The Christmas season is fast approaching – in fact, it’s galloping along, and for a person who steadfastly refuses to hang a bauble or send a card while still in the eleventh month of the year I have to admit I’ve already broken all my self-imposed rules.  Full disclosure – last weekend we hosted Christmas dinner (yes, turkey and all the trimmings and plum duff) for fourteen.  This was largely my hubby’s branch of the family and it was a grand collective effort with everyone having an allotted responsibility, food, drink and preparation wise.  So, it all bowled merrily along and the house now seems strangely, and blessedly, quiet.  The most noise since the departure of our guests came from trying to manhandle the bottle recycling bin up to the gate for its next collection.

The reason I mention the festive season is to warn (reassure?) you all that this will be the final blog offering of the year and that we will be taking our annual break until sometime in……… well, who knows exactly when?

For me, this has been the strangest of years with zero golf interaction at any level for me.  No attendance at majors, no research to do, no interviewing players, no being abreast of all the unrepeatable swirlings emanating from the rumour mill.

There’s been no interaction at club level either.  It’s now been thirteen months since I last played and with my golf club being forty minutes away it’s a little too much of a fatiguing drive for me to just pop by the club for a coffee and to see who’s around.  The result is that it’s been an odd (non) golfing year for me and my only connection with the sport that’s been a massive part of my life has been through a screen – either a television one or a computer one.

If you are a regular reader of the blog you will be aware there has been no movement on the instruction front either (ongoing joint pain), so I’m following my friend Mary McKenna’s advice.  “Remind all your readers to just look back at your tips over the winter!”  They are all there on youtube or just go to the Coaching tab at the top of the home screen if you fancy a quiet bit of golfing armchair meditation with a glass of something nice at your elbow..

Here’s hoping things are a little different next year.

I must say I did enjoy the denouement of the Ladies’ European Tour (LET), with the last event, the Andalucia Costa del Sol Open de Espana, being played at Alferini golf club.  There was a smorgasbord of Swedish talent on display with Linn Grant and Maja Stark, two great friends and two great golfers, battling to the wire to see who would triumph in the season-long Race to the Costa del Sol.  In the end, it was Grant who, with a third place finish, scooped the Rookie of the Year title as well as the big Order of Merit one, with Stark runner-up and yet another Swede, Johanna Gustavsson, third in the season’s standings.

One of the main draws in Spain was Leona Maguire, the highest-ranked player in the field at world No 11. She was fresh off the plane from last week’s LPGA event in Florida  and jet-lag or no, she finished a highly creditable fourth, going on on Monday to attend a small Solheim Cup gathering down the coast at the invitation of captain Suzann Pettersen.  By now, I really do hope she’s got the feet up at home in Ireland and is enjoying a well-earned rest after a fabulous year.

Meanwhile, battling it out for the Spanish Open crown was yet another Swede, Caroline Hedwall, (top picture) four-time Solheim Cup player, who has found tournament victories a little thin on the ground over the last eight years.  Always an impressive ball striker she has become a little jittery on the shorter putts and admitted to wondering did she still “have it in her” to handle the pressure and win again.  Her questions were answered when she rolled in a fifteen footer for birdie on the fourth extra hole to deny the elegant Swiss player, Morgane Metraux, her maiden tour title.

Metraux is another to watch for captain Pettersen.  She has just completed her first season on the LPGA and has comfortably secured her card for next year.  Winning is her obvious next step and I don’t think it’ll take too long.

As the players are heading home for well-deserved rest and relaxation I’m looking to start gearing up a bit more if possible.  I decided I really did need to keep the grey cells in some sort of working order so I’ve done the training to become a Controller for the Staffordshire, Shropshire, and Cheshire Blood Bikers.  The Blood Bikers are a network of regional charities, run completely by volunteers offering a 24-hour, seven-day-a-week service to hospitals and health centres.  The riders collect and deliver all sorts of samples and tissues all over their area (and frequently further afield).

My first shift will be on Friday December 2nd, the very day this blog is posted, from 7am until 1pm and I will (hopefully) be in control of 3500 square miles and up to seven riders from Shropshire, North Staffordshire, East Staffordshire and Cheshire.  This is arguably the most pressure I’ll have felt since I was on tour decades ago, so wish me well as you sip your morning cuppa!

If I survive, and the riders survive, I’ll see you in the New Year.

