First of all, congrats to Honest Don, headed for the White House again, to the horror of many millions of Americans and the delight of many millions more.  At least it’s unlikely that his presidential duties will curtail his golf because everybody knows that fresh air and exercise (overlook the buggy) stimulate the brain and improve the decision-making process. Ah well, we can dream.

At least Rory (McIlroy) is hopeful that this could lead to a resolution of the LIV impasse.  It’s a conundrum that the incoming president might be willing to solve but surely it shouldn’t be high up there on a list of global priorities?  In fact, really, it shouldn’t be on the list at all – unless you want to lob in human rights, women’s rights and the excessive influence of multi-billionaires, all those sorts of messy things.

On second thoughts, perhaps it’s just the thing that should be exercising a world leader.  And we know that Bryson DeChambeau, the US Open champion and LIVer, is a Trump supporter since he pitched up at the election celebration party.  Don’t know if Elon Musk, one of the world’s richest men (how did that happen?), is a golfer but he’s also a Trump man and who knows?  Rory, Bryson and co could be playing golf on Mars before too long.

Down here on Planet Earth, my playing partner and I were disqualified from the Par comp because we cut out the loop and only played 15 holes.  We were semi-respectable – one over and two over if memory serves – when we made the decision but my slightly dodgy knee, being a two-ball behind a lot of threes and a dank, gloomy day getting danker and gloomier made it easy for us to peel off.  And we’d made a start on our winter eclectic.  Well done to Julie, who won – 4 up she was, very good going.

Things went better on the footie front last week, with an amazing three wins out of three for my teams – I’m not expecting another week, well, five days, as heady as that.  The mighty Tamworth Lambs, on national telly, BBC2, beat much more mighty Huddersfield Town 1-nil with a goal for the ages. The Huddersfield goalie, not a regular I believe, will never forget it; no matter what he goes on to achieve, how many brilliant saves he makes (and he made one or two last week),  this is guaranteed to feature in all his nightmares.

Tommy Tonks – he’s got no hair but we don’t care; don’t you just love the creativity of football fans and their chants – is Tamworth’s not-so-secret weapon:  his effortless long throw-ins terrify defences, causing chaos and mayhem with their power and accuracy; they’re brilliant.

We were at the far end so couldn’t quite see what happened but Tonks launched one of his thunderbolts right into the middle of the Huddersfield goalmouth, various Tamworth bods went up, as did the goalie (smaller than the opposition) and, lo, the ball ended up in the net and the goal was given.  Cue more mayhem.

Turns out the goalie was the only player who touched the ball, helping it into his own net, in front of his own supporters.  If he’d missed it and the ball had gone straight in from the throw, there’d have been no goal.  And, looking at the television replays, if there’d been VAR, it might well have been disallowed because the hustling and hassling of the goalie looked a bit above and beyond in this more genteel day and age.  In the old days, you could barge the goalkeeper into the net and expect to have the goal allowed, no problem.  Not so much now.  (Though tell that to Vicario of the mighty Totspurs!)

Next stop, London N17 for Spurs versus Aston Villa, who’d rested most of their first-choice players mid-week (and lost at home to Crystal Palace).  They duly went 1-nil up and looked beyond comfortable as we huffed and puffed to no avail.  Then, whoosh, suddenly we were off and running and in no time at all we were 3-1 up!  We won 4-1 in the end and confirmed that as a Spurs fan you have absolutely no idea what is going to happen – apart from us conceding the opening goal time after time after time.

My fellow Spurs tragic had flown in from Dublin to Stansted – it really is easier for her to get to TH Stadium than it is for me – and it really was worth the journey.  Whatever we are as a team, we’re not dull, not entirely predictable but well worth watching.  Mostly, we fans get our money’s worth; if not always the credit – or the respect and consideration – we deserve.

This is where I could go on a rant about the bag policy – Augusta National’s is even more ridiculous and ill-thought out but that’s another blog all on its own… And I’ve contacted a friend who’s an ace at packing light in the vain hope that she can transform me!  It could take a while.

Ireland are playing the All Blacks in Dublin tonight (Friday), which means I’m safe to go to Tamworth v Ebbsfleet (Kent) on Saturday afternoon, then Spurs v Ipswich on Sunday – are you getting a sense that this football thing is getting out of hand!

Ah well, now to fit in the sweep (should I still have a log burner or freeze in an attempt to save the planet); the loft insulation man; the window cleaner who’s going to clear the gutters, the downpipes, clean the sofits, fascias, lantern, all that malarkey; the blinds man – bathroom needs one now it’s winter; oh yes, and the heating engineer because there’s a sneaky leak in the boiler, which keeps cutting out.  Aaaaaagh.

