I suppose that a bought-and-paid-for ticket is a way of keeping tabs on fans/supporters and having a bit of a clue as to how many people will be attending your event but, really, I’m well on my way to turning the status quo on its head and becoming a great advocate of fans being paid to turn out.  Especially golf fans, now that LIV has established that money is no object.

It’s not such a daft idea when you delve a little further.  After all, without fans there’s no atmosphere (Covid proved that beyond doubt) and we obligingly dispense with all our image rights and most of our other rights – have you taken out the magnifying glass and trawled your way down the terms and conditions?! – when we buy our tickets.  The gate receipts have long been a secondary (at best) consideration at most golf tournaments and most fans receive very little in return for their money – programmes are extra, food and drink are extortionate all too often, the dimensions of permitted bags tend to be too tiny to accommodate all the stuff needed for a day’s golf watching (and a Sherpa costs extra) and at some venues you can see very little unless you’re an experienced tramper.

As you’ll have guessed that’s one of my hobby horses, so I’ll dismount at once and concede that the ticket for the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games was worth every penny – and, just about, every hour spent agonising over how to access said ticket, to ensure that we were allowed in to the newly refurbished Alexander Stadium in Perry Barr.    Luckily, rail strikes notwithstanding (how I love that word!!), my mate who’d given me the ticket (husband on urgent business in Bangladesh) and I were able to get to the venue by a combination of car, train and bike.  We ditched the bike in favour of a shuttle bus on the return journey and caught the last train with our last puff.

Liz, above left, had a vested interest in the ceremony because her daughter Sophy was performing with a group called Critical Mass and had been rehearsing tirelessly for months and months.

Apologies for the truncated photos – no idea why that’s happened and technical support is not available in the middle of the night.  It was half past midnight when we made it home, so there’s a bit of an excuse. [Have fixed them for you, Patricia, – Mo.]

Don’t ask me to explain every nuance of the festivities – some of it was wonderfully daft – but it was colourful, captivating, spectacular and we loved every minute of it, applauding and cheering madly at every opportunity and waving frantically at all 72 of the teams as they paraded round the stadium.  No wonder my hands and throat are sore.

And here he is again (left of pic), near the end of the proceedings.

Earlier in the week I made a slightly easier journey – 100 or so yards across the road to Beacon Park – to visit Carters Steam Fair, on its last tour, sadly.  Everything is immaculate and beautifully presented and I had a go on the carousel, which has featured in several films, including Paddington 2 but should not be called a carousel apparently because that’s an American thing and this is, perhaps, a merry-go-round, a whirligig or a teeter-totter.  Anyway, it was great fun and just about on my limit of circling!

This, however, is absolutely not my sort of ting.

Anyway, I’m off to the badminton this afternoon, to see how it should be played.  Since my last game – my one and only singles – was half a century ago, I can’t pretend to know anything at all.  I used to play doubles, very lazily, relying on my partner and my reach, in the church hall and why I entered the singles ladder in my first term at uni, heaven only knows.  Singles badminton is brutal and its exponents have to be unbelievably fit. Fortunately my opponent was no better than I was but he did not want to be beaten by a girl and we fought ourselves to a standstill.  With my last gasp, I staggered the shuttle over the net, out of his reach, inside the line and that was that.  I never played again, never saw him again (he was furious at losing, hooray!) and was still glowing like a Belisha beacon 40 minutes later when I met up with friends.  They weren’t interested in the details of my triumph; they were too busy laughing at my visage rouge.

Finally, just because the newspaper cutting (remember those?) is dated July 28 1971, so it’s the right time of year, here is a piece from the Belfast Telegraph about the Irish Girls’ Golf Championship at Royal Belfast, Craigavad, a real example of all our yesterdays.

Sorry, again, that the photo is so small and the names probably unreadable but I hope you can make out some of them and remember long-forgotten triumphs and disasters.

Modesty nearly forbade me from mentioning the result but I got my comeuppance in the next round.

 

 

Perhaps it’s living on your own wot does it but I spend a lot of time talking  to – ok, shouting at – the radio and the telly.  If it’s sport and something I’m invested in, there’s a lot of unedifying screeching, groaning and  imprecations of an unladylike nature (the latter certainly a hangover from spending a few years sharing an office with a lovely, talented Scot called Dave Oswald, now an allotmenteer but still opinionated and, sadly, a Chelsea supporter).

