunhill Championship after a first round of 65, to become the first Polish player to hold the lead in a European Tour event at the end of a round.  And last Sunday, Ondrej Lieser, of the Czech Republic, won the Challenge Tour Grand Final and topped the Road to Mallorca Rankings.  Good golfers are cropping up everywhere, which can’t be anything but good for the game.

Dai, who knew a good golfer when he saw one, despite falling a bit short of that category himself, paid a flying visit to Leopard Creek a few years ago, being whizzed the 500-odd miles there and back in Johann Rupert’s private plane.  There’s no hanging about if you’re invited to play a few holes with the owner of the course, one of South Africa’s richest men, an entrepreneur with a love of sport.

Not sure if Dai saw a real leopard, the member of the Big Five that is notoriously difficult to spot – even I have seen the other four, elephant, Cape buffalo, lion and rhino, on my one visit to South Africa – but it was a memorable trip nonetheless, not least for its whirlwind quality and he took pictures to prove it.  In the bottom two snaps, Johann is, according to Dai’s captions, picking his way back to the 9th hole, which he played, inadvertently, via the 18th.

I think even the professionals find it hard to concentrate on their game at Leopard Creek, which is on the southern border of the Kruger National Park and is a haven for wildlife.  It makes perfect telly viewing on a chilly winter’s day, even without David Attenborough to provide the commentary.

Finally, many congrats to Stephanie Meadow on finishing third in the Pelican Women’s Championship in Florida, five shots behind the winner Sei Young Kim and two behind Ally McDonald.  Mel Reid continued her good form with a share of 12th place.

 

 

 

The only thing I’m going to promise this week is that there won’t be a bracket in sight.  It was pointed out, by a woman who’ll remain nameless, that there was far too much stuff in parentheses last week, that it was confusing and sometimes, horror, the brackets were in the wrong place.  Now, that is confusing and I apologise for any aberration.  I’ve spent years trying to curb my penchant for convoluted constructions, not always successfully and since blogs are the ultimate self-indulgence and I’m the editor, things have gone from bad, bad, bad to worse.  And, a word of warning, it’s likely to continue….

There’s often nothing nicer than golf on a brisk autumn day but that’s off limits for a lot of us in another lockdown.  Still, I was delighted to see that Darren Clarke, now, officially, an old codger, managed his first win on the PGA Tour Champions, in the TimberTech Championship at Boca Raton in Florida.  He finished one shot ahead of Jim Furyk and Bernhard Langer, so it wasn’t easy.   It’s hard to imagine but Darren’s last win was the Open Championship at Royal St George’s, way back in 2011, a long time for a player of his talent.  That Sunday in Kent was a magical day, filthy weather, blowing a hooley, Darren in his element and uncharacteristically, preternaturally calm, playing beautifully, in the zone.  Me out there in every item of clothing I had with me, cheering silently when I saw Dustin Johnson, a real danger, launch his second shot at the 14th miles out of bounds on the right and take a bogey 6 instead of a birdie or, even worse, an eagle.  It was worth delaying the long, tedious journey home from a venue that’s best reached from France to see DC lift the claret jug and wait even longer to congratulate him in person.

It’s taken him 40 attempts to beat the old boys, who can still play and are as fiercely competitive as it is possible to be.  He’s got a new caddie, with a famous name, Sandy Armour, brother of PGA Tour player Tommy, who’s having to adapt to the Ulsterman’s ways, as his boss explained:  “He’s getting to know me and that’s pretty difficult to do with my tantrums.  At 52, sometimes I act as if I’m 12 or 13.  It’s just getting to know your player, when to speak and not to speak, how much help to give him.  He’s adapted unbelievably quickly and he’s done an amazing job.”

Ah, so the infamous Clarke tantrums are still alive and well and bubbling under, just waiting to erupt.  Double bogeys at the last hole used to guarantee an explosion, though, in fairness, few golfers, at whatever level, are at their most affable after a bad finish.  Ideally, you leave them be to cool off but sometimes that’s not possible.  In Japan once, covering the event for the Irish papers, Darren was the man I had to speak to and I trekked down to the 18th and waited patiently, getting colder.  It did not go well.  Yer man barrelled past me, head down like an angry bull on the charge, muttering “the head’s off, the head’s off,” and I tramped back to the press room, muttering imprecations.  “If the arrogant git ever does that to me again,” I said to Dai, “I’ll go through him for a shortcut.”  At least as furious as Darren, I ranted on and Dai, sensibly, took me at my word:  he did the Irish interviews for the rest of the week.  Happy days!

On a less uplifting note, I played in our stableford competition on Tuesday and trailed in a sorry 34th with a measly total of 24 points, just 14 behind the winner.  There was a lot of pre-comp confusion over the handicaps because we were operating under the new system and some of us had no clue what we were meant to be playing off, so our long-suffering handicap team told us just to write down the gross score and they’d do the rest.  What stars.  Many, many thanks.  Devotion above and beyond.  Anyway, I seemed to be off 11, down from 13 and well out of anything remotely resembling a comfort zone.  Shouldn’t have taken the team too long to tot up my total…I’ll either have to take up tai chi full time or put Mo’s tips into practice.

