I see that the LET are in the Middle East this week, at the Fatima Bint Mubarak Ladies’ Open in Abu Dhabi.  Some of the women warmed up in the Liwa Desert, which is proper desert, one never-ending bunker with massive dunes that look suitably spectacular in the publicity shots and give you an inkling of how awesome the place must be.  The golf course is on the coast as the name – Saadiyat Beach – would suggest and there there’s plenty of grass flourishing in the middle of all the sand.

That got me thinking about the weird and wonderful places where golf rears its head, the unlikely venues for courses, which, of course, were originally developed  on scrubby old linksland that wasn’t suitable for much else.  When Dai and I wrote Beyond The Fairways, we included a bit on golf in the desert and I was dispatched to talk to Tom Weiskopf, who won the Open at Troon in 1973 and later, based in Arizona, moved into golf course design with Jay Morrish.

A bit of a crosspatch at the best of times, Weiskopf was even grumpier than usual when I spoke to him because he’d just had a double bogey at the last hole of whatever seniors event he was playing in.  Not many players are in the best of humour after that sort of finish and I’ve still got the cassette tape of the interview somewhere.  The sound track includes the clack clack clack of metal spikes as Weiskopf, a tall man, strode up the hill to the clubhouse with me scuttling after him trying to ask vaguely sensible questions of someone who couldn’t wait to be somewhere else.

“How easy is it to build a golf course in the desert?”

“Very easy.  Some grass seed, some water, then stand back and watch it grow.”

“Ah.”  Clack, clack, clack.  Puff, puff, puff.

A couple of efforts to extract some more info were relatively successful as it turned out and it’s amazing how you can expand on a curt answer when you’re desperate enough.  However, the tape reveals that the interviewer located her own inner crosspatch – never all that difficult – when she asked what lessons the golfer-turned-architect had learned over the years.

“Nothing.”

“What?!  Nothing at all?”

The irritation was undisguised.

The “interview” was at an end.

Not that I hold grudges but I have to admit that that encounter may be one of the reasons why I find it so hard to like Loch Lomond, a much-praised Weiskopf creation in one of the wettest parts of the British Isles, a place where, if the loch doesn’t get you, the water table will and where it was only relatively recently that anyone dared to build a golf course.  It’s a beautifully crafted course in a spot that’s beautiful on a sunny day.  I may have been there on one of those but usually it’s been raining and soggy – see the underwater Solheim Cup in 2000 – and the first time I played there we were put off the 10th and, well, the relationship has never recovered!

I am partial to a bit of high desert, home of the magnificent saguaro cactus, the one with the arms, a symbol of the American west and a staple of many a Western.  The Tradition, a senior major, at Desert Mountain, north of Phoenix, was always a treat, not least because of the drive up to the course as the houses became scarcer, if grander and the landscape took over.  Done well, desert courses are wonderful and a pleasure to play – as long as you can hit it straight enough to keep it on the grass and away from the rattlesnakes, the prickly pear, cholla and assorted scrub – but some of the less accomplished are, in the words of a well-travelled Scot, “a waste of a perfectly good desert”.

Back in Abu Dhabi, Saadiyat Beach looks recognisable as a golf course and there’s the added bonus of a member of the Woods family playing decent golf, a treat in itself.  Cheyenne, Tiger’s niece, had her first hole-in-one as a professional in the second round and was sharing third place at the halfway stage.  Game on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ok, so here we go – my own personal rant and rail against some of the people who play this sport that I love and which has given me a great life.  This has been a slow burn of a rant encompassing decades of staying mum, saying nowt and not wishing to upset anyone.  No longer!  Put it down to the soaring summer temperatures if you like, but really it’s more to do with the fact that I cannot believe the amount of time wasted and number of people upset by the ludicrous dress rules that litter the golf clubs around the country.

Why must golf be the preserve of those with a certain kind of wardrobe?

Let me point out that we do actually live in the 21st century so let’s scotch the “upholding tradition” nonsense.  If we were, indeed, “upholding tradition” the women would be playing in long skirts and blouses with leg ‘o mutton sleeves and the men in plus fours and jackets.  Sports clothing is much more technical nowadays, with a closer fit for freedom of movement and comfort.  It is designed with you playing your sport in mind.  But wait, is golf a sport?  No, it can’t be – numerous clubs don’t allow you to wear trainers in the clubhouse.  Hmm, tricky that, because if you go to America, you’ll see nothing but trainers worn in the golf clubs.

Right, let’s deal with the other patronising argument of those who are the authors of these ridiculous dress rules – the “we-must-keep-up-standards” brigade.  Piffle!  I am waiting for someone to tell me what wonderful qualities a collar on your shirt imbues you with – and what on earth does a tee shirt do that turns you into a poor excuse of a human being, an undesirable, no less?  The ONLY standards that the game must strive to hold on to are those of behaviour and is it too much to ask that we all try to be nice to each other?  I have witnessed appalling behaviour on the course from those who would be deemed to be properly dressed – some standards they uphold!