 

I wasn’t going to start with golf but I’ve played twice this week and only got drenched the once.  Even then we nearly made it – the serious rain started about four holes from home and didn’t become torrential until we were leaving the 16th and making the trek to our monstrous 17th.

I say monstrous because for those of us of moderate hitting ability, it is a long, long way, especially coming where it does.  The card says it’s a relatively modest 441 yards from the red tees, one yard shorter than the 18th, which is a completely different animal.  If it was the 5th, say, or the 9th, it wouldn’t have such a psychological effect, it wouldn’t seem so long or so daunting.  As the second last, uphill, into the lashing rain (no exaggeration, I’ve got the sodden gear to prove it) and a wind that even Dad would have conceded was a mite stronger than a zephyr and on the official Beaufort scale would register at least as a strong breeze (umbrellas used with difficulty, among other things)….In short, it’s a brute.

Several holes earlier my partner and I looked around and wondered where everybody was; it looked as though we were the only people left on the golf course, bar the fourball behind us; what was it that we didn’t know?  Was the foul weather forecast sending them heading for cover, taking no chances?  Were we bonkers to be still ploughing on, nipping and tucking, never more than one hole between us?  It would seem that the answer was “Yes”!

When I got home, I put comfort before economics and switched on the heating several hours early.  Then it was off to Specsavers to order some new glasses as a matter of urgency – rather belatedly admittedly.  The updated prescription was written in January but I stuck with the old specs until I had no choice.  And thereby hangs a tale.

My main pair disappeared a few weeks ago, presumed missing in the North Sea or buried deep on Warkworth beach, Northumberland way, so I was reduced to my reserve pair.  They were ok, if a bit flimsy but as it turned out a wonderfully effective camouflage colour – green and brown frames, impossible to spot, by me anyway.  The house has been turned upside down and still no sign of the buggers.  I’ve looked under the sofas, chairs, bed, in the hotpress, the fridge, every cupboard, the rubbish bag, every pocket of every jacket/coat, everywhere I can think of – and still no sign.

Of course, now that I’ve chosen and ordered my new specs, the old ones are bound to turn up.  Until then, I’m doing most things specless.  Not so long ago, in a fit of decluttering, I rounded up my old glasses and handed them over to charity, so, apart from a pair of reading glasses, that’s it.  Fortunately, my sun specs have an insert that allows me to drive without peering and at night I’m cadging lifts with friends who can see – or whose squinting is closer to 20-20 than mine.

Many years ago Gary Wolstenholme, much capped by England and GB and I, a man who has always marched to the beat of his own drum, talked about biorhythms, to the bafflement of most of his listeners.  If he played badly, it was often down to the old biorhythms being out of synch or out of kilter or, simply, out of rhythm.  Everybody has days – or, in my case, sometimes, weeks – of being a bit off for no apparent reason;  those times when you think that maybe you shouldn’t be allowed out on your own and I, shortsighted as ever but more open-minded, am beginning to think that Gary was onto something with his biorhythms…

The other night mine certainly went missing or were on a go slow or whatever they do when friends, having a rest from bridge, introduced me to Balderdash.  It’s a word game and we journalists, retired or not, are meant to have a way with words…Guess who finished dead last?  Well behind my four opponents, trailing all the way, bluffed from the first throw of the die (there’s only one) to the last.

The Scrabblers in the company thought they’d add new words to their armoury but of course, being the age we are (that’s our excuse), we could barely remember the words or their meaning a few goes later.  Did you know – none of us got this right not even the horsey person – that rataplan is the sound of a horse galloping?  Well, it’s a drumming sound, from the French, according to my trusty Chambers and it does have a classier ring to it than clippity clop.

Whatever – and this is not in my dictionary – we had an evening that was positively gelogenic.  That’s something that makes you laugh, apparently and there was no apparently about it – we roared from start to finish.

And, red wine notwithstanding, we stayed dry.

 

 

 

I was going to start with an apology to those of you who found last week’s blog incomprehensible – Mo told me she’d read it twice and still couldn’t understand it – but I’ve re-read it and found large lumps of it perfectly understandable.  Admittedly, I’m probably biased and it won’t be winning any literary awards but, be warned, you read on of your own volition and, possibly, at your peril….I’d put an annoying smiley emoji in here but don’t know how to do that on this laptop, so at least you’re spared that.

