No drenchings on the golf course so far this week but it’s been murky and foggy and not particularly pleasant; time to root out the mittens and hand warmers and the hair-crushing bobble hats.  Fingers crossed for a bit of blue sky for today’s Friday Frolics Christmas Bash (Secret Santa included).

I thought I had it tough when I had to give 16 shots in a Round Robin match last week but Sue Spencer, one of our best golfers, an England international (senior division) and a sweet swinger, had to give an eye-watering 31 shots.  Claire Hicks, her opponent, hasn’t been playing long but is proving a quick learner, hits the ball miles and uses a distance device, not for show but because she already knows how far she hits each club, a skill that still eludes some of us.  Against Spenny she recorded her first gross eagle – a three on the par 5 2nd – and won 5 and 4.

Claire was a bit more wayward next time out and lost to the redoubtable Jenny Smale, who was only giving a shot a hole (!!) and  admitted that she played damned near her very best.  That’s one of the good things about the RR:  you have to play well to win a match; it keeps the best players on their mettle.

There was some sad news earlier in the week when the PGA announced that Sandy Jones, their former chief executive, had died at the age of 74.  Sandy, a Scot from Gartcosh, had a long and distinguished career in golf administration and was a fair player too.  He never looked back after finding his mother’s old clubs stashed in a cupboard at home.

Dai and I played quite a lot with him and his – and our – great pal Bob Cantin.  Every game they played was competitive and their long-running bet, with attendant bragging rights, lasted many years.  I know the inestimable Pat Ruddy says there’s no such thing as a bad golf course but we were playing a particularly ghastly desert creation in Arizona and Sandy summed it up succinctly as “a waste of a perfectly good desert”.  That still makes me smile.  Condolences to his wife Chris and family and friends.

In between watching World Cup matches and marvelling at some amazing results, not least Japan beating both Germany and Spain and England managing a draw with the United States, I flicked over to the golf and drooled over the pictures from the ISPS HANDA Australian Open.  The men and women are playing on Kingston Heath and Victoria, two of the glorious courses that are part of Melbourne’s famed sandbelt.

Cameron Smith, the Open champion, now a LIVer, who won his national PGA title in Queensland last week, is the star attraction but admitted that his golf was “pretty shitty”.  He had a 71, one over par, in tricky, blustery conditions, to be eight shots behind leader David Micheluzzi, a local who is starting to find his form after struggling with performance anxiety when he first turned professional.  If he’s still ahead of Smith come Sunday, he could well be holding up the trophy.

Admittedly, I’m paying more attention to the surroundings than the players, enjoying seeing proper golf courses that require a lot of imagination and variety in the shot-making.  It’s a positive joy after the dreary diet of smash and gouge that makes up so much of day-to-day televised golf.  And how lovely to see natural-looking bunkers instead of traps.  Blissful.  (And being thousands of miles away, in a different hemisphere, I’m in no danger of having to play out of them.)

The sublime, world-class courses are one of the reasons that there have been so many outstanding Australian golfers over the years, whatever the state of the track they started on.  There’s a lot of competition, of course and heroes to emulate, so the Aussies have always more than held their own on the fairways of the world.

Dai and I loved our trips to Australia and he used to say that if he’d discovered the place when he was 19 or 20, he’d have been an Australian.  Here he is at one of our favourite places, Historic Court Barns in Tanunda, in the heart of the Barossa wine country, not far from Adelaide.  He’s wearing shoes, so Elvis, the tame, wing-clipped galah, who preferred pecking at bare toes, has to make do with nipping fingers.

That pic reminds me that I’ve been neglecting my Australian friends, so I’ll root out the address book and make a real effort to send them all a Christmas card and thank them for all their kindness and hospitality over the years.

And thanks to everybody for reading Mo’s and my blogs throughout the year and encouraging us to keep going.  Now that we’ve hit December, we’re signing off for the year and hope to be back in 2023, fit and firing.  I’m off to wrap up my secret Santa and unwrap the Christmas decorations.

