There can’t be many better stretches of golfing coastline in the world than that of East Lothian and last week found me up in Gullane for the 32nd playing of the Madill Trophy at the home of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers (HCEG).

Golfing heaven.

The match has been going long enough now that we are beginning to have a few time-honoured traditions of our own and one of the most fun is the girls’ team dinner the night before the match.  On occasion the venue has altered over the years but the over-riding favourite is The Old Clubhouse in Gullane where they look after us very well indeed.  This gives us a great chance to have a catch-up over a meal and a few drinks – totally necessary as we don’t see much of our own team-mates on match day itself.  If you know how to play proper foursomes you’ll understand why.

Almost all of the 2026 Madill Trophy team – Heather Macrae joined us the next morning.

At the end of the evening we were all up at the bar paying the bill when we fell into chat with a woman who asked us what we were all doing in Gullane.  We informed her we were there for golf and she enquired where we were playing.  Upon hearing it was Muirfield she told us she had a house on the 1st fairway at Muirfield whereupon I asked her was it anywhere near the lovely house of Ronnie Corbett’s.

“It is indeed.  It’s that house,” she said.  “I’m Ronnie’s daughter, Emma.”  It transpired that she and her companions were in the pub to raise a glass to her Dad on what was the tenth anniversary of his death.  Emma is not a golfer but is trying her hand on the stand-up circuit, which strikes me as being a great deal more difficult than anything you might face in golf, but each to their own.  We did tell her, however, that it should be illegal for a non-golfer to own a house on the 1st fairway at Muirfield, which seemed to amuse her greatly.

As I mentioned, this was the 32nd time we have held this fixture but it was a first in one respect.  David Normoyle of Saratoga Springs in upstate New York made his match debut this year and flew in especially to take part.  His Newark to Edinburgh flight landed on Tuesday, he played 36 holes of foursomes on the Wednesday and then flew home on the Thursday – a stout effort if ever there was one.  Unsurprisingly, he is now the record holder for distance travelled to tee it up in the Madill Trophy – and by the time this blog is posted he’ll be at Augusta National along with his wife, Dottie Pepper.  Among Dotti’s many accolades is the distinction of being the only media member allowed inside the ropes at the Masters but that obviously pales in comparison to her hubby’s achievement this past week.

Jet lag………. what jet lag? Smooth swinging from David Normoyle.

The scores on the doors prior to this year’s match were as follows:  fifteen wins to The Lasses; eight to The Lads; and five halved matches.  We have over the years had three cancellations – two matches falling foul of Covid and one of snow.  Over the last decade The Lads have performed better than us so I was very happy with my team that we were a point to the good at lunchtime.

Historically, though, we don’t train awfully well on wine in the middle of the day – and so it looked like proving yet again.  We found ourselves four points to three down with one match still on the course.  Thankfully, Katie Tebbet and Julie Thomas won on the last to share the spoils overall.  Julie was elected President of Wales Golf a wee while ago and this, her first official day in charge, was spent in Scotland playing at Muirfield!  Talk about having your priorities right!

A slightly disinterested Barley Walker at the 2nd green in the morning. Only another 34 holes of this to go!

This year, on the day before the match, Gill Stewart and I climbed the North Berwick Law, one of the numerous volcanic plugs which litter the countryside around Edinburgh.  The jawbone of a whale was placed at the summit in 1709 and a replica stands there today maintaining that rather curious tradition.  We were fortunate enough to have a pretty clear day and could pick out Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh’s Holyrood Park from our vantage point, as well as the Bass Rock, home to the world’s largest colony of  Northern gannets.

Gill took some photos at the top, including the one below and I didn’t realise till afterwards there was an inscription on the side.  With yet another visit to the HCEG, home of the best hosts in the world, behind us it does seem apt to close with this pic.  This unique club is certainly at the forefront of enabling us to obey this command.

Well!  No apologies for starting with the gift that keeps on giving:  the never-ending, ever-more-bizarre soap/rope-a-dope opera that is Tottenham Hotspur Football Club.  We are, as I may have mentioned before, beyond a shambles, providing vastly more entertainment off the field than on.

Admittedly, the people laughing the loudest are our deadly rivals Arsenal, on course to win the premier league title and, possibly, three cup competitions; West Ham, who loathe us and would love to see us relegated; Nottingham Forest – we seem to have replaced them, with their volatile Greek owner, as the top division’s top basket case; and Leeds United, who must fancy their chances of staying above us as we continue to self-destruct in spectacular style.

