At the moment football seems to be taking up more of my attention than golf, not least because it takes a lot more organising to get to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium from this neck of the woods than it does to get to Whittington Heath Golf Club.  My golf and my team’s football are currently pretty similar and could be summed up in one little four-letter word:  poor (or similar, beginning with ‘c’).

I have an excuse:   I’m getting on a bit, don’t practise and lack ability.  What’s my team’s excuse?  None of the foregoing certainly.  Being a glutton for punishment I watched Match of the Day 2 when I got home last Sunday and this comment, well into the second half, just about summed it up:  “Probably the best move we’ve seen from Tottenham [killer pause]….Not a particularly high bar….”

We (the way we’re going that’ll be ‘they’ before too long) were well beaten by the mighty Wolves, who were gifted two goals early on and kept an iron grip on the match on a day that became increasingly wet and miserable, for the home side and supporters if not the visitors, who probably didn’t notice.   They picked up three precious points and were warmed by the knowledge that there was nothing fluky about their 2-nil win.  They looked like a team who knew what they were doing; we on the other hand looked alarmingly clueless.  It was hard to argue with the jubilant Wolves fans who sent us on our not-so-merry way with an unsubtle chant of “Spurs are shite”.

Before the game, just outside the stadium, a young man with a beard (don’t they all look alike these days?  I confess I can’t tell one beard from another) asked if I’d like to have a chat with him and his film crew (well, there were three of them – the talent, the cameraman and the clipboard man, a well-funded operation obviously).  Those of you who know me will be astounded to hear that I declined.  Passing up the opportunity to pontificate?  Unbelievable!

I told a little white lie and said that I was camera shy.  I think he said “Pity” but if he did, it could only have been because there aren’t that many old dolls strolling up to the stadium on their own – there are plenty of us scattered about but we’re usually accompanied, having hooked up with fellow Tottenham tragics.  I wasn’t ill and I wasn’t short of things to say but I’d just eaten a delicious wrap and the truth was that I was afraid I’d got jerk chicken or coleslaw (homemade) or coriander – or all three – stuck in my teeth…

Sunday’s game kicked off at 1400 hours and I left home at 0730 and got back at 2100-ish.  Bonkers or what?!!  The night before I’d been at a Valentine’s Day dinner at the golf club that meant I struggled to give my full attention to Ireland’s so-near-yet-so-far heroics in Paris (late kick-off, sorting out outfit, rooting out uncaked make-up, unladdered tights, comfy shoes) and was not in bed as early as I should have been.  Bonkers or what?  Not really, no.  It was a good night out with friends, a long-denied joy in this age of the pandemic and well worth the detour.

There was no time for breakfast the next morning but amazingly I was organised enough to prepare something earlier for eating on the coach and it gives me a rare opportunity to do that picture-of-what-I’m-eating thing that seems to have taken over Instagram, Facebook and other such outlets. It may, luckily or unluckily for you, dear reader, be a first for the blog.

Talking of food, we’ve just got a Michelin star here in Lichfield – not in this establishment where gunges or cold collations cobbled together tend to be the order of the day – but at Upstairs, a relatively new restaurant starring Tom Shepherd.  Congratulations to him and good luck to anyone trying to get a reservation after his elevation.

Flicking idly through the channels the other day – probably with a gunge on my knee, against all the advice about how to eat healthily and mindfully – I happened upon the 2006 Ryder Cup at the K Club and was shocked to see how young everyone looked:  Tiger, Phil, Lee, Henrik and of course Darren Clarke, whose wife Heather had not long died from cancer.  It couldn’t have been a more emotional week and what memories came flooding back…

More of those another time but to make up for the lack of golf this week here are a couple of questions arising from that match:  where are J.J. Henry, Vaughn Taylor, Brett Wetterich and Chad Campbell now?   Also, can you name the six players to have a hole-in-one at a Ryder Cup?  To make it easier, Paul Casey and Scott Verplank both aced the 14th in 2006, so that leaves four more, all in earlier matches.  And, finally, name the first left-handed Ryder Cupper.  There have been three.