Back to the jigsaw.

And did you know that the green leaf attached to the remembrance poppy should sit at 11 0’clock?  (See above.)

 

 

There’s only one of us this morning because Mo, the accident-prone sister (let’s hope I’m not tempting fate here), is hors de combat.  She went out early a few days ago to do her power walking but didn’t even get started on the serious stuff because she turned her ankle, fell and broke her right shoulder.

Fortunately, she’d taken her phone and it had just enough juice for her to summon hubby, in his slippers, to transport her, very slowly – every bump was agony – and as smoothly as possible to the hospital. The sainted Malcolm, who keeps Mo moving, said cheerfully, “You’ll be all right by Christmas.” So, not long now.

I’m sorry (well, not really) but it’s another football-related travelogue from me. Two friends are just back from a trip to the Galapagos and Machu Picchu; others are on a whirlwind tour of Japan; others are just off to India for a month; yet others have trips pending to Vietnam, Thailand, Australia, Singapore, Barbados and even the USA, impending presidential election notwithstanding.

And where am I off to? Yes, N17 again, a journey that seems to involve more planning than a round-the-world trip – at least I could leave that to Trailfinders or some other experts. Mind you, my forays to deepest Tottenham might test even them, should they be foolhardy enough to accept the challenge.

This time the journey involved a detour to Finchley for a funeral at midday, so that brought into play a whole new set of logistics. To drive or not to drive? That notion was quickly dismissed, my heart quailing at the thought of finding my way there in time; having to park; pay the congestion charge (or whatever it’s called now); find the wake; park again; not have a drink (champagne was on offer); then find somewhere to park for the match, scheduled to kick off at 2000; then drive home. You get the picture.

So the train it was. Here we go again!

The latest train back to the Midlands is the 2330 to Wolverhampton, stopping at Birmingham International (fingers crossed, it has been known to miss out Coventry and Birmingham altogether, throwing us off at Rugby to wait for a bus). That gives me half a chance to watch the whole match and make it back to Euston in time – just.

So, what train to get in plenty of time to make the funeral? Not wanting to take any chances, I plumped for the 0816 London Northwestern, slow but steady (ever the optimist, as every train traveller must be) and a lot cheaper than the alternatives. Only one problem now: how to get to the station, which is beside the airport, at that hour of the day? Leave it just a fraction too late and, as I know to my shame, you get snarled up in traffic and miss the plane.

My punctual friends reckoned that I had to be past The Belfry (see, golf has got a mention) no later than 0700, so I set the alarm for 0600 and left the house, showered despite a glitch with the boiler, just after 0630. Any number of people, binmen included, had already got their show on the road and one friend, who flew down from Dundee for the funeral, was up at 0400.

I reached Bassetts Pole and the road to the Belfry (more golf!) without too much trouble but then things slowed down to a near crawl. Surely the traffic can’t be backed up all the way to the M42 already!!!  Patience.  Breathe.  You’re in plenty of time.

Halfway along I saw a flashing light and realised what the problem was: a blankety-blank tractor.  Dai, who would have been 86 last Tuesday and believed passionately that tractors belonged in fields, would have been incandescent.  I did swear out loud, in Anglo-Saxon but it was a bit of a relief that this queue at least wasn’t terminal, so I laughed.  Turned out it was some sort of digger (apologies to all tractor boys and girls) and it turned right just before the Belfry (I’ve resisted the temptation to mention that game again), a fraction before the witching hour of 0700.

Joining the M42 was a bit fraught – roadworks reducing the slip road to one lane – but thank goodness I wasn’t joining the cars at a standstill in the queue for the M6 and arrived at my destination without further alarms.  A word to the unwary though: the road to the station is populated by a huge number of the country’s traffic cones and is a bit (a lot) of a confusing maze.  Also, even at 0730 the car park is jam-packed.  “Do people actually LIVE at the airport?” I asked a fellow parker in early-morning exasperation.

But I made it, got my train and as we approached Euston, turned my attention to breakfast and the delays on the Northern Line, my route to the crem….

Fear not, I was in plenty of time for the service and the wake.    And later on, the mighty Totspurs smashed AZ Alkmaar 1-nil…It was a good day.