Style.  Ah, yes.  We pride ourselves on our style at Spurs but there’s no sign of that – or any class – at the moment.  We got rid of the unfortunate Thomas Frank and brought in Igor Tudor, a big, brooding Croat who was meant to be a quick fix, rescue merchant.  He’s been in charge for four matches, all lost and has managed to make things worse with a pall of gloom hanging all over the club.

Reasons to be cheerful?  None.  And it’s showing.

Outside in the cold:  still sweeping up the carpet-munching blighters.  Think I’m winning this one.  Fingers crossed

I’ll spare you all the gory goalie details from our last game, a 5-2 defeat in Madrid, against Atletico.  Suffice to say it made headlines across the world – and not in a good way, you couldn’t make it up.  If our young reserve goalkeeper, tipped for the top by some of the best but thrown in to the cauldron of the Metropolitano with barely any prep, then subbed after 17 minutes (and three goals conceded, two of them entirely his fault), recovers his equilibrium, he’ll have a long and distinguished career.  Goalies need a special resilience anyway  and if public humiliation early on in their career doesn’t give them the screaming abdabs, they’re made of the right stuff.

The teasing, nay, mockery (of the club, not the goalie who’s received a lot of sympathetic support) is relentless and some of it is very funny, particularly from the Spurs fans getting their retaliation in first.  There is one video of a guy in his car, at the start of next season, being asked by his friend where he’s off to.  “Lincoln,” sez he.

“Lovely.  Going on holiday?”

“No.”

“You’ll love Lincoln, it’s got a castle, a cathedral, it’s really mediaeval.  Beautiful.”

“I’m not going on holiday.”

“City break?”

“No, I’m going to a match.”

“Ah, Lincoln City.  One of those Cup matches, the FA Cup is it?”

“No.”

“One of those other Cups?”

“No.”

“Friendly?”

“No.  It’s a league game.”

“What!  Lincoln City are in the Premier League?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Ah……….”

There follows a long list of the places that Spurs will be going to, many of which they haven’t been to for years, nay, decades.  Then the friend, who’d pretended he wasn’t really up to speed with it all, delivered the killer line:-

“Well, at least you won’t have to take all those batterings from Arsenal and Chelsea….”

Ho. Ho.  Ho.

More important things to worry about:  it’s The Big Plastic Count week, so I’m trying to keep track and help change our bad habits.

Igor, sadly robotic, is not spreading joy and if anything, has managed to put even more of a dampener on the proceedings.  He was brought in to get points, to save us from relegation and so far?  Nul points.  Even I could do a better job.  As somebody pointed out it’s not a coaching job, it’s a building confidence job, a generating a teensy weensy bit of optimism job, a smile here and there job.  And I’d do it for nothing.  There are still plenty of football people around to do any basic coaching.

Perhaps we could borrow Sarina Wiegman from the Lionesses until the end of the season – she’s a proper football person with tactical nous and, more important, she’s a people person too and seems to be human.  Then, to rebuild, perhaps we could tempt Robbie Keane from Ferencvaros or Kasper Hjulmand from Bayer Leverkusen.  Admittedly, he’s Danish and our last Dane didn’t fare so well but….

There’s always prayer I suppose…

Hjulmand, known for being tactically astute, was in charge of Denmark at Euro 2020 when Christian Eriksen (not long left Spurs) had his cardiac arrest on the pitch and the boss handled the whole situation with great class and compassion.  His team reached the semi-finals, at Wembley, where they were narrowly beaten by England.

However, what really caught my eye when I looked him up was a quote from Simon Kjaer, the Denmark captain, who said to Hjulmand:  “You see the person before the football player and at the same time you’re insanely ambitious.”

Sounds like a formidable combination to me.

I don’t suppose he’d fancy a stint in the Championship, so we’d better try and scrape together a few points in our remaining nine league games.  We’re away at Anfield next, never a happy hunting ground for us and, alarmingly, we still have to play Forest and Leeds at home.  At our home and it’s alarming because we’ve been so appalling there that I think we season ticket holders should be given our money back.

The season ticket renewal email arrived on Wednesday and there was no mention of even a discount to compensate us for our suffering, though the price has been frozen and we were thanked for our “incredible support”.

The statement also included the following:  “We recognise the seriousness of the current league position of our men’s team and, following discussions with our Fan Advisory Board and the Tottenham Hotspur Supporters’ Trust, can confirm the renewal window for 2026/27 will now remain open for an extended period until Sunday 7 June to ensure fans have full clarity on next season before renewing.”

Clarity?  A quality that seems to be distinctly lacking at the football club…

Oh well.  Apologies for all the footy folly.  COYS.

Beacon Park:  a calming scene after all the chaos.