Any time you start listing articles of clothing and itemising acceptable and unacceptable garments you are gunning for trouble.  Just what is the obsession with forcing conformity on us all and just what are these custodians of our wardrobes afraid of?  You know, not many folk look in the mirror in the morning and think, “Right, it’s the monthly medal today.  How can I make the very worst of myself?”

And do not get me started on socks!  What length?  What colour?  Men can’t wear sports socks (footsies) with shorts?  Oh dear, oh dear!

I am not going to name names or clubs (unless you really want me to) but here is a selection of what I have come across as I criss cross the country:

•  One club had THREE committee meetings to decide if one of their women members could wear coloured socks as opposed to the recommended white.
• One of my pupils came to me for a lesson in a round-necked cashmere jumper – very classy.  She said she’d have to return home to change before going to her golf club.  No collar, you see.  I thought it interesting she thought it was good enough to come to me for a lesson in!  I was teasing her, of course, but she went home and changed.
• Some young (good) golfers were working on their putting on the practice green.  The older members on the terrace decided they’d need a “quiet word” with one lad who was wearing a tee shirt.  Said young lad could beat any of them – politely and courteously – with one hand behind his back.

Footwear, sockwear, length of shorts, type of trousers, shirts inside or out, collar or no, hatwear – we are bedecked with rules, rules, rules.  All for a sport that is supposed to fill our leisure time with fun and friendships.  At its best this is controlling, at its worst it’s not far short of bullying.  And what is the point of it all?  Take a look around the world – we have far bigger problems than if someone wears flip-flops into the clubhouse – and do you know how expensive some flip-flops are?  And golf certainly has eminently more pressing concerns.

As it stands, the very best women players in the world wouldn’t get across the thresholds of most clubs in the UK.  That can’t be right.

But, in case you think I’m just having a tilt at the home clubs, I ‘m posting a picture of my good friend Karen Stupples’ 9-year old son, Logan.  Karen, as you will recall, won the Women’s British Open in 2004 and is now a commentator with The Golf Channel and based in the States.  This is what Logan was wearing when denied access to a public golf facility near their home.

Some eejit of a jobsworth presumably saw only a tee shirt without a collar.  I see a well-turned out lad with a lovely golf swing in a shirt that’s a striking shade of blue.  I see a young lad who should be welcomed into our sport.

What do you see?

Ok, I admit it: I HATE dress codes. That’s not to say that I, a natural scruff who has learned to scrub up well enough if the occasion demands, disapprove of all dress codes but when it comes to golf and dress codes, my blood starts to boil. I love this game but sometimes the people who play it do it – and themselves – no favours.

The last time my club revised the “dress standards” I was on the sub-committee but my influence was minimal after I suggested that we abolish the dress code for a year and wait for the sky to fall in….No one else was willing to take the risk, preferring instead to devote a large chunk (that nearly came out as junk!) of their time to devising an up-to-date list (denim allowed but no stonewashed or torn jeans, no matter how expensive the label or how stylish the wearer) that is long, comprehensive and, frankly, smacks of control-freakery.

 

It’s probably preferable that most of us wear clothes on the course but, honestly, what is it with all this micro-managing?  This obsession with the minutiae of socks (length, colour), collars (more or less the sine qua non if you wish to play golf at most clubs), flip-flops (not plastic or rubber, so vegans beware), shorts (tailored, not baggy, sports or beach).  All men must wear their shirts tucked in – a hard ask for a lot of them, especially in the heatwave conditions the other week – and of course the shirts must have sleeves.  Women are permitted to wear shirts outside their waistband only if said shirt was designed to be worn in that manner and we are allowed to go sleeveless, even if our upper arms have given up the unequal struggle against gravity.

One must, I suppose, be grateful for small mercies.

Like Maureen, who gets even hotter under the (apparently obligatory) collar on this subject than I do, I think that the only thing that really matters is that people behave civilly on the golf course and in the clubhouse.  And that has very little to do with what someone is wearing or how many tattoos they have.  I’d replace the pompous, long-winded dress code notices with large-print notices quoting the etiquette section from the Rules of Golf.  Adhere to those, repair pitch marks, rake the bunkers – and leave the rakes somewhere sensible, NOT plonk in front of the bunkers whatever you do –  and show a bit more courtesy to your fellow golfers instead of wasting your time finding fault with the attire of others.  Celebrate diversity in golf instead of insisting on your own version of uniformity.  Park your preconceptions and prepare to be pleasantly surprised.

When I was ladies’ captain (they were desperate), I toyed with the idea of having a “bring your goth grandchild to golf day” but we couldn’t round up enough goths to make a go of it.  I’m sorry about that.  And I’m sorry I couldn’t invite the two lads who played behind Dai and me in Tahiti.  Dai was in his shorts (tailored), long socks (admittedly sensible, for the protection of pale calves) and collared shirt (don’t believe he owned a tee shirt).  Behind us were two good-looking lads giving this game of golf a go, hitting the ball miles, not necessarily in the right direction.  They were wearing singlets, shorts (beach variety) and flip-flops and they looked more at home than we did.