Just a footnote from last Saturday when, praise be, Spurs did produce a burst of brilliance to ‘ammer the ‘ammers – but I wasn’t there.  The match was at 1230 and my trusted osteopath, who’s off on a well-earned break soon, had a cancellation at 1300.  Wouldn’t you know.  My creaking joints made the only decision possible and I put the ticket on ticket exchange (no train booked in advance, so that wasn’t a consideration).

As I limped in for my treatment we were 1-nil down and when I staggered out we were 4-1 up!  I skipped home.  Almost.

Last but by no means least, many congrats to the victorious Whittington Heath team who beat Copt Heath 5-2 to win the Taskers Trophy at Beeston Fields last Sunday.

The regular reader is used to my cries of “Come On You Spurs” – often uttered plaintively – and seeing the acronym COYS, baffling to those lucky beings with no interest whatsoever in football.  They don’t understand the anguish and agony they’ve spared themselves.  And the occasional moment of ecstasy they’ve missed.

A glutton for punishment, travelling ever in hope of course, I’m off to N17 this weekend, to watch us ‘ammer The ‘ammers, as West ‘am are known.  Well, who knows what the result will be?  It’s one of our many local derbies and one that has become very venomous over the years; gone are the days when Jimmy Greaves could go from us to West Ham and Martin Peters could come to us from them without too much hate mail.  (Or have I got that wrong?)  Not long ago, a Spurs supporter who found himself between a rock and a hard place, opted for a group of Arsenal fans, to save himself from an ‘ammering.  Funny old world.

Anyway, last weekend friends persuaded me to go to a proper grassroots football match, FA Cup fourth round qualifying, Tamworth at home to mighty Macclesfield.  Well, in reality, the Silkmen (Macclesfield was renowned for its silk industry and the club, founded in 1874, was the oldest professional club in Cheshire until it was wound up in 2020, then revived) aren’t so mighty.  They have former Wales international Robbie Savage, he of the hair and current 5 Live pundit, as manager but they’re in the Northern Premier League, two tiers below National League Tamworth (promoted last season).

The Lambs (they used to change in the Lamb pub apparently, so that’s how they got lumbered with the nickname) play on an artificial pitch and won 4-2 in a cracking game.  Most of the goals would have graced any goal-of-the-month competition.  We stood – what bliss, to stand at a game – behind one of the goals and were almost on the pitch.  It was fab.  I loved it.

Next up, in the first round proper, we are at home to Huddersfield, who won the FA Cup in 1922 and the League three times in a row in the 1920s.  They now occupy the heights of League One but did spend two seasons in the Premier League before they were relegated in 2019.  “Count me in, please,” I instructed my friends, thinking that the match was on Saturday afternoon, 2nd November, the day before Spurs v Villa.  Perfect.

But I’ve just looked again and, lo and behold, the match has been moved to the evening of Friday the 1st because it’ll be on the telly, BBC no less.  Great – the exposure and the money involved are a big help to small clubs –  but this fan has a problem:  it’s Quiz Night at WHGC and I’m not sure what my team will say when I tell them I’m thinking of abandoning them and going to the football…Surely they won’t miss me if I can find a sub who’s good at soaps, films, pop music, the picture round and any number of other subjects that leave me floundering?  Any volunteers?

Just to let you know that it’s not a long way to Tamworth – 14.2 kilometres and 19 minutes by the most direct route with no traffic to speak of according to Waves (app that’s useful for those of us with no sense of direction).  There are lots of decent pubs in Tamworth and a bar at the club, so I thought about going by train (times didn’t work) or by bus (free with my old person’s pass but getting the timing right there and back would be tricky).  So, sorry Greta and fellow eco warriors, the car it was.

And, would you believe it, like most of my football forays the journey wasn’t straightforward.  There were gridlocks (the notorious Ventura Park shopping centre on a Saturday, aaagh), U-turns, time-limited car parks that wouldn’t work before, at last, I gave up and parked at the club for £3.  Bliss.

In the evening, two of us wrapped up well and went to a lovely concert by the Serenade Trio at Four Oaks Methodist Church, a notoriously chilly venue.

The trio comprised:  Helen, soprano supreme, who is in charge of Everybody Sings!, the choir that tolerates me (no-note Madill – the Davieses are not responsible for my lack of musicality); Clare, pianist, flautist, singer, arranger, who is our accompanist; and Lisa, who sings in the choir, is principal clarinettist in the City of Lichfield Concert Band and a saxophonist of note.  They are ridiculously talented and if they’re ever at a venue near you, go, go, go.  Their next gig is at the Aldridge Church Centre on 25th January.