If there’s such a thing as road lag, this blog writer has it.  She hasn’t been near a plane for ages, let alone a long-haul flight, so jet lag is out of the question but she’s had enough of roads for a while, well, a day or two at least.

It all started on Monday past, with a trip to Suffolk that included an overnight stay in Haverhill, just outside Cambridge, a detour to Stock in Essex, with Thorpeness Golf Club and Hotel the final destination.  There was no need to put the satnav on because I knew the route to Haverhill (M6, A14, a bit of M11, then the B whatever, with the sign to Haverhill being the giveaway) but….distracted by a very slow driver who decided to change lanes at the last minute I missed the road to the M6 and ended up heading for the M40.  Caramba.  Very, very poor road craft on my part, admittedly and it got worse.

Suffice it to say, I ended up having the most convoluted journey imaginable, in the rain, in the dark, through interminable roadworks of the years-long variety near Cambridge.  The next day, amazingly enough, the trip was relatively trouble free and despite having to negotiate the A12 and various Sizewell C and National Grid mega works, I even managed to arrive at my destination in daylight…Result.

The occasion was the third reunion of the founders of the LET, plus the odd bod (me) who’s known most of them for decades and is still in awe of all they’ve done and are still doing.  There’s lots of reminiscing and even more laughter and it’s a great reminder that these women really were pioneers and today’s players, who take it as a given that a professional career is possible, owe them a great debt of gratitude.

A gorgeous sunny day for a gorgeous sunny get-together.

On Wednesday the weather was perfect for golf and I ventured out in elite company to play the James Braid course described by Peter Alliss as “a hidden gem in Suffolk”.  It was a delight, human sized, thought-provoking but not intimidating (especially on a glorious day with only a hint of breeze) and in remarkably good condition after a wet winter.

Lang, aka Christine Langford, director of golf at Thorpeness, organiser supreme and the holder of the trophy (see featured pic at the top, fingers crossed), made a stout defence of her title, amassing 34 points barely three months after a hip operation; I managed 33 points (or was it 31?), demonstrating an unexpected mastery of the Texas wedge* from unusual positions; but we – and everyone else – had to give best to our playing partner Bridget Cooper, who won the comp with an impressive 39 points.

At the presentation, Bridget, an Essex girl, recalled winning £50 on her first outing as a professional and splurging it all on a yellow leather jacket at her local market.  She still has it but confessed that she’d only worn it a couple of times!  Her latest trophy (TOFT – the old farts trophy) was originally won by Lang way back in 1979, when Carlsberg were the main sponsors of the fledgling tour.

Bridget (left) accepting the trophy from Chris Langford, who’s responsible for the whole shebang.

Now, I wasn’t going to do this but couldn’t resist flicking through the early tour handbooks and came across this pic in what was the WPGA’s 1983 official handbook.  Brace yourself, Bridget.

Bridget, Golf World mag’s “most improved woman professional” in 1982. She won the Dunhill Classic, at Woburn, by seven shots.

And here are the results from the tour’s first year.

Zoom in because there are some very familiar names, several of whom were at Thorpeness and some great venues.

The enjoyment of the game has endured over the decades but so have its frustrations and as Lang, Bridget and I were making our way down the hill to the 6th green we heard a very familiar four-letter word from the 7th tee.  One of our number (hark at me!  But I was playing in the same comp) had dumped her tee shot into the water and her partners were starting to double up.

The player in blue, who may be recognisable to some (smoker, Man Utd supporter) but shall remain nameless, has just put the ball in amongst the rushes and uttered an expletive that would necessitate an apology if on the telly…Her playing partners can’t stop laughing…

Forewarned is forearmed and my threeball all made sure we cleared the water – I took my driver for a hole that says it’s a mere 127 yards and creamed it, well left of the target and well beyond it, on a path, with some sloping, raggedy terrain between me and the pin.  Time for a belt with the trusty TW.  I missed the putt for a par but it’s the sort of hole I’d take a four at every time.

Space, or the lack thereof, saves you from any more details of the golf (4-irons to five feet, that sort of thing; in my dreams) and means that my journey home is reduced to a few sentences.  Thorpeness to Lichfield can, apparently, be done in less than three and a half hours without stops.  I left at 1021 and got home at 1639, admittedly with two stops!

There were lots of diggers and people in orange jumpsuits in the middle of Leiston (no distance from Thorpeness) and a ROAD CLOSED sign with no discernible diversion.  Ah, I’ll try the 1119 to Saxmundham.  More ROAD CLOSED signs with no indication of where exactly it was closed or where we should go instead.

A lovely part of the world but sometimes tough to navigate.