 

 

 

Growing up playing golf in Ireland, you got used to playing in the rain  because if you didn’t, you didn’t play.  Nowadays, I’m much more of a wimp and if it’s chucking it down and I don’t have to play, I don’t.  Mind you, I know my waterproofs still work, so do my shoes and so does my brolly.  It’s just that, without a caddy to do all the hard drying, golfing in a deluge is a bit of a faff, when you could do with extra hands.  For me, now, golf is to be enjoyed, not endured.  Coffee please!  And bridge.  Or Cluedo.  Or any indoor game you care to mention.

Not that I’m much of a hand at games – bridge is fun but frustrating; crib is still a bit of a mystery; and as for Cluedo – I didn’t realise you could move Miss Scarlett from the drawing room (or was it the conservatory) to stop someone else from revealing her as the murderer in the right room with the right weapon.

I suppose that’s what most of the LIV golfers have signed up to – more fun, less grind.  Golf lite.  Who am I to criticise them?  But, really, I have no desire to watch them – or write about them.  Plenty of other people know a lot more about it all and once again, I particularly recommend Eamon Lynch, of Golfweek/USA Today, who’s implacable in his opposition to the whole concept.

It’s the time of year when the game’s best (or a fair number of them anyway) are swinging in the sunshine, attempting to put the icing on the cake.  In Dubai, at the Jumeirah Golf Estates, Europe’s finest are fighting it out to be the continent’s No 1, still a worthy ambition.  Rory McIlroy, the world No 1, had an up-and-down first round of 71, one under par and found himself six shots behind US Open champion Matt Fitzpatrick, who started with five birdies and the mercurial Tyrrell Hatton, who is a law onto himself.

Elsewhere, players are battling away to get a card somewhere or other and Alastair Tait (alastairtaitgolf.com) wrote about the trials and tribulations of those fighting it out at the European Tour Qualifying School at the Infinitum Club in Tarragona, Spain.  I’d been mulling over my own memories of Q-School and despite the wonderful stories at every turn, I hated it.  It was brutal, six rounds of hell – or heaven, at least for a while, if you made it through.

All I saw were friends (or lovely, long-standing, a lot-more-than acquaintances) standing in front of scoreboards watching their lives drain away….That’s a bit melodramatic and most of them survived well enough one way and another but that’s what it felt like at the time.  It was hideous and one year we were somewhere near Montpellier and the weather was grim and everywhere was shut, which didn’t help the mood of gloom and despondency.

I can’t remember the year and I can’t remember if that was the one that Retief Goosen won, a lad so shy and quiet that it was just as well that we at least knew his name and his nationality (South African) and what he’d scored because we learned very little else from him.  At least he went on to have a heck of a career (two US Open titles and a lot else besides) and is still starring on the Legends Tour in America.  Not every Q-School winner does so well but at least the card holders head out with hope in their hearts.  Good luck to them all.

Alastair wrote about experienced, battle-hardened veterans – Ryder Cup players – losing their nerve at Q-School, double bogeying the last to miss out on regaining their card.  At least they kept giving it a go; I didn’t even have the bottle to cover more than a couple of the marathons; I wimped out, snuffling into my hanky.

The football world cup starts in Qatar on Sunday, so that’s the end of my trips to N17 for a while.  Fortunately – very fortunately – Spurs ended on a high note with a 4-3 win at home to Leeds.  We were behind three times and at the end, the Leeds manager, a passionate American called Jesse Marsch, said he felt as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest.  I’m not surprised.  It was a bonkers game, a manager’s nightmare.  As the sainted Sir Alex once said, “Football, bloody hell.”

I travelled down from Lichfield with Essie, a Tottenham fan who grew up in the area, a lot closer to White Hart Lane than Portstewart is.  She’d been to the old White Hart Lane but this was her first visit to the swanky new stadium and she loved every minute of it.  Now we regulars want her to come to every game because she’s obviously a lucky mascot.  Even better, despite hordes of people pouring into London – and back out – for rugby, Remembrance events, football, theatre, whatever, the journey could scarcely have been smoother.  Thank you Essie for a wonderful day.

 

 

 

 

 

There were complaints that there was too much golf in this bit of the blog last week, which just goes to show that you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.  I have to confess that ever since I realised that I couldn’t even guarantee pleasing myself, I gave up trying to please anybody let alone everybody, an impossible task.