This week’s blog is being written in relative comfort because the sweep came last week and I’ve got the log burner going, so the house is a lot warmer than it has been recently.  Along with most of the country, I’m trying to be parsimonious with the central heating and remember what woolly jumpers and fleeces are for.  Sadly, I’ve become very soft; hard to believe I grew up on the north Atlantic coast of Ireland with ice on the inside of the windows in the winter; our grandparents’ house, hard by the sea, was big and draughty, heated by a coal fire and the Raeburn in the kitchen – and they lived into their 80s.  No swanning about in thin blouses and tee shirts (not invented, I suspect) for them.

I’ve watched the Wim Hof stuff about ice baths, cold showers and so on but now that it really is getting colder – and perhaps because I’m getting older – my nerve and good intentions fail me and I’m in favour of warm water, not ice cold, no matter the alleged health benefits.  Wimp or what!  Perhaps that’s why I never quite know what to wear whenever I head down to Spurs to watch my team perform who knows how.  I’m either far too hot or far too cold.  And that’s the team for you too – blowing cold in the first half and then hot but perhaps not hot enough in the second.

Last Sunday, a friend and I trekked down (car to Milton Keynes, then coach) to N17 to watch Spurs v Liverpool.  She has a season ticket for Wrexham but is also a Liverpool fan, so I suppose I shouldn’t really have brought her in with me, in amongst the Spurs fans, just above the away supporters.  She behaved very well but was the only one in our section left ecstatic at the result – 2-1 to the Reds.

We were our usual passive selves in the first half, went 2-0 down (a lot of it our own work) and couldn’t quite pull it back in our hell-for-leather second half.  Being football tragics Pam and I watched Match of the Day when we got home and the analysis of our defensive deficiencies by Alan Shearer just confirmed everything that I and my fellow fans (nil international caps and goals between us) and every opponent had known for months.

Well, at least the fish and chips from across the road from the stadium were unexpectedly delicious.

It’s easy enough to keep track of Spurs and their/our up-and-down results but I wanted to watch Ireland play South Africa (rugby) and it took me quite a while to work out that it was on Amazon Prime.  Now, I don’t use Amazon (taxes, moral high ground, that sort of stuff) but I am enough of a hypocrite to make use of my brother-in-law’s AP from time to time.  However, the password didn’t work and by the time I’d contacted said b-in-law, it was too late.  At least we recorded another famous win, even though I still haven’t seen a single second.  Roll on Fiji this weekend and the wonderful Tadgh Furlong’s first time as captain.

I managed to watch a bit of golf, including the end of the first round of the LET’s Aramco Team Series – Jeddah at Royal Greens Golf & Country Club.  The featured pic (at the top of the piece, all being well technically) was snapped off the telly, when Sky’s coverage was suffering a few technical glitches.  It just tickled me that Aramco is all about energy but the lights were going out at a bit of a crucial moment, so they had to resort to a still instead of a live picture.  I wondered, idly, if too much of the Saudi dosh was being thrown at LIV and not quite enough at the women and the wherewithal to keep them on the air?

Then I read the latest LET Fans Newsletter, which gave me some good news (moral high ground aside):  “The prize money for the Ladies European Tour’s Aramco Saudi Ladies International presented by PIF will undergo a significant five-fold increase next year from US$1m to US$5m.

“The female golfers will now compete for equal prize money to the men in the PIF Saudi International powered by SoftBank Investment Advisers on the Asian Tour and the purse will be the third largest on the LET, offering a cheque for $750,000 USD to the tournament champion….”

Massive jumps are all very well but don’t they make you think that, perhaps, someone’s feeling a bit guilty about a disparity of some sort or another….?

Talking of jumps, here’s a lovely pic from Bangor-on-Dee races the other day, featuring WHGC’s much-loved Elaine Clarke (left) and her beloved Hunters Call, who finished a valiant third in his race at the age of 12 and won best-turned-out thanks to Holly Tetsill (right).  From Elaine’s Facebook page.

Nothing like finishing on a happy note.  Many congrats to all involved, including Olly Murphy Racing.

 

 

 

 

 

You know, just for once, I thought I ‘d start with a bit of golf.  There was a picture that caught my eye, not least because it showed that even serial winners and serious men in jackets and ties are human too.  And it was an object lesson to all those involved in designing trophies:  whatever you do make sure the bits all hold together.