I stopped at what turned out to be a very nice caff in Rendham, had coffee and cake with a load of lycra-clad cyclists and considered my options; bought some local honey from the beekeepers who run the cafe; then headed back on to the narrow Suffolk roads that turn you inside out…

My second stop and my first visit to Rugby services. The welcome sign made me laugh.

*for the non golfers this is the practice of using the putter from off the green, often from a considerable distance.

Let’s get the sad stuff over with quickly:  Spurs have got rid of yet another manager, sacking Thomas Frank after eight months or so in the job.  Well, surely, that’s more than enough time to sort out a basket case of a club with more than a dozen first-team players out injured, isn’t it?  Not forgetting a captain, a World Cup winner no less, who is a red card waiting to happen and is now sitting out four games, all crucial, as we struggle to keep a tiny, increasingly uncomfortable gap between us and the relegation places.

We finished fourth from bottom last season but were never in danger of going down because the bottom three were so far adrift.  We also won a European trophy, the first bit of silverware for nearly 20 years and still sacked Aussie Ange because the league form was so dire.  It’s still dire, even worse if anything and Frank’s last straw was Tuesday night’s 2-1 loss, in the pouring rain, at home to Newcastle, another side not exactly brimming with confidence.  However, a visit to “Dr Tottenham” sent the Geordies home feeling a whole lot perkier.

I didn’t go because I decided it was a better idea to spend the night at the sister’s, having dinner (a delicious venison stew) with friends up from south Wales.  Oh, just as a point of interest, no one bought my tickets on ticket exchange, probably because we’re so bad on our home patch but also because the kick-off times make it so hard for a lot of people to get home after the game.  A friend who was at the game suffered even more on the train home to Derby because he found himself in a carriage with what he uncharitably called “moron students”, a mixture of Newcastle and Leeds (2-all draw at Chelsea) fans making a racket… Such are the trials and tribulations of a travelling supporter.

Anyway, we watched the footie on my iPad thanks to a friend’s Sky Go and the others just about tolerated my agonised swearing and despairing shouts of “Run, run, close him down, don’t let him shoot…..aaaagh….”  There was, I’m ashamed to say, lots of unedifying effing and blinding on my part before I handed the iPad over to the others, all Manchester United fans, to watch their late kick-off at West Ham.

Anxiety as the seconds tick away but United are on the attack.

Nastily, I wanted the United fans to suffer too and West Ham, who looked doomed to relegation before they won at our place a  few weeks ago and started a revival, went 1-nil up.  Then, belatedly, I realised that three points for the Hammers might be a nail in our coffin and in the 96th minute United equalised.  Hooray.  I suppose.

Happiness and relief. The arm on the left had won some money as well!

Well, next up, on Sunday week, at our place, it’s Arsenal, our deadliest rivals, who are having a brilliant season, top of the table and possibly the best team in Europe at the moment.  They’re looking a wee bit wobbly as the end of the season, with all those tantalising trophies glittering, gets ever nearer but not that wobbly.  If they win everything and we get relegated -it doesn’t bear thinking about.

On the BBC website, Ian Poulter, of Ryder Cup fame but now of LIV, a mad Arsenal fan, took on Chris Sutton, footballer turned pundit, at a few predictions, including Spurs v Newcastle.  They both went for 1-all, which was very kind of them, especially considering that Poulter has a nice line in insults when it comes to Spurs.  Even though he was an Arsenal fan from the beginning – “My dad just dragged the shirt straight over my head and that was it” – he had trials at Spurs when he was 13.

“I’m so glad that never worked out,” he said.  “I had two left feet and it turned out everyone else Spurs have signed since has got two left feet as well….”

The club motto is Audere Est Facere – to dare is to do – but there are many, including Ange, who doubt there’s enough daring, let alone derring-do, about the place at the moment.  So, to cheer myself up I rooted out the book celebrating the majestic Double side that won the League title and the FA Cup in 1961, playing beautiful football.  It’s not all in black and white, there’s some colour and I suppose it’s why we have our delusions of grandeur and why most subsequent teams are doomed to failure….

Notice how few players were involved!

Really, football, which has taken up the whole blog, more or less, should be well down the pecking order at the moment because everywhere you look there’s fantastic international sport at full pelt:  The T20 Cricket World Cup – did you see how close Nepal got to beating England and then lost to Italy; the Six Nations Rugby – could be tough for us Celts; golf in California and Saudi Arabia – still not sure how I feel about the women being there; and of course the Winter Olympics in Italy at Milan-Cortina with all that curling, skiing, skating, skeleton, ice hockey and snowboarding.  The terminology is something else and I’m lagging behind, just about remembering that a goofy stance is right foot forward on the snowboard.

It’s exhausting and mesmerising all at once and is keeping me out of the rain.