Last Saturday, for an Ireland supporter, was sheer bliss.  Up early to watch Ireland take on the All Blacks in the deciding test at the Cake Tin in Wellington, I was lost in admiration; blimey, when did we become so good?  We were well-nigh perfect in the first half and I scurried up to the telly to snap the score:  3-22.  That might never happen again, against New Zealand, away from home.

The second half was more nail-biting, necessitating a lot of pacing and anxiety as the ABs roared back but we (ha!  my only ‘rugby’ was against a team wearing wellies but I did learn why players dived for the line – panic in the certain knowledge of pounding pursuers poised to pounce; sorry, couldn’t resist) held firm, scored another try and won, quite deservedly, 32 – 22.   Wow.  Wow.  Wow.

South Africa in 1937, the Lions in 1971, Australia in 1986 and France in 1994 are the other teams on the illustrious list of series winners in New Zealand.  It’s probably the holy grail of rugby union.

Chasing the holy grail of an Open win at St Andrews, Rory had a great Saturday, with a 66, six under par.  Sunday, however, was, for Rory supporters, four and a half hours (or whatever it was) of hell.  “Bet you’re enjoying the golf,”  was the message from several friends.  Wot?  Enjoying?  You must be joking!!!  It was a brilliant, compelling last day – but not for those of us invested in Rory completing a fairytale victory.  He hit a lot of good shots but there weren’t enough of his trademark twirls and he didn’t have a single one-putt green in 18 holes.  When Cam Smith went turbo-charged, Rory remained stuck in neutral.

I was shouting at the telly again, though, because NO ONE (that I heard and I watched most of it) mentioned Kel Nagle.  Come on!  Come on!  There was an obvious symmetry:  Arnold Palmer, the people’s champion, favourite to win the Centenary Open at St Andrews in 1960, was upstaged by Kel Nagle, of Australia.  Rory McIlroy, favourite etc, etc…The good news for some of us is that Arnie won the next two Opens…

Cam Smith, the new Open champion, also a very, very good golfer, is, apparently, set to take himself and the Claret Jug off to LIV, fronted – for the time being – by Greg Norman, a fellow Queenslander, twice an Open champion and golfing hero to many an Aussie and an inspiration, slightly dodgy clothing line notwithstanding.  That would be a pity, especially since Cam has absolutely no need to do anything at all for the time being.  He’s in the pound, or multi-million dollar, seats whatever happens.  He – and his advisers – just have to sit tight, enjoy their win, smile broadly and contentedly and let things unfold.  Let the chips fall where they may, so to speak…

Henrik Stenson, Europe’s Ryder Cup captain for a few brief months, has gone for the greedy option, taking the LIV money and giving up the hassle of plotting how to beat the rampant Yanks in Rome next year after they rampaged their way to a comprehensive victory last time out.  Henrik, of course, has previous.  He once put his trust in Allen Stanford, the Texan fraudster who persuaded cricket that he was the future and is, as far as I know, still in prison.  His sentence, in case you’ve forgotten, was 110 years.  Henrik lost a lot of money.  The Saudis are, undoubtedly, richer and less vulnerable than Stanford.  Money always talks, even if it is with forked tongue.

If you have any doubts about the LIV effect, keep reading Golfweek’s Eamon Lynch on the subject.  He has no doubts and is quite brilliant.

Down here at ground level, I’m looking after Mavis, a cockerpoo I think, for a few days.  She’s a sweetheart – if not quite as saintly as Alice, not least because she’s come in from exploring the garden with all sorts of bits stuck to her fur.  Aaagh.  No doubt one of the dog walkers will come up with a grooming tool and Mavis will be pristine before she goes home.

On a more sporting note, the Commonwealth Games are in Brum this year and start next week, so the Queen’s Baton Relay, having been all over the world, is getting really close to home.  It was in Lichfield the other day and we were out in Beacon Park, cheering on Jane as she did her leg.  She sped off so quickly (she was a PE teacher and is still fit as anything) that they had to ask her to slow down!   She was a bit miffed but did as she was told – not easy for any teacher…

Finally, a DIY tip for future heatwaves:  tin foil really does make a difference.

