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.”

 

 

Sometimes, when the tumult and the fury are raging all around, it’s good to take a break, concentrate on breathing and luxuriate in a garden that is starting to bloom of its own accord (above).  Nothing to do with me, guv or nothing much.  I stuck a few things in and left them to it.  Back to nature.

Which brings me to another sort of back.  Whenever I mention that I’m going to the osteopath, my fit and healthy friends, the ones without backs, inevitably say, “Why?  What’s wrong with you?”

Usually, at least for the last goodness knows how long, the answer has been, “Nothing really, it’s just routine maintenance.”  But last week that insouciance was forgotten as the back seized up in a way that had become unfamiliar and I came to a grinding halt.  Not completely seized up and immobile but unable to bend – blimey, what a rude reminder of how important bending is in day to day life, let alone golf!

The dishwasher was a nuisance. So was the sink, if truth be told. And it’s amazing how often you drop things on the floor when you can’t bend very well. And if you do manage to get down there to pick stuff up, what do you see? Dust. Cobwebs. Clutter. And what daren’t you do? Brush, sweep, hoover, mop. Not stuff I’m mad keen to do as a general rule but I like to be able to choose not to do it…

I’d been to the sainted K, osteo extraordinaire, who keeps large numbers of WHGC’s members up and moving, just a couple of weeks earlier and she had mentioned a wee bit of inflammation.  And given me a video link to a hip flexor exercise.  I looked at it, made a note to try it, then went into overdrive, literally.  Up to Glasgow to stay with friends; down to Dundonald Links (the long way round), to play golf (delightful); across to St Andrews (the long way round – still nothing too sharp about my sense of direction despite decades of practice) for Renton’s memorial service; across to Edinburgh (more or less without deviation) to have lunch with a friend and stay overnight with another friend (via a circuitous route despite my phone doing the navigating); home (nearly wiped out on the M6 by a mad red van speeding through a gap that wasn’t there until I stood on the brakes);  singing; tai chi; preparing curry for the in-laws; down to Spurs via Milton Keynes (more driving, sitting on a coach; watching us beat Leicester 3-1, sonsational, worldy goal from Son Heung-Min, man of the match); back home via MK; patio cleaning; planting Christmas tree (at last); standing starting at WHGC for a couple of hours and more; then 18 holes at PGA National (still no sign of my 7-iron).

The next day, Wednesday a week ago, the back gave up the unequal struggle.  “For goodness sake,” a friend said in what-on-earth-did-you-expect exasperation.  “Ibuprofen if you can tolerate it and plenty of paracetamol.  Remember, you’re not 30 any more.”

I had another reminder of that when I was squeezed in to the osteopaths’ busy schedule and seen by a charming young man, who set me on the road to recovery.  I don’t pay much attention to my ageing body whenever K’s doing the manipulating – we’ve both seen it all before but there’s nothing quite as horrifying as looking at yourself with new eyes…Vanity, vanity, what is the bloody point!

Chastened but eternally grateful, I had a coffee and made my way home (slowly, by the shortest route).

I had to postpone two matches and cancel the Hamer Cup for another year – congrats to Pamela on a great win – but managed to stagger round on Wednesday afternoon in the Jacobs mixed greensomes (last chance of getting the four of us on the course together before the deadline) without too much agony.  Hooray for talented osteopaths!

It was my first time playing the new course in its entirety and I really enjoyed it but half way round there was a reminder of just why we’ve had all these changes – visions in orange outfits and hard hats setting up camp, preparing to shake, rattle and roll in the name of HS2.  More fencing, more digging, more overspending.  Who’d be a taxpayer?

And yes, the two photos were taken on the same afternoon;  the weather was nothing if not changeable, nearly as unpredictable as the golf.

Finally, another blast from the past for my – and I hope your – delectation and delight.

I love this pic but you don’t get the full benefit of the view – the mountains in the background are stunning – because I wanted to get the drivers in.  Just look at those heads, how small they are, how wooden – probably a bit of persimmon in there.  How on earth did we hackers ever get round any golf course?  This hole was 644 yards long  – I know the altitude makes a difference but really!  I don’t know what the boys scored but I do know it wasn’t the round they’d hoped for because Kaye, one of whose roles was as media director for The International, the modified stableford competition that took place at Castle Pines for several years, wrote a caption that summed it all up.

Kaye, who died in December last year, aged 97, was once advised by Jack Nicklaus (I think), who was a good friend, “Not to take that swing out of town!”  Well, he took it all over the world and won hearts and minds wherever he went, with his charm, wit, generosity and gift for friendship.  I thought Kaye would live forever – and I suppose there’s little doubt that he will as his stories and bon mots are passed on down the generations.

