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…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It certainly feels as if summer has arrived in our little corner of the world (west Cheshire) and golf courses all over the place are shrugging off the winter blues and beginning to look their best.  Just as well, because we are rolling in to that time of year that Ladies’ and Gents’ Captains’ Days are looming and, let’s face it, there have been poor pickings in that department over the last couple of years.

With all the challenges that golfers have faced, we as members must collectively offer up thanks to all those who took on two years of captaincy during the pandemic instead of one.  This unsung band of folk learned how to conduct club business via Zoom, how to run Covid friendly get-togethers when they were allowed and how to be the communication link par excellence between the staff and members.  And frequently their big day didn’t happen at all!

So, this blog sends very best wishes, not only to the current captains putting the finishing touches to all the details for the highlight of their year, but also to those immediate past captains who have relinquished most of their responsibilities and, hopefully, will be able to enjoy a stress-free time on the golf course.

There is much evidence that golfers are beginning to travel further afield again.  Mary Hafeman, a pal and former American Curtis Cup player, who was on the opposing side to me at St Pierre back in the day, is a renowned teaching professional in the States and runs a successful business bringing her compatriots on golf trips.  It’s great to have her back in the UK and she currently has a group playing some of the great courses in Scotland.  A visit to the fabulously spectacular Castle Stuart in Inverness last weekend saw her hook up with Castle Stuart’s teaching professional Gillian Stewart, who also played in that long ago match at St Pierre.  The two of them dusted off their clubs and had a friendly fourball and no doubt there was a lot of reminiscing.

My stand-out memory of that St Pierre Curtis Cup match was that the Americans sent their woollen trousers off to the local dry cleaners.  They had realised that although it was June it was going to be nowhere near warm enough for shorts and that despite bulging suitcases the temperatures dictated they would be wearing the woolly trews most days.  Imagine the horror of the Americans and the hilarity in the  British and Irish camp when the trousers arrived back, every single pair having shrunk?  Amazingly, they don’t look that out of place in this era of seven/eighths trousers and crops, but, boy, were they peculiar looking back then!

I’ve often expounded on how I value the strands and connections formed through golf – strands that span decades and cross the globe.  Any week is improved when an email from Pia Nilsson pops into the inbox.  Pia is an educator extraordinaire, a former player of high standing and now an inspirational coach and developer of life skills.

She and her partner Lynn Marriott formed the phenomenally successful Vision 54 company and this blog has over the years unreservedly recommended their books and teachings.  Pia and Lynn, like Mary Hafeman, will also shortly be crossing the Atlantic, returning as they do most years to Pia’s native Sweden.  They take three weeks to decompress and recharge the batteries ready for more empowering but energy-sapping work.

These little snippets of news about, and from, old pals, with whom one shares a common back story going back years, have always meant a lot to me.  They have been a bright part in a difficult last ten days in my journey back to health post Covid and a welcome escape from the medical world I find myself wrapped up in.  It all helps me feel connected to the game despite the fact I’m not yet ready to take to the fairways (or even the rough!) yet.

And now I am immersing myself in the second of the men’s majors, the PGA, which is being played at Southern Hills in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  I was fortunate enough to be there in 2007 when Tiger won.  Then, the championship was played in August and the temperatures were well over 100 degrees (Fahrenheit) every day.  One of the difficulties was in keeping hydrated for five hours plus when doing commentary out on the course and matters weren’t helped by an officious marshal who refused to allow me a bottle of water from a drinks chest earmarked for the photographers.  The man was apoplectic when a snapper strode past him, opened the cooler and extracted two ice cold bottles, both of which he handed to me.  I could have married him on the spot – the photographer, not the marshal – as it was physically impossible to carry with you all the water you were going to require during the round.  The temperatures should be much kinder at this time of year and more suitable for the usual suspects I’ll be rooting for.

Come Sunday, will we have another European major winner holding the Wanamaker Trophy (see photo at top)?  Will Jordan Spieth have become the sixth man to achieve the Career Grand Slam of winning all four majors?  Or, whisper it, will the seemingly indestructible Tiger have annexed major number 16?  He has won here before, after all?!