I don’t know if any of you have been watching the ICC Women’s T20 World Cup but there was a result of seismic proportions the other day when South Africa beat Australia, the defending champions, by eight wickets in the semi-final in Dubai.  So Australia, who hardly ever lose, are out; England are out; India are out; the big guns gone.  It’s New Zealand against the West Indies in the second semi, which can only be good for the game worldwide, surely.

And, finally, a Mary McKenna special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I decided quite recently that it was time I did a clear out of my wardrobe – mainly because it’s quite a while since I tackled that particular job.  Patricia, on the other hand, lives in a perpetual state of “doing some clearing” and when I visited her last week and saw the entire contents of her wardrobe on her bedroom floor, it gave me the push I needed to get started.

Normally I’m pretty ruthless.  If it hasn’t been on my back for five years, out it goes into one of three piles.  Pile one is for the charity shop;  pile two consists of items to offer to friends or family which, if rejected, will transfer to pile one; and pile three consists of things beyond repair which somehow managed to avoid the last cull.

I made a start and did a section of my wardrobe and then, for some unfathomable reason, decided to have a look in a wardrobe in a spare bedroom.  I couldn’t believe my eyes at what I saw there.  In at the back, tucked away behind old winter coats and spare duvets and pillows were my international team blazers from amateur days……… and what was that residing in a Dubai Duty Free carrier bag that had the strapline, “Full of Surprises” printed across the bottom?  Only my green Irish international jersey.  Well, that was indeed a surprise – particularly when I worked out it must be 39 years old and had somehow miraculously avoided the moths!  The evidence is in the photo at the top.

There were two Irish blazers – one bottle green one and one much brighter green one.  The dark one was in vogue for my first cap in the Home Internationals back in 1978 at Moortown golf club in Leeds.  It was the fulfillment of all my childhood dreams to be able to pull that on, the result of hours of practising and striving and suddenly it was all worthwhile.  At the end of the week my record read – played one match, lost one match (to my now great pal, Pam Whitley Valentine) and I decided this golf lark was, perhaps, not for me after all.

The next time I pulled on an Irish blazer was ten months later and this time it was the bright green one.  My golf must also have been considerably brighter as in the interim I’d won the British Amateur (now known as the Women’s Amateur).  The bright green suited us as Ireland dazzled their way to success that year in the European Team Championships held at Hermitage golf club in Dublin.  We won the Home Internationals the following year at Cruden Bay and repeated our European win in 1983 in Brussels.  That blazer saw a lot of very good parties.

A bit more rummaging produced a couple of navy blazers.  Ah, must be my Great Britain & Ireland blazer……….but no, both were from the coaching part of my career which succeeded the playing part.  One was from my time as the Welsh National Coach and the other when I was coach to the Ladies’ Golf Union, looking after the Great Britain & Ireland squads.  That was all very well but not nearly as interesting to me as the blazer I had donned over the years when playing in the Vagliano Trophy, the Curtis Cup, the Commonwealth Tournament and the World Amateur Team Championships.  Where on earth could that be?

In the space of twenty minutes I had gone from being surprised at finding my Irish blazers and jumper to being dismayed that I couldn’t find my GB&I one.  Searches of other spare wardrobes and even a trip to the attic, which I knew would be fruitless, failed to produce said jacket.  Where was it?   How could you LOSE your international team blazer?

Somewhere, somewhere, rattling around in the dim, distant recesses of my brain is the feeling that I lent it to someone.  I have no idea to whom.  And I’ve never heard of anyone having to borrow a team blazer – seems very odd indeed to me.  I cannot think of any other explanation however.

Of the two navy blazers that were hanging there my favourite is undoubtedly my Welsh one.  It instantly transports me back to my proudest Welsh moment at Dornoch in 1999 when Wales won the women’s Home International series for the first time ever.  What a team……and what a result to put alongside the previous month’s victory by the girls’ team in the Junior International series.  The double was accomplished, creating history and ushering in an exciting time for Welsh golf after decades of taking home the wooden spoon.

That was another great party and yes, tears were shed.

So, I now need help with the conundrum that faces me.  I have no children to foist these items on and none of piles one, two or three is suitable for these garments – so what do I do?  Just hang them back up in the spare wardrobe and continue to wonder what happened to the missing blazer?  All of you out there – from the US, from Europe, the Commonwealth and from GB&I – what fate has befallen YOUR international blazers?

All advice and correspondence very welcome…….especially if I lent you a navy blue blazer with rather a smart badge way back when.