There are no apologies for rah-rah-rahing about Spurs again.  After all, even the legendary Double team didn’t reach the final of the European Cup (am pretty sure they lost to Benfica in the semis and I think there were a couple of dodgy refereeing decisions….!)  That was in the days when you had to win your league to qualify (none of this finishing 4th stuff) and every round bar the final was a two-off – home and away – so you could make an argument for it being tougher to win than it is now.

Anyway, we’re in the final for the first time, against Liverpool, whose European pedigree is second to hardly anyone and they’re overwhelming favourites.  Am I bovvered?  Yes, of course I am.  We arrived in Madrid on Wednesday night but Liverpool, who lost to Real Madrid in the final in Kiev last year, aren’t pitching up until tonight (Friday) because their manager Jurgen Klopp reckoned they’d gone too early last year.  And their players are still hurting from that defeat; they don’t want to lose again.

I’m trying to banish the images of me being gracious through gritted teeth as I accept the condolences of ecstatic Liverpool fans as the Spurs players lie splayed out all over the pitch just like the Manchester City and Ajax players who couldn’t believe we’d sneaked past them on the sainted away goals rule.  (I confess I usually feel sorry for the losers because they’ve given it everything and still come up short.)  Beautiful game or not, I’ll settle for a ghastly, dull match (unlikely, given the nature of the two teams) and an outrageously lucky 1-nil win.  A repeat of the FA Cup final between Leeds (at the peak of their powers) and Dad’s Sunderland, the underdogs of all underdogs, who scored early and held on to win by that single goal, would do nicely.

Trouble is, I know we’re good enough to win but can we make that big jump from BBUs (brave but unavailings) to champions?

It’s the US Women’s Open Championship at the Country Club of Charleston in South Carolina this week and it’s a pity that the biggest event in women’s golf seems to have passed a lot of people by, even people who should know better.  Hank Haney, a coach of some note, who has a radio show that purports to be about golf, got himself into a lot of trouble earlier this week with some crass, unfunny, frankly obnoxious comments on the subject of the Women’s Open.  Was he sexist?  Was he racist?  You know what?  What he was was a pillock, a prat, a disgrace.

Read the transcript of the exchange with his co-presenter and what stands out is the utter ignorance.  This is a man of golf, supposedly and he did himself no favours at all.  He was, above all, unprepared and unprofessional.

It’s the US Women’s Open this week, he was prompted.  Oh.  Is it?  Where’s it on?  And it got worse.  Haney knew that Michelle Wie wasn’t playing because of a wrist injury but he hadn’t a clue who was playing, apart from a load of Koreans.  At best, for a broadcaster who should have a bit of a notion as to what’s going on, that’s just lazy.  At worst, well, it oozed contempt.  Not your finest few minutes Hank but perhaps your most destructive.

The irrepressible Alfredsson (see photo), who should have won at least one US Women’s Open (I won’t dwell on Crooked Stick in 1993; suffice it to say that, writing for The Times, I didn’t mention Lauri Merten, the champion, once until she’d won….We all learn.)  Anyway, the Swede who has always made sure that golf is never dull when she’s around, apparently strode into the press room (or media centre) in North Carolina the other week and asked, “Where’s the wine?”  Come on Alfie, don’t you remember that it’s the winner who provides the champagne?  Haven’t you heard of Tony Lema?  What’s the Swedish for mean streak?

Scheduling is always difficult and this week the women are up against Jack’s Memorial Tournament at Muirfield Village, featuring Tiger Woods, Rory McIlroy, Phil Mickelson, to name just a few of golf’s biggest draws.  Probably not quite as bad as the year the USGA (United States Golf Association) managed to put the US Women’s Open up against the 2000 Open Championship at St Andrews.  Not their finest decision; it still makes my blood boil and my jaw drop.  There was only one game of golf in the world that week.

It’s hard to believe but it’s ten years since Maureen and I spent an unforgettable, unrepeatable week at the Memorial, Jack Nicklaus’s tournament in Ohio.  The players honoured that week were JoAnne Carner and Jack Burke and Dai was one of the journalists honoured, so off we went for the golfing week of our lives.  At lunch on the first day Barbara Nicklaus and Tom Watson came up and introduced themselves – we managed to stop gawping at the thought that we might not know who they were and croak hello.  Turned out we were in the hotel room next to Tiger, who won with a late charge.  We had breakfast with Padraig Harrington, drinks and chats with JoAnne Carner, our photo taken with Jack and Barbara; it was that sort of week.  Never to be repeated.