Dai and some of his mates were once thrown off the course at Boldmere (a Birmingham muni) because one of them was wearing wellies – it was very wet – and the pro objected to this desecration of his sacred turf.  Actually, what he really objected to was the racket they made on the 1st tee when the wellie wearer, later our man in Venezuela (or somewhere South American) but no golfer, took his opening swipe and the ball, following a hitherto unknown golfing trajectory, ended up in one of his wellies.  Collapse – and ultimate dismissal – of all parties.

I have friends – including at least one late-to-golf brother-in-law – who couldn’t disagree with me more on this subject – and will no doubt be appalled that the speaker of the House of Commons has just said that it’s no longer essential for MPs to wear ties (women of the House rejoice).  A sign of standards slipping (order, order) or just a recognition of changing times?

There’s nothing welcoming or encouraging about the Talibanesque “no this, no that, no the other” approach of the typical golf dress code and who’s the real loser if a family coming home from a day out – or the supermarket – keeps on driving past the golf club because they’re wearing jeans, trainers and tee shirts?

 

 

Last Saturday, I sat on an uncomfortable chair in an undistinguished meeting room in St Andrews and realised, with a happy sigh, that I could retire.  Now, I can hear those of you who know me well – and a husband from beyond the grave – falling over each other to get in first with the obvious question:  “Retire from what?”

Being opinionated?  Loving golf?  Asking questions?  Writing?  Learning?  Put like that, I hope I won’t retire until I stop breathing, or become so demented there’s no hope of recovery.  In the meantime, I say yes to almost every invitation, play as much golf as I possibly can, usually with friends and always with congenial people and enjoy producing this blog with Maureen.  Somebody asked me if it had become a chore and I said, “No,” without hesitation.  Blimey!

But it’s true, the blog is still fun for us and, it seems, for our friends who read it.  They’re not all golfers but most of them are, hooked, devoted to a game that non-golfers can’t fathom.  The trick is how to widen the appeal, though you wouldn’t be asking that question if you’d ever played the Himalayas, the (ladies’) putting green at St Andrews, plonk in the middle of the Home of Golf and packed out on a Bank Holiday weekend.

Grandchild with grandparent; wife with husband; non-golfer with golfer (and the n-g winning); every age, stage, gender, nationality – all striving, contorting, snorting, laughing and having a ball.  I’d never played it before and my three friends and I couldn’t have had more fun.

We played with a member so it only cost us a quid each (£3 for those without a member) and because the holes change on a regular basis, she had no advantage over the rest of us.

If you discover golf at the Himalayas, you’ll understand its essence:  the fact that it’s for everybody and is, at base, fun.  Fun with a bit of a masochistic streak at times but fun nonetheless.

Of course golf is big business these days, an industry no less and it’s desperate to keep up with tennis, rugby, whatever, in the popularity stakes, trying to hoover up the crumbs from the soccer table.  Football has become the King Kong of sport, a rampaging monster with no sense of restraint or social responsibility – though its basic simplicity and universal appeal is undeniable – and it dominates the airwaves and the papers.  It doesn’t need to re-invent itself – yet – but others feel the need to be more imaginative.  Cricket has come up with Twenty20, now European professional golf is trying GolfSixes, briefly six-hole matches between teams of two.  It’s not on terrestrial television, however, which automatically limits its reach and potential appeal.

There was quite a lot about the format in The Guardian on Thursday, a rare non-major outing for Ewan Murray, who would count as the paper’s accomplished golf correspondent if the paper went in for such things these days.  In truth, golf is no longer on The Guardian’s sporting radar, consigned to fighting with every other sport known to man (and sometimes woman) for the few paragraphs not devoted to the Great God Soccer.  Bitter?  Moi?  Still, what does it matter?  Those of us who love a proper page to read instead of a screen are dying out and giving up.  Have you seen a printed blog yet?

I digress, as usual.  In truth, I’m not quite sure what I was at last week, apart from a very congenial gathering of people, mostly women, who care about golf.  I think it was called a forum, a replacement, sort of, for the LGU AGM, which no longer exists because the LGU has now, sensibly, merged with the R&A.  There is, slightly confusingly, a new president of the LGU, with Gillian Kirkwood taking over from Diane Bailey but confusing or not, it can only be encouraging that one dedicated, competent, passionate woman is being replaced by another.

Also, Martin Slumbers, the R&A’s chief executive, among other roles, a self-confessed corporate and commercial animal, who said he’d found the merger negotiations some of the most challenging he’d engaged in, did anything but put his audience to sleep.  He was calm, measured, thoughtful and compelling and I believed him when he talked about his – and the R&A’s  – passion and commitment to the game and the desire to develop it for everyone, women, men, boys and girls.

Mmm.  On reflection, that means none of us can retire until we’re pushing up the divots.

Play away please.