By the way I forgot to mention P. G. Wodehouse on my reading list last week, a ridiculous oversight.  His characters may be from another world  but you’ll recognise their modern counterparts nonetheless.  The other morning, in bed with a cuppa, I started reading Stephen Potter’s “The complete golf gamesmanship” in bed and couldn’t stop.  What’s not to love about this, talking about his mixed foursomes partner Mrs King-Porter, when they were playing a match against the Rimmings:  “Another thing Kingers did even I found quite deeply distracting.  Rimming and I were pretty silent in this foursome because we knew our concentration would be taxed to the uttermost.  But Kingers, as if to show how superior women were as a social animal, and what fun they had in life generally, would during the match start four new subjects of conversation with Mrs Rimming with such bubbling enthusiasm that I must admit that I have slipped unobtrusively behind them to find what it was about; but somehow the words bounce off one’s brain, and I forget them instantly…”

Or this nugget, in the chapter “Primary Play”:  “In the twenties the average age at Mid Surrey was high, and they knew it.  There was said to be a Death Expectancy Chart above the Secretary’s desk.  I do know that in the doorway, only half hidden, was a hand ambulance in wickerwork for collecting coronaries in the summer months.”  Perhaps, on reflection, not such a laughing matter for many of us of maturing years….

 

 

I’ll end with a moniker that Potter or Wodehouse would have swooped upon:  Miss Jones, who appeared in the blog last week in the arms of her proud parents, has been named exuberantly.  She is now Jemima Persephone Rose.  Exult.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a funny old week.  It didn’t get off to the best start when my better half went out for his regular cycle ride with some of the neighbours.  All went well until they arrived back into our road and he signalled he was turning right down our driveway.  As he was making the turn he heard a car engine revving and managed to swerve to the left just as a car overtook him and with a glancing blow knocked him off his bike into the road.  The driver did stop and tried to defend herself saying he was calling her on.  Hmm, last time I looked at the highway code a right arm held straight out indicated a right turn but apparently not to her.  Happily, there wasn’t much damage done – apart from a badly sprained thumb – because of the riding armour he wears to protect his hips and elbows, all casualties of previous accidents.  Note to self, maybe it’s time I redoubled my efforts to get him to fall in love with golf, an infinitely safer pastime.

As we once again ease into a time of increasing restrictions most of my pals in Wales and Ireland find themselves unable to go to the golf course.  It’s at moments like these that I really appreciate all that golf offers us on a plate each time we go out on the course.  Leave aside the never-ending challenge of improving your ball-striking, your strategy and your scoring, the fresh air and exercise golf provides, normally in the company of good friends, and the mental health benefits that it bestows make it the sport that keeps on giving.

If you can’t get to the course for a few weeks, why not make a bit of a plan to keep those golfing muscles awake and active?  Now, I don’t expect you to embark on a regime a la Rory or Bryson and bust a gut to increase the speed of your swing so you are unrecognisable when you emerge back on to the links, but how about a plan to reinforce good habits and feels that can be taken to the course when golf resumes?  Try the following with a 7-iron:-

1  Five swings with your feet together.  Keep your balance at the end.

2  Five swings, normal stance.  Pause at the top, count to 3 and then swing to a full follow through.

3  Five swings, normal stance.  No pause at the top but hold your finish for a count of 3.

Repeat this sequence with a different club.  These little drills will help you stay centred in the swing (exercise 1) and find good balance (exercises 2 and 3).  You can only deliver the power of which you are capable from a point of balance, so working on this is beneficial to your game.  If you really want to test yourself try a swing with your eyes closed and see if you can remain stable.

Meanwhile, as ever, there are other golf-related matters to keep us interested and energised, most of them with an eye to future events.  We are now only three and a bit weeks away from the Masters where Tiger will be defending.  The usual questions will abound – can he win his 16th major?  (No, not in my opinion, although Augusta is by far his best opportunity for another victory of any sort.)  Can Rory win and, at the sixth time of asking, complete the Grand Slam?  (Of course he can win, but WILL he?  Not this time, I suspect but I’m optimistic about next April.)  What on earth will Bryson look like and play like after this last month of more bulking up and adding speed to his swing?  And will we recognise Augusta dressed in autumn colours?

Back in April the Masters was to be the first of four sorties of mine to the States this year, none of which, of course, have actually taken place.  Patricia and I have planned that she will come over to me so we can plonk ourselves down together in front of the box with a decent bottle of red and watch the action unfold in our own little support bubble.  We enjoy watching the golf together – we know (still) a great many of the players, nearly all the broadcasters and media and the machinations of how Masters tournaments are run.  One advantage to not being on site and working there is that it’s extraordinarily liberating to be able to use normal golf terms.  We can refer to the rough, not the first cut, talk about the pin positions and not the hole locations and bemoan the fact that this year there are no galleries as opposed to patrons.  I’m interested to hear if they change the suspected mechanised tweeting-bird soundtrack to an autumn version.  I’m sure they will, nothing is ever overlooked.