Still lighting up the room, Kaye.

This week’s blog may be a little more disjointed and distracted than usual [not possible, surely? – ed] because a friend phoned just as I was sitting down to decompose and told me that Top Hat was on the telly.  Well, that was the end of the golf, Vera, New Tricks, the footie on the radio (sorry West Ham, Leicester, Rangers – well done, brilliant effort to reach the final).  Fred and Ginger, nothing can beat that, especially in glorious black and white with wonderful songs.  Heaven!

I was going to talk about balls first of all, hence the colourful little number at the head of this piece (technical hitches permitting).  After all, balls of one sort or another are integral to many games, including golf and this blog, in its nonsensical way…

Many golfers, chiefly professionals and good players who know what they’re doing, most of the time, are very particular about their balls – number of layers, dimple patterns, aerodynamics, compression, durability, soft feel, any number of things that remain a mystery to a lot of us lower down the swinging order.  Colour, designed mostly I suspect to appeal to us females (one of those token, lip-service gestures to women in golf) comes under visibility in the technical specs.  As for the football ball, I’d assumed (dangerous things assumptions) that it was a stroke of promotional inspiration connected to some championship or other.

Perhaps it was but a few days ago someone told me that the pattern not only made the ball look bigger but was also an anti-yips device…Sorry, not a clue.  No idea how that’s supposed to work.  If you do, please reveal all.

The purveyor of this surprising information hadn’t time to explain further because she was playing in our Ladies’ Open Am-Am at Whittington and, as starter, I couldn’t keep her on the 1st tee any longer without compromising the start sheet.

You’ll be delighted and amazed to know that I took my duties seriously and because I couldn’t see the club clock from the new 1st tee, I used the alarm on my phone to give us all a one-minute warning:  1009 for the 1010 tee time, 1019 for the 1020 and so on – simple (it needed to be) but effective.

It hardly rained at all and it was a delightful job, seeing a lot of old friends for the first time for ages and welcoming people who were keen to see the new holes.  The day before, I’d played the first five, all new – I’d missed the official opening because I’d had covid – just in case people asked me too many questions I couldn’t answer.  The skylarks were delightfully noisy and I even had a birdie four at the 5th, something that I’m unlikely to equal no matter how often I play the hole.

I learned early on – thanks to somebody’s distance gizmo – that the fairway bunkers to the right are 220 yards, give or take, from the red tees and most of us can aim at them with impunity.  Longer hitters should aim on the windmill (new-fashioned propellor type) out towards Derbyshire (I think; regular readers know that my geography is as suspect as my sense of direction).  I also learned that you have to aim well right because there’s a poxy bunker on the left that will catch many a drive that looks perfectly safe and respectable until it hits the fairway and starts kicking in an ominously leftward direction.

Mind you, June, my fellow starter and I were stumped by a relatively simply query:  where’s the halfway hut?  What hole?  Ah.  Good question.  June and I looked at each other.  ????  The 8th?  9th?  Somewhere over that way – we gestured expansively.  You’ll see it when you get there!  Well, there’s nothing like a good laugh to set people on their merry way…

After a quick lunch I headed to The Belfry for the first time in ages to play in the AGW’s Michael Williams Hogget on the PGA course – the DP World Tour bods were practising for the Betfred British Masters on the Brabazon, referred to by a friend as the Amazon!  Too right, it was always long, sodden and blooming hard when I played it, way beyond a much younger me when it was much shorter than it is now.  As it turned out, the PGA proved more than long and winding enough.

It’s 25 years (unbelievable) since Michael, the golf correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, died and his son Roddy presented the trophy to Colin Harding, who came out on top for the second successive year.  I was well adrift but not too unhappy with my score despite a shank at the last, something I’d also managed at Dundonald Links on my previous outing.  Must have a look at Maureen’s anti-socket tip of a few weeks ago.

Even more annoyingly I managed to lose my new Ping 7-iron and, so far, there’s been no sign of it.  Given my current form, I’ll miss it more than it’ll miss me.  Hope it’s found a good home.

Finally, another snap from all our yesterdays, the unforgettable trip to Prairie Dunes for the Curtis Cup of 1986.  Our family and friends might just about recognise us but in our defence we’d just played golf in 106 degrees Fahrenheit (suppose we’d have been totally frazzled and unrecognisable if it had been Centigrade) and it was a bit of a miracle that we were more or less upright.