Steven Alker, a New Zealander who is having his golfing year of years on the PGA Tour Champions (I think that’s its current title), won the Dominion Energy Charity Classic, his fourth victory of the season, at the Country Club of Virginia and probably relaxed and lost his concentration as he took possession of the trophy – only to see it fall apart!  The picture says it all.

Fortunately no harm was done as the glass trophy hit the grass and survived intact and Alker was able to raise it – cautiously, with a very firm grip – to applause and relieved laughter.

He’d needed birdies at the 15th, 16th and 17th to put clear green fairway between himself and the rest and admitted:  “It was kind of a dogfight down there at the end.  I was trying not to look at the leaderboard because there’s so many guys just trying to win this golf tournament.”

Alker’s late flourish saw him finish one shot ahead of K.J. Choi and two ahead of Padraig Harrington, Jerry Kelly and Doug Barron.  Ernie Els and Brian Gay were a shot further behind.  A little further down came Rocco Mediate, Brett Quigley, Rod Pampling, Jim Furyk, Stephen Ames, Bernhard Langer and Paul Broadhurt, to mention just a few blasts from the past.  I just love it that they are still swinging, still trying to figure the old game out, battling away with their peers.

Earlier, at the Mallorca Golf Open in Palma, Yannik Paul had no such wobbles as he celebrated his first win on the DP World Tour (oh dear, that still sticks in the craw; what will I do when my beloved Totspurs sell their soul along with the naming rights to the stadium?).  Anyway, well done to Yannik, a 28-year old German who birdied the last to win.  Sehr gut.  Except for a gutted Marcus Armitage, who was leading with three holes to play but dropped four shots in a nightmarish finish.  He had rounds of 63, 73, 63, 73.  Aaagh.

Yannik has a twin brother Jeremy who is also a tournmant pro but I suppose it’s too much to hope that they and the Danish Hojgaard twins, Rasmus and Nicolai, could be on a Ryder Cup team together.

One of my favourite trophies has pride of place in amongst my trinkets for several reasons, not least because I won it at Pedrena, where Seve learned his golf.  Sadly, he was otherwise engaged and wasn’t there to present it to me but it remains memorable because it was one of the few times – probably the only time if I’m honest – that I came off the golf course and said, “I couldn’t have scored any better; I gave every shot my full attention.”

I was also cream-crackered.

And realised why it’s a rare achievement, even for the very best.

It’s mentally and physically exhausting.

It was wet, I used borrowed clubs and at the dinner afterwards made my winning speech in Spanish (it was always a good bit better than my German), much to astonishment of the assembled multitude.  Admittedly, after they’d twigged what I was attempting, all I needed to do was shut up, hoist the well-constructed trophy on high and accept the acclaim…

The plaque reads:  Consejeria De Cultura Educacion Y Deporte, I Trofeo Internacional De Golf Para Periodistas, Abril 1990, so it was a long time ago but it was an international event and the periodistas (journalists) came from far and wide…Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Viva Espana.

I wasn’t going to mention LIV golf ever again – because I’m lucky enough not to have to – but I thought I’d better have a look at what’s going on at Doral where they’re having some sort of team comp for lots of dosh.  The added bonus is that Donald Trump, the former and would-be-future leader of the western world, is there – the place is now called Trump National Doral – playing in the pro-am and promoting Trump Turnberry’s claims to a return to the Open rota.

The course was revived and reinvented by architect Martin Ebert to general acclaim and Trump said, “We did a big surgery on Turnberry and it has gotten great reviews, even from people who hate me.  It is rated the No 1 course in Europe now.”

When Iain Carter, the BBC’s estimable golf correspondent, told me he was going to this thing at Doral, I asked him, “Why?”   He said, “Because it’s newsworthy.”

And, much though it pains me to admit, I suppose that’s hard to argue with, especially when you’ve got the not-so-estimable Donald in the mix.

There are two memories that come to mind from back in the day when I covered golf tournaments and Doral, a posh resort in Miami, with its feared Blue Monster course, was one of the highlights of the PGA Tour’s schedule.  I had one of my best – and most expensive – pedicures there (not, I hasten to say, on expenses) and heard one of my all-time favourite gallery comments.

Two blue rinse Floridians, well beyond the first flush but immaculately turned out and still game, were surveying the 18th and the golfers striding up the fairway and one said to her friend:  “I’ve always liked Greg Norman [then one of the best players in the world; now LIV’s chief spokesman].  He’s got such a great pair of buns.”

On that note….we’ll go to something a little loftier.