The (very) happy snap with our hosts is not reproduced here because Maureen is very unhappy that she was snapped in her tattiest old sun top, having been dragged off the golf course where she was watching Jose Maria Olazabal, content that all official duties were done.

Never one to turn down a chance to spout, I made an acceptance speech – four minutes max I was told and hard though it may be for my friends to believe, four minutes max it was.  Mo and I have never been so spoiled and we knew that we never would be again.

 

 

 

 

I was making myself a gin and tonic before settling down to this week’s blog when I realised that I was pouring the gin as though it were tonic.  Whoops.  Catch yourself on.  Surely it hasn’t come to this just yet?  It reminded me of a friend who used to glug down a g and t as though it were water and she’d survived several days hallucinating in the desert.  In her defence, she was only a student at the time and soon learned that water was for thirst-quenching  and gin was for sipping and savouring.

In my defence, I’d been distracted by the election leaflets that have started plopping into my letterbox.  In this neck of Middle England we’ve just had parish and district council elections and now we seem to be having an “Election for the European Parliament West Midlands Region”.  (I quote from the Labour leaflet.)  Europe?  Didn’t we in the UK vote to leave?  (Helped by the fact that we’re separated from the dreaded continent by some water and thus have no truck with the thought that “no man – or woman – is an island”.)  Mmmm.  That vote was nearly three years ago, yet Europe still looms large in our lives.  Funny that.  That’s neighbours for you.

Anyway, the leaflets with the carefully posed “you can have confidence in us, you know you can” photos of party leaders are destined for the recycling box.  Frankly, I think I have more confidence in Rory McIlroy’s putting – and given what I’ve seen of the first round of the USPGA Championship at Bethpage that’s saying something.  I haven’t quite given up on politics just yet but at the moment I’m trying to simplify all areas of my life and in political terms that can be summed up concisely [Ed:  You?  Concise?  Surely not.  And isn’t that tautology anyway?  Isn’t summing up by its nature concise?], if a tad negatively:  If Nigel’s for it, I’m agin it.  NFF, as he’s known here, where we dare not speak his name, is already in the bin.  Others will follow.

Have I mentioned golf yet?  Ah yes, Rory and Bethpage, that must count.  And gin and tonic.  And Rory has said that he’d like to play in the Olympics after all and represent Ireland.  That’s not quite as simple as it sounds but it makes sense since he played for Ireland as an amateur – golf, like rugby and many other sports, is an all-Ireland affair.  The added complication is that Rory, being an Ulsterman born and bred, could also play for GB (or whatever the official Olympic designation is).  Don’t ask me to explain; there’s a whole library of books on this subject.

I had what I thought was quite a good idea for a theme coming in to this week but, as so often, themes tend to get overtaken by events, or musings, or whatevers.  It was something to do with money and what people are playing for on the numerous tours at numerous levels all over the world.  At Bethpage it’s US$11,000,000, which puts everything else in the halfpenny place.  For instance, Leona Maguire, who’s on the Symetra Tour at the moment, won just over $11,000 for a share of second place (after a play-off with three others).  Maria Parra, of Spain, winner of the IOA International in Atlanta after prolonged sudden death – she had an eagle three at the 5th extra hole – earned herself $22,500.

Purses are now a topic for another day, so I’ll start with an amateur, Lily May Humphreys.  The 17-year old from Stoke by Nayland in Essex, already a seasoned England international and Curtis Cup player, coped calmly with difficult, windy conditions at Co Louth (Baltray) to complete a memorable double, having just won the Welsh Women’s Open Strokeplay at Royal St David’s (Harlech).  She has her heart set on a professional career, so let us hope that she, Maguire, Parra and all the other talented hopefuls can make a decent living from their passion.

Fellow Englishwomen Trish Johnson and Laura Davies have more than managed it.  This week, the perennial pair, ever peripatetic, are competing in the second  US Senior Women’s Open at Pine Needles in North Carolina, just down the road from Pinehurst.  It’s a place dear to my heart for many reasons, not least because of the hospitality of the inimitable Peggy Kirk Bell and because it’s where I played my first round of golf with Dai.  It’s also wonderful golfing territory.  Dame Laura is defending the title she won in Chicago last year.