 

 

 

 

 

No doubt the day will come when even this golf nerd’s juices fail to be stirred or shaken by the prospect of the Open but it ain’t happening this year, not when it’s at St Andrews; not when it’s the 150th.

It was a real thrill for Mo and me to drive into town on a gloriously sunny, breezy Tuesday and start soaking up the atmosphere. We’d missed the Celebration of Champions on Monday but I bumped into Sam Torrance, who said it had been a wonderfully emotional occasion that was still bringing a tear to his eye.  That’s the power of St Andrews – everybody is in awe and willing to forgive the place all its faults and idiosyncrasies.

Tiger Woods, more open, engaging and willing to voice his considered opinions than he ever was in his playing pomp – he was scathing about the LIV golf format and baffled by the younger players’ desire to join the circus – was thrilled to be playing with the ever vocal Lee Buck Trevino. Rory McIlroy and Georgia Hall made up the four and they all have photos and memories to treasure until the end of their days.

It’s not just the players who have been posing for the photos of a lifetime and sharing their joy with anyone who asks.  Fans from all over the world are making the most of a celebration like no other and if there’s a microphone available, so much the better.  I was waiting for a friend outside the St Rule Club (blessed with a wonderful view of the 18th green  and the 1st tee), watching the world go by when I heard somebody waxing lyrical – at some length and with some authority.  It turned out to be a sports-mad farmer from New Zealand, his wife told me as she waited patiently and with some amusement for him to finish regaling the young man doing the vox pops.

Everywhere you looked there was colour (apart from those players wedded to their blacks and greys, with the odd splash of white) and pageantry.  Jack Nicklaus was given honorary citizenship by the Royal Burgh of St Andrews and the university, founded in 1413, conferred honorary degrees on several players, including Catriona Matthew and Jose Maria Olazabal.  There were plenty of tears and broad, broad smiles.

Isabel, a member of the AGW, is attending her 30th Open (how did that happen, where did the years go?) and she opted for a week under canvas – or nylon, whatever tents are made of these days.   Those of us who are less adventurous and lack camping skills stuck to bricks and mortar.

The days are long at an Open, so no one needs much rocking at night and at least the campsite is close to the action, cutting down on the tramping to and from the course.  And there are lots of dramatic photo opps.

Of course, some people find it hard to leave the press tent – more correctly, the media centre – and in these 24-hours-a-day, non-stop rolling news, social media times, when’s a person to sleep?

I had lots of notions about what I’d do in my short time in St Andrews – take my aged cashmere cardis back to Johnsons of Elgin for advice on restoring their joie de vivre and the invisible mending of moth holes; stock up on books in Toppings, one of the most dangerous shops in Scotland (easy to spend loads of time and money there); golf at lovely Crail; buy shoes; revamp my wardrobe; walk on the beach.  Instead I did a lot of talking; even more gawping; took some happy snaps; drank a lot of coffee; did some more talking; drank some tea; attended the AGW dinner; talked some more; downed a few glasses of wine; made it to the AGW agm and Martin Slumbers’ state of golf address; and, suddenly, that was it; I was packing the cashmeres, still moth-eaten and heading home.

There’s still time for a few more snaps, not too much of a strain on the brain – yours or mine.

 

 

 

The Open is the pinnacle of the game but every pro has to start somewhere and many congrats to WHGC’s Ryan Brooks on his first PGA EuroPro Tour victory at the third hole of a play-off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, hooray and hallelujah, my faith in human nature is not so dented after all:  I’ve just been to The Belfry to retrieve the nearly brand new 7-iron that I mislaid so carelessly on the PGA National course about a month ago.  There was no sign of it the day after I’d failed to win the Michael Williams Hogget (not for the first time) in early May and Nige, the very helpful Brummie at lost property, didn’t hold out much hope.  Bummer really, considering the club was a very recent, customised acquisition.  I was hoping that whoever found it was very tall, Peter Crouch sized and not in the least bit interested in a little old lady implement.

I checked back with Nige yesterday, just on the off chance, having reverted to my old 7-iron, a classic Ping Eye 2 (it was older than the club fitter when I decided to invest in some modern technology), hoping that I’d be in luck – and I was.  Phew.  Many thanks to whoever found it and took the trouble to return it.  Now it might be a good idea to take it to the practice ground and find out how it works.