As always, your guess is as good as mine.  Have a good week.

Audere best faker is NOT the Spurs motto, it’s what the predictive worst – wotsit was what I typed, on purpose – decided I was trying to say.  Being an old club, founded in 1882 with the rather grand name of Tottenham Hotspur, we are fond of our Latin and the real motto is Audere Est Facere (To Dare Is To Do).  Dare, Dream, Do seems to be the modern injunction.

We had the cards come out in the South Stand before the match against Arsenal Thursday a week ago and we won – whoop, whoop – 3-0 – because they gave away a penalty and had a man sent off.  Oh joy, oh rapture!  I haven’t been too triumphalist around my Arsenal friends and family (how on earth did that happen?!!) because they get more upset than I do and were still ahead on points.  Now, with one game left (thank you Newcastle), it’s in our hands and if we lose at Norwich (bottom of the table by an ocean and a half), we’ll have finished the season as beyond Spursy and deserving of Roy Keane’s contempt.

Apologies (not very heartfelt) to the non-football fans who couldn’t care less and are baffled by the foregoing waffle.  What it all means is if we (Spurs) draw with or beat Norwich at Carrow Road on Sunday, we finish fourth in the league, thus qualifying for the Champions’ League and shedloads of money.  Who said the game was all about glory?  It’s so long since we won a trophy that we’ve saved shedloads of money on silver polish.  The mighty Spurs?  In our dreams.

I’m not sure football clubs realise – or care particularly – how much effort fans put in to getting to matches.  And the bods that organise the fixtures, with telly requirements uppermost, certainly don’t give it a moment’s thought.  Spurs v Arsenal, a derby of more than usual significance, was scheduled for 1945 on Thursday and our last home match of the season, against Burnley, was set for noon the following Sunday.  Mmmm.  Tricky for everyone and a bit of a conundrum for those of us travelling from any distance.

I decided against flogging up and down via coach or whatever and stayed in London for four nights instead!  I told you we fans are a bit bonkers but there was some method in my madness because I was able to stay with rellies and catch up with them, which was lovely, even though the household contained two Arsenal fans (who knows how that happened?).

The night of the Arsenal match I stayed at the youth hostel – if you join the YHA (Youth Hostel Association), they don’t care what age you are, so old dolls are welcome – at Oxford Circus.  It’s not the cheapest option but it was convenient, not far from the tube and a straight run up the Victoria Line to Tottenham Hale, easy-peasy even for a person capable of complicating the simplest trip.

I had a room to myself, though the loo and shower were down the corridor and the wifi was a bit dodgy but I suspect that was more to do with my own technical shortcomings.  I had to pay an extra £2 for a large bath towel and it was all clean and comfy enough if a bit spartan.  In the morning, I stuck my luggage in a locker (another two quid) and had a very pleasant meander, visiting Liberty for the first time in years and wandering down to Fortnum and Mason, where there seemed to be little sign of the recession.

I’d forgotten how tiring shopping – even window-shopping – can be and eventually flopped down at a touristy tapas bar that delivered up a pan con tomate that was so ordinary that it was beyond criticism.  Soggy and tasteless, it filled a hole, along with some cheesy croquetty things and a small, expensive beer.  At least the service was cheerful but I wondered where I’d gone wrong when I heard people saying they’d made a reservation…

On the golf front (at last), I was really looking forward to the PGA Championship, especially when I heard that Rory was drawn with Tiger and Jordan Spieth.  Perfect.  Our man McIlroy would have to concentrate from the first shot in such company and he played beautifully for a 65, five under par, to lead.  Heaven only knows what’ll happen next on a course that is designed to keep players honest but it makes a change from having to watch him play catch-up.

Worryingly, the other morning I woke up and groggily realised that I’d been dreaming about Rory.  We were in a press conference and he said something like “I couldn’t have played any better,” and I tutted and said “No,” so loudly that everybody turned and looked.

“That’s not the point,” I said.  “You have to be able to come off and say, ‘I couldn’t have scored any better’.  That’s the point.”