We at WHGC (Whittington Heath Golf Club for our new reader) are learning that straightforward, old-fashioned strokeplay golf is not the only form of the game that professionals play.  We’re now exploring the world of long drivers, who are, in many respects, a breed apart.  All thanks to our own Jordan Brooks, a man of Tamworth, who’s up there with the best in the world.  He’s not quite as celebrated – yet – as Dave Gilbert, also from Tamworth, who recently came agonisingly close to reaching the final of the snooker World Championship at the Crucible in Sheffield.

Jordan, who’s a rookie in long-driving terms, is just back home after competing with the best at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.  He reached the semi-finals and now knows that he can hold his own with long-driving giants like Kyle Berkshire, Will Hogue and Ryan Steenberg.  Go Jordan.

One good thing about writing this blog late at night is that the Feherty Show is now on Sky golf and provides inspiration and distraction in equal measure.  It’s Freddie Couples this week and Fred’s always been one of my favourites; how could he not be a favourite!   He’s just a delight, a sweetheart.

At the Ryder Cup at Valderrama, Fred was walking up the 18th in one of the practice rounds and I was watching from behind the ropes.  He smiled and nodded in my direction but I remained stony-faced, then glanced behind to see who it was he was acknowledging.  There was no one there.  FREDDIE COUPLES HAD BEEN SMILING AT ME.  And I had blanked him…..There were, are, no words.

It was the evening of the gala dinner, so, later, when the teams were assembling in their finery with their wives and partners, I, in my not-so-fine daily duds, took a deep breath and went up and apologised to Freddie – fully expecting him to look blank and wonder what this eejit was whittering on about.  Ever the gentleman, he smiled (I nearly fainted – he was, after all, in his dinner duds and like Seve scrubbed up to devastating effect) and I’ve remained eternally grateful that I plucked up the courage to say something.

Ah, happy days!

Now that I’m an invisible old doll who doesn’t lurk outside – or inside – ropes any more, these stories sound like fairy tales, even to me, but they are true – honest!  I probably have a photo somewhere but there’s no guarantee of finding the right one even after days of rooting through box after shoebox after plastic container after box.  And, if I’ve taken it, the chances are that the subject will be blurry, out of focus and headless.  An early, slightly less bloody version of Game of Thrones or Line of Duty.

At this point, I should remind you that a lot of Game of Thrones was filmed on the beach at Portstewart (not sure about LOD, which, from what I’ve seen on Gogglebox and assorted clips, is bloody but not very scenic).  I’ve got a picture of the beach somewhere but since Mo is the photo editor in these parts and she doesn’t do late nights, you’ll just have to take my word for that too.  I’m taking lessons on editing photos for the occasions when my flights of fancy take me by surprise and require me to sort out my own illustrations but it’s taking time.  A slow exposure for a slow learner?

At long last I’ve realised that there’s nothing wrong with being a slow learner.  Whatever we’ve grown up thinking, learning is not a race.  Like golf, it’s something that can – should – last a lifetime.  I know people, good sportsmen, with an eye for a ball and a facility for games, who struck golf off their list because it didn’t click right away; they couldn’t master it first go, so they abandoned it, unwilling to be bad at something, if only briefly, after always being good at everything.  Their loss.

We at WHGC, along with a lot of other golf clubs and organisations, are promoting the game as best we can, trying to encourage girls and women especially to give it a go.  I’ve said it before and I suspect I’ll keep saying it until I keel over for the last time:  The thing I love about golf is that it’s INCLUSIVE not exclusive.  It’s the IN bit I like.  Let’s ditch the EX!

People, we’re full of notions.  We get an idea in our head and that’s it, we’ll never shift.  Golf is not for the likes of us (the likes of us, who are we when we’re at home?), it’s a game for fuddy-duddy codgers with ruddy faces and rotund tums.  Well, yes, it is – and why shouldn’t it be? – but it’s also for slim Jims, svelte Sues, creaky Chrisses (sp??), rip-roaring Rorys, toddling Tigers, retirees, primary schoolers; black, white and every colour in between; male and female and every orientation in between; big, tall, petite, size is no object.  Money might be but that’s not insurmountable.

Look at me and you’ll see – well, I shudder to think but I’m white, flabby, female, elderly (yuk!!), middle-class and I play golf.  Help.  A lot of my friends and fellow golfers are like me (if less flabby) and we can’t help most of those things.  We could be less flabby if we decided to fight against nature and give up the wine and the gin and the cheese on toast and we could give up golf but the rest is, essentially, beyond our control.