On Tuesday, I represented the AGW in a match against the Golf Foundation at The Berkshire and, bar the odd proper golf shot, was no help whatsoever to my long-suffering partner.  Neither of us was at our best, so we were well beaten by opponents who played rather well, certainly far too well for us.  Fortunately, our teammates did well enough to salvage a 3-all draw – although that meant the GF, celebrating its Platinum Jubilee (why does that sound familiar?  Was there a fuss?), retained the rather splendid trophy (pictured at the top of the piece, if a tad inexpertly, all being well).

We played the Blue course, which starts with a par 3 of more than 200 yards – off whatever tee you choose – and I hit a cracker (bearing in mind my limitations).  We all thought I’d cleared the heather comfortably – “It’s the first time I’ve ever hit it over that heather,” sez I with a certain amount of surprise and a lot of satisfaction – but I hadn’t!  Ah well, some things are not meant to be.  I may never play The Berkshire again, which is my excuse for helping myself to two puddings (melt-in-the-mouth bread and butter and a delicious pannacotta) at a lunch that more than lived up to its reputation and my memories of repasts past.

When I set off for home, heading in the direction of Ascot (correct, a rare example of getting one of my 50-50 chances – left or right – right, as in spot on), I had a vague sense of unease.  Something was niggling.  Had I put my golf shoes in the boot?  Those swanky, rather large Italian jobs.  Where were they?  I found a spot to stop, checked the boot and, no surprise, surprise, no shoes.  Back I went, recovered the shoes and headed off back to Ascot.  A bit of an up-and-down, round-and-about tour later I found the direction I needed and, eventually, opened my own front door.  Wonders will never cease.

The Berkshire hasn’t changed much since I was last there, goodness knows how many years ago and it’s full of happy memories, particularly of Avia Foursomes past.  I sent Maureen this picture to remind her of old times and it took her a while to recognise it – because there was nobody there!  She was used to it being packed full of women preparing for action.

It was lovely to see that there was a portrait of Angela Uzielli (nee Carrick), one of The Berkshire and England’s best players, who won the British Ladies’ Amateur Championship in 1977, in the members’ bar downstairs, not tucked away upstairs with the other ladies of distinction.  Angela wasn’t just an excellent golfer, she was a force of nature, full of verve and vim, who died too young, at the age of 59, in November 1999.  I realised that I was smiling broadly and chatting to her as I snapped this photo.

You’ll be glad to know that I won’t be moving from lovely amateur reminiscences to pondering the ramifications of the LIV series.  Crystal ball gazing is not my thing but warehouse loads – much bigger than shedloads – of money and lots of macho posturing are an explosive combination.

If Greg Norman and co are really serious about introducing different, more entertaining formats (money aside, there’s no doubt that an unremitting diet of 72-hole strokeplay can pall), they should consider the Jubilee Frolic that we enjoyed in the red, white and blue (not obligatory) at WHGC last week.  It was called Bing, Bang, Bong and, if nothing else, greatly exercised what remained of our little grey cells.  Ou est Poirot when you need him?

It seems relatively straightforward but the discussions that ensued threatened to go beyond full and frank!  Here we go with the rules:  First on the green equals one point (1st on green = 1 pt); nearest pin (when all on green – quite a bone of contention as it turned out) = 1 pt; first in hole = 1 pt.  NB:  Furthest from pin must putt first and there are no gimmes.

There was also a team element (a la LIV I believe) and I quote verbatim:  “Each hole a different player takes the Jubilee Ball [supplied] and plays as above within the group, their score is your team score on that hole.  It is also their individual score for the individual comp.  Every group player takes their turn around all 7 holes….”

It reminded me of when I used to do quiz questions for Candy Devine’s show on Downtown Radio and how hard it was to phrase the question in such a way that there was only one possible answer…

On a less contentious note, I leave you with one of Mary McKenna’s marvellous bird photos.  It was a toss up between the blackbird and a staged, promotional shot of Annika and Henrik, who are co-hosting the Scandinavian Mixed tournament at Halmstad in Sweden this week – the way professional golf should be perhaps…