I’m off to batten down the hatches in preparation for Eunice, the storm sweeping in to wreak more havoc just behind Dudley.  Keep safe everybody.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You know those times when things are getting on top of you and you’re floundering to keep a vague semblance of control over things?   No?  Ah, an organised bod who not only writes lists but looks at them and works their way methodically from top to bottom, ignoring all twists and turns and refusing to dive down rabbit holes.  Not someone like me who is easily distracted, leaves her home insurance, car insurance and tax return to the very last minute, then has conniptions – not in the same league as a panic attack but uncomfortable enough – and fantasises about selling the house and disposing of every last possession.  Mmmm, maybe not a good idea at this time of year for those of us who are lucky enough to have got used to central heating and hot water on demand.

I was oddly cheered by someone on the radio saying that it was a fallacy to think that we were in control of our lives at any time and at the moment there are any number of places where everything seems to be running out of control, be it a coup, a tsunami, an impending invasion, a party, a trial, an illness, whatever.

Checking in most evenings for 1-2-3 Move with Esther (Gokhale, 8 Steps to a Pain-Free Back; www.gokhalemethod.com) in an effort to improve my posture and get the old bones in to some sort of order, I’m a fan of this carpenter from Burkina Faso and couldn’t help wondering how he’s getting on after the coup.  A few years ago he persuaded Esther to take his photo and he’s a lovely example of how working at a low table in front of you is no excuse for hunching and rounding your shoulders and poking your neck out of line!  Ah well, we can all dream of at least some improvement.

I’m trying to incorporate some Gokhale principles in to my golf swing – well the set-up and stance anyway – but it’s hard to break the habits of nearly a lifetime.  At least it’ll give me something to think about and work on for the rest of my golfing life.

One of the rabbit holes I scuttled down recently was trying to find out why Adrian Meronk of Poland withdrew from the Abu Dhabi HSBC Championship after three rounds, when he was a more than respectable four under par.  I couldn’t find an explanation anywhere on europeantour.com (it’s now the DP World Tour but the website has yet to be rebranded) so I looked up Adrian’s Twitter and there was nothing there, though there was an email address for his management group.

I sent an email (think I was putting off deciding on my new car insurer) but had no reply, then noticed that my mention of his eagle three at the last hole was a complete nonsense – that was from last year, in Dubai, a completely different tournament; DUH.  Nearly as annoying as Facebook bringing up stuff from years ago and me thinking it’s something recent…

Well, what is current is that Adrian did withdraw but he’s back on the course this week at the Slync.io Dubai Desert Classic and seems to be ok.  Meanwhile, I’m older, chastened but still none the wiser…

Not having made any new year resolutions I thought I should get out my Renew You Journal, which I’ve had since October, when I went on a lovely one-day course with Jane Woods (www.changingpeople.co.uk) near Bath.  There were four of us and I think Jane sent all of us away with, as it says in the book, “renewed vigour and energy to make positive and lasting change in your life, a renewed you…”

By my calculations, it’s 17 weeks since my trip to Bath and the exercise this week is to “Try to look at something in your life from a different perspective this week.”  So I skipped to week 36 where the recommendation is to start laughing and smiling, even though I didn’t much feel like doing either.  According to the book, “Laughter can help to relieve stress and has been shown to improve our immune system.  Laughing has been described as like giving your innards a workout; massaging our inner organs….When we can laugh at something, we change our perspective and our attitude.”

Apparently small children smile about 400 times a day and we adults manage only about 14 smiles…Serious and all as life is that doesn’t sound good.  Let’s all make an effort to smile harder.  Thinking about it, my golf’s quite good for a laugh right now, new clubs notwithstanding.

Maureen gave me a present that makes me smile – it’s a picture and I’m having fun deciding how to frame it and where to hang it.  It’s by a woman called Judith Clara (www.judithclara.de) who specialises in one-line drawings and it’s fascinating to try to work out exactly how she does it, where does she start?  Something to ponder over a glass of red.

One of the pieces we’re learning at singing (there’ll be no one who knows me who won’t be laughing at the very thought and clutching their ears in horror) is “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”.  Words and music by Bobby McFerrin, arranged by the prolific Audrey Snyder.  I love it but it’s very tricky and there’s no way in the world that I can sing it.

The second part, for the growlers like me, is all doo doo doo doos, pretty well ad infinitum and I woke up the other morning thinking about it – and realising that