So as the clocks change and winter draws on do your best to keep something golf-related in your life on a daily basis.  Reading always has the power to provide a bit of escapism from the dreary endless news that abounds everywhere, so consider also seeking out some of the great golfing biographies that will help while away a wet winter day.  You won’t regret it.

 

 

 

I had a text from a friend yesterday, suggesting a subject for today’s blog, a very, very, very (ad infinitum) contentious subject:  the dreaded, ever-divisive dress code.  Not being in one of my argumentative, disputatious moods (a bit odd that, for an Irish person, or, at least, this particular Irish person), I’m not going to bite.

Suffice it to say that I cheered when I saw Tyrrell Hatton wearing his hoodie at Wentworth.  Yes, a HOODIE.  Shock horror, hooray, hooray.  When David Cameron (remember him?  I’m pretty sure it was him) suggested we hug hoodie-wearing teens instead of vilifying them, I put a hoodie on my wish list – a cashmere hoodie, admittedly but a hoodie nonetheless.  In fact, it went on the list immediately after whatever shopping centre it was said it was going to ban them.

There’s a Guardian article from the time – July 2006 – that said:  “In a ground-breaking speech calling for more ‘love’ to be shown to adolescents, the Tory leader will attack bans on hooded tops – a symbol of urban menace to many adults – that were imposed by a shopping centre last year, arguing that shrouding their faces is a response to children’s own fear of crime against them, not a crime in itself…..”

Hatton helped demonstrate that far from being an urban menace the hoodie is now a fairway fashion item.  In the way of fashion items, it’s not entirely practical because, let’s face it, who’s going to be hitting a shot with the hood up?  And with the hood down you have to make sure it keeps out of the way of the swing and is not going to knock you about the face.  The key is that he was wearing it at all, showing what?  That golf’s now the epitome of urban cool?  That Adidas had a bit of extra material to make use of?  Who knows?  But thanks Tyrrell and many congrats on winning the BMW PGA Championship at Wentworth and moving into the top ten in the world rankings.

My golf’s not quite in the same league and if I’d been wearing a hoodie the other day, I’d have pulled the hood over my eyes because I had a fit of the unmentionables (Arthur Ranks for older readers or real cinema buffs) at a crucial time; going from two up with four to play to two down at the end……Great…..The smile as I left the 18th green was of the rictus variety…..

Maureen’s advice included a mat (I have no grass because what’s the point when you have an entire park, well maintained by a lovely, friendly team who are as good for your well-being as the grounds they look after, 50-odd yards max from your front door?), a kitchen sponge and an airflow ball.  She described how to set things up and added the magic words:  “Don’t think of anything too technical…”. As if.  I won’t go into any more detail in case she wants to use it as a proper tip at a later date and I can’t report on its efficacy until I’ve been and gone and got the equipment….Wilkco here I come.

There was a poignant moment at Wentworth last week when Andy McFee and John Paramor said goodbye to the European Tour and left their replacements as rules officials shaking in their shoes….Decades of experience are hard earned and they were two of the best in the world; the hole will be filled (and it’s a very big hole) but it’ll take time.

They both reminisced a bit and were very nice about the AGW (who were presenting them with a memento) and Paramor recalled a rather chastening, slightly terrifying moment from his early days as a tournament director.  It was at the Belfry, the week before the Open Championship, the weather was piggy, with rain delays galore, electrics that didn’t work, all in all a lot of a nightmare for anyone, let alone a relative rookie.  Decisions had to be made on the hoof and John told a load of marquee players, including former Open champions, all of them playing poorly and well off the pace, that they could go home – or wherever.

“I’d let them go without any nod to anybody,” he recalled and it didn’t go down well with the people who had features and (endless) Open previews to do….including my late husband, who’d have been working for the Birmingham Post at the time and was not a man known for his que sera sera equilibrium…..

”I was taken into a room with Dai and some of his senior colleagues,”  JP said, the memory still vivid, “and told in no uncertain terms that I was a ‘complete bloody idiot.  What you need to do is you need to talk to us and we will tell you what you should be doing……And you need to be honest with us…’  Thank you Dai, wherever you are….for that bit of advice.”

I’ll raise a glass of red to that!

It’s just been announced that the 2023 Solheim Cup (remember that, with luck, the 2021 version will go ahead at Inverness in Toledo, Ohio, next September) will be held in Spain for the first time, at Finca Cortesin in Andalucia.  If it’s a fraction as exciting as the Ryder Cup at Valderrama in 1997, the wine drinkers among us will need plentiful supplies of Rioja to calm our nerves….The more healthy are welcome to stick to their green tee, sorry, tea…..

The featured pic (at the top of the piece) probably needs explaining…..it’s there because it always makes me laugh, especially in these chaotic times but also because now, sadly, my favourite mug is defunct.  It cracked yesterday and I include it as a tribute to an old friend…..Sorry Mo.