There’s a bit of a pause here because I can’t type for laughing at a memory that flashed into my mind.  Now, it’s my memory and my mind, so I can’t promise that it’s remotely accurate but I’ll share it anyway, not least because, looking back, it’s breathtaking in its arrogance – even though, looking back, it was, in its way, excellent advice…

Peter Dawson had just become head honcho at the R and A, insofar as anybody who’s just the secretary/chief executive or whatever the current title is, can be head of such a disparate body of members.  (And yes, I know, they’ve rejigged themselves to separate the club and all those weird and wonderful members, women now included, at last, shock, from  the body that does all the easy stuff like running the Open and other events and being one of the world’s governing bodies.)

I think we were chatting about how to deal with the press, those pesky people who persist in asking awkward questions, given half a chance.  Sometimes it’s with malice aforethought but mostly it’s because we’re nosy and want to know what’s going on and why.  The worst thing you can do is lie to us – that never ends well – and getting irritated isn’t a good idea either; that gets us really interested and all being well, makes you even more irritated…

My memory is that I, no Alastair Campbell, breezily suggested that there was no point in trying to be too careful because somebody somewhere would extract whatever it was they wanted from whatever you said, whether it was what you meant or not.  I favoured the Laura Davies slog-sweep-for-six approach, much more fun than the Tiger Woods dead bat, you’re-a-piece-of-work sneer.

I think Peter, who played a big part in getting golf back into the Olympics, and is still operating in choppy international waters as chairman of the OWGR (official world golf ranking), opted for a more nuanced approach.  Whatever, it seems to have served him well enough, though it was always fun to see how annoyed he started to get at all those persistent questions about the R and A’s lack of female members and insistence on taking the Open to places where women were second-class at best.  Then, I had no sympathy.  It was all their own fault.  Years ago, they had a solution jumping up and down in front of them – and they ignored it.  And consigned themselves to more years of ridicule.  Ah well, happy days!

By now, you’ll be understanding why I never pursued a career in PR.

And, no, though I’m old and inept enough to be a highly-paid consultant, I had nothing whatsoever to do with the Liz Truss debacle.  Even she had more sense.  Much good that it did her.

You’ll undoubtedly be glad to know that I’m still singing, after a fashion and I remain in awe of people who are musical, can sing and play an instrument or two.  One of my old friends – admittedly almost all my friends are old – is an accordion player of some distinction.  He long ago gave up golf for fishing (bass and all sorts of fascinating and lurid lures) but he is still a mean performer on the old squeeze box.  Funnily enough, the last episode of The Repair Shop I saw featured an accordion and the workings were beyond complicated.  Though not beyond the genius who did the repair.

Anyway, I digress as usual and my accordion-playing friend, a genius in his own right, not least when it comes to organisation (a word that sends me into paroxysms of awe – you get the drift), moved heaven and earth to assemble a band beyond compare.  Of course, he’s an American who now lives in Texas, where everything is on a scale beyond the comprehension of mere mortals on this side of the pond.

Last month, he assembled a 17-person ensemble of musicians, singers and actors, some professional, others gifted amateurs for an evening that was a 1960s country western music setting featuring guitars, piano, drums, bongos, violin, banjo and accordion, interspersed with a variety of fun, frivolity and fanfare.  I quote, mostly, and it sounds like a heck of a night, never to be repeated.  There will, fortunately, be a DVD, to be released just before Christmas.  So, that’s any time now.

I was in TK Maxx a couple of weeks ago after giving blood that ended up at St Thomas’ Hospital in London (the blood doning people send you a text) and, horror of horrors, there was Christmas music playing.  Even my dodgy ear recognised that it was a bit early (barely mid-October) for carols and assorted Noels and I felt sorry for the staff who couldn’t escape.  Goodness knows how they’re feeling now – and there are still weeks to go.  Hope they’re getting paid extra for the auditory assault.

Talking of assaults, I’ve just been watching some of the Wheelchair Rugby League World Cup – England v Australia, so there’d be no holds barred whatever the sport.  It was full on, all in and captivating.