Yes.  WE WERE THERE!

 

 

It’s been a busy week, an unusually busy one for me these days, not least because it involved a trip to Scotland, where I played golf, attended a memorial service and caught up with friends.  Brill.  Must get out and about more often.

The golf was at Dundonald Links in Ayrshire, not too far from Troon, albeit not so venerable, on a glorious day.  I played most of the round in shirt sleeves despite so many years in the Midlands, as far from the sea as it is possible to get in England, that I’m probably now classed as a southern softie.  My golf was less wonderful than the weather but it was a joy to be on a links again and we even got to play a hole with Catriona Matthew, of Solheim Cup fame.

 

 

Catriona has retired from the day-to-day grind of tournament golf – it’s usually the travel that takes its toll – but is far from done with the game and one of her many roles is as tournament ambassador to the Trust Golf Women’s Scottish Open.  It’s at Dundonald at the end of July, 28th-31st, with a prize fund of $2 million.  Dr Prin Singhanart, the physicist who founded Trust Golf, part of a Thai-based technology enterprise, said, “We look to enhance and grow this historic event to sit alongside the best tournaments on the schedule….we aim to to grow the game and create the best opportunities for female golfers.”

There were two other very special females – not golfers – on hand to support the tournament, taking a brief break from their countrywide tour with their manager Andrew Cotter.  Yes, it was the global social media stars Olive and Mabel, labs without limits.  They’d been performing in St Andrews and, I think, Troon and were preparing to head for the ferry to cross to Belfast and then, passports permitting, Dublin.

With the labs, very down to earth for superstars, busy scavenging for food – don’t forget they’re the breed that put the nick into picnic – Andrew said, “With a lot of their family nearby in Troon, they look forward to this sporting event above all others.”

After a lovely, luxurious night at Dundonald Links, it was off to St Andrews for Renton Laidlaw’s memorial service.  Renton, who died last October at the age of 82, spent his life on the move as a writer and a broadcaster, radio and television, supreme.  He had the gift of the gab – everything invariably beautifully judged and paced, rarely lost for the mot juste – but above all he had a gift for friendship.  In a notoriously bitchy, backstabbing business, no one had a bad word to say about Renton.  Occasionally he’d be teased for his propensity to go on a bit – whenever he was accepting an award, say, or hosting a dinner – but he had a never-ending fund of great stories, so why not tell them?

He was a multi-tasking workaholic who wrote, broadcast, edited (The Golfer’s Handbook of blessed memory, a great resource) and still had time to be secretary, chairman and president of the AGW.  I used to joke that he was like a shark – he had to keep moving to keep breathing.  He’d fly to Phoenix for the day, then the south of France, Sunningdale, St Andrews, Augusta, Australia, there was nowhere he wasn’t known.  He was kind, generous, twinkly and was much loved.  He never married – he never stayed still long enough – but his friends, female and male, were devoted to him and gathered from all over the world to pay tribute to him.

The stands are already going up around the Old Course in preparation for a very special Open, the 150th, this July and nearly 300,000 spectators are expected during the week (10th-17th), with the whole show expected to generate around £200 million in total economic benefit to Scotland according to the SIRC (Sport Industry Research Centre) at Sheffield Hallam University in a report commissioned by the R&A.

This is an all-ticket Open – not quite so open then?  Gone are the days when you could pitch up on the day and buy a ticket at the gate.  Apparently when the ballot opened there were more than 1.3 million applications.

 

One of the great things about St Andrews is how compact it is and how cosmopolitan – it’s packed with students from all over the world as well as golfers.  It’s also home to hordes of gulls, big buggers who swirl around with malice aforethought, ready to outdo the greediest labradors as nickers of picnics and, afterwards, splatter whatever lies beneath – be it pavement, pedestrian or car.  If you’re a driver, make sure you have a big bottle of water and some kitchen roll to hand.  You’ll need it!

Some of the golf writers were on the tee on Tuesday, part of the pre-Open briefing and recce and they got a dry, grey and chilly morning for their game.  I was lucky enough to capture Derek Lawrenson’s opening drive (below).

Derek, golf correspondent of the Daily Mail, former chairman of the AGW and a happy Liverpool supporter anticipating an unprecedented quadruple, has been on my road-to-hell conscience for nearly three years.  He won the Golf Writers’ Championship in 2019 (at Royal Liverpool, Hoylake), for a record-equalling fourth time and I meant to send him a note welcoming him to the club – but never did.  Sorry Derek. Well done.  Welcome.