I love my friends but I don’t want all golfers to look like us.  I want more golfers to look as unlike me as it is possible to be!  The trouble is that I look like me and people make assumptions, as we do, based on looks mostly – and assumptions.

Dangerous things assumptions, as a magistrate, a member at Royal Portrush as it turned out, once told me when I gave evidence before him.  He dismissed my version of events – I’ve neither forgotten nor forgiven – but I’ve been chary of assumptions ever since.

Finally, congratulations are in order to two people:  to Jenny Burton, who is retiring after nearly 33 years of keeping things in order at WHGC and to Rory McIlroy, who is celebrating his 30th birthday tomorrow.  Ask Jenny, or most of us, Rory, that big 3-oh, ho, ho of yours isn’t so bad after all.  Have a good day.

 

 

 

 

 

If you have a sense of deja vu when you read Mo’s piece this morning, don’t panic – because you’re not hallucinating, you do have deja vu, or deja lu.  She’s so busy and so organised that she likes to write her blog early in the week, which is fine – unless she presses the wrong button, as she did on Wednesday afternoon.

My baby sister, who has forgotten more about golf than I’ll ever know, is convinced that Tiger will not match or surpass Jack’s record of 18 major championships.  I’m not so sure.  Tiger has just notched up major No 15 and, for some reason, three seems a much more manageable gap than four.  It’s still asking a lot and Tiger, although driven, is not quite the single-minded, one-dimensional being he was in his earlier years but it looks as though he hasn’t lost the mental toughness that always set him apart.  I never bet on him but I wouldn’t bet against him.  Normal rules do not apply.

My golf’s not much cop at the moment – nothing new there you might say and you’d be right.  The odd good shot here and there but a lot of squandering, frittering, whatever you want to call it and the putting’s going through a dire phase.  It’s not the yips, it’s not the greens, it’s not putting with the pin in but, whatever it is, it’s bloody annoying.

I try to tell myself that I don’t really care any more, that it’s not important, that I’m out there for the fresh air, the exercise, the friendship and the banter.  All of that is true but, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, it is SOOOOOO irritating and annoying that after more than half a century of trying, watching, reading, listening and, sadly, apparently, not learning……..

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.  Ah well.  Today it could be better.  Maybe aye or maybe och aye.

Early Wednesday was a disappointing day because I went to give blood – donation No 52 – and failed.  Well, for the first time ever it sort of fizzled out, too sluggish to satisfy the machine that monitors these things, half a bag at most, so we aborted.  Can I come back next week?  No.  It counts as a donation, so you have to wait the obligatory few months before trying again.  Oh, piddle, as my aunt used to say when something annoyed her intensely.

Fortunately, that was the afternoon that Mo’s piece plopped into my inbox and cheered me up no end – being early is not a crime and, even better, it’s not even life threatening (at least in this case).  What’s more, she’d got a title, which saved me having to go through my excruciating range of head scratching, puns and alliterations.  What’s not to like?  After all, what’s a couple of days between friends?

Best of all, there was a dinner at the club that night, admittedly a bit of a bittersweet affair because it was to say thank you and goodbye to Jenny Burton, our administrator, who’s retiring after 32 years at Whittington Heath (formerly Barracks) GC.  There’s nothing Jenny doesn’t know about the club and how it works and a lot of the captains under her command were there to pay tribute.  There were a lot of stories, a lot of laughs and some tears, which all added up to a great evening.

Somebody at the golf club was talking to me about challenges, how they still, at their great age (!) liked a challenge and it got me thinking:  Did I like a challenge?  Had I ever liked a challenge?  Is it important/necessary to like a challenge?

And you know what?  I realised that for most of my life I’ve been surrounded by people who like challenges, who are always striving to get better, to improve; competitive animals with a drive to win.  The trouble is, if you’re talking about games, about competitions, there are always winners and losers.  That’s the nature of the beast.  But is it the nature of life – the concept of nature raw in tooth and claw notwithstanding?

I’m a competitive animal, up to a point but when it comes down to it, if I’m not picking up a medal, if I’m finishing next to last in the medal or cheering Spurs on to third in the league, I’ve decided that, whatever the outcome,  I’m happiest of all soaking my aching feet in a bowl (well, a cat litter, with more room for big feet, bought in Cromer in a fit/foot of enthusiasm) of Epsom Salts.

There’s more than one way to put a bit of fizz into your life.