I am now staggering to bed exhausted and, as so often, in awe.

 

 

 

Stubborn?  Luddite?  Paranoid?  Moi?

Surely not but I confess I’ve even disabled Siri and don’t have wotsername, Alexa, worried about unwanted surveillance.  Not that it’ll make any difference if they, whoever they are, really want to find me, for whatever unfathomable reason.  The search for a prime minister with a sense of direction perhaps…

Anyway, one of my friends read the last blog and was in touch at once with instructions:  “You really MUST start using Google Maps instead of just Maps – it tells you about heavy traffic and road works and chooses the fastest route minute by minute.  Would have saved you heaps of time!”

I responded that I didn’t need a satnav and got this exasperated retort:  “It’s just an app on your phone!!  Almost rocket science I suppose. [Satellites I think she meant.]  You’re just a tad stubborn maybe or perhaps a bit of a Luddite?”

Then I read that Elon Musk – cleverer than Einstein according to a recent telly promo – seemed to have decided not to disable the satellites that were keeping Ukrainians in touch with the wider world.  Now, I may have got that wrong – forensic research is not this blog’s remit – but I was a bit peeved that some super smart, multi billionaire seemed to be in control of something so crucial.  Pass me my pencil and paper please.

Admittedly, I have trouble using the phone to enter my golf scores, so it’s little wonder that I’m all at sea in a world of high technology.  A few years ago I was asked by a young press officer if I did email and was quite peeved that he thought me so old that something so cutting edge would be beyond my capabilities.  Now I’m having my doubts about my suitability for the modern world.  Ah well, suppose I’ll just have to keep breathing in and out and see what happens.

Anyway, I took the train to the last match, against Everton (a 2-nil win that was workmanlike at best) and all was going swimmingly until we got to Rugby on the way home and waited for about an hour before getting going again.  We were even asked to leave the train – a door wasn’t working properly – and prepare ourselves for a coach trip to our respective destinations but the train was packed, it would have taken a lot of coaches, so, eventually, we boarded again and carried on, apologies abounding.

I was on a train again on Monday – in to Birmingham to see if I could donate plasma but my veins didn’t pass muster, so I settled for giving an armful of blood – and read the Metro paper to pass the time.  There was a wee tale about a not-so-wee trip by a Lincoln City fan that put my efforts well and truly in the halfpenny place.  It was such an epic journey that it featured in the team talk and inspired an unlikely 1-nil win at high-flying Ipswich.

It also highlighted the inadequacy of the country’s transport links.  This fan, wanting to get from Scotland to Ipswich to watch his (presumably) beloved Imps (or win a bet), flew from Edinburgh to Birmingham, got a train to London, then took tube and train to Ipswich.  At least the station doesn’t seem to be too far from Portman Road and it looks as though there’s a bridge over the river Orwell, so that shouldn’t have been a problem.  Wonder when he got home.

I puffed my way on to the golf club, going the long way round, of course because I took a wrong turn and had cheese and toast and a cuppa in shirt sleeves on the patio.  No need to fly to Spain for a bit of October sunshine.

There have been comments that there’s not too much golf in the blog at the moment but that suits the non-golfers down to the ground, so it’ll continue to be a bit of a meander from here to there with no guarantee of golf – or no golf.

Watching David Attenborough the other night, talking about melting icecaps and similar catastrophes, I turned down my heating, put on another fleece (probably one of those things that clogs the oceans with plastic particles every time it’s washed) and fretted about how to reduce my contribution to global warming.  Fortunately, a friend has solar panels, so has no qualms about keeping her house warm and I’ve been invited round for tea, to discuss my dilemma in comfort.

What do golfers do when they’re not golfing?   Well, some of us visit the magnificent Elford gardens, a few miles from Whittington (even I have managed to cycle), to check up on fellow golfers who volunteer there and can be relied on to take a break for tea, coffee, cake and chat.  It’s a reminder that green spaces are vital to our wellbeing and we forget that at our peril.

It started chucking it down with rain, so I didn’t manage any happy snaps of the gardens but there are acres and acres to explore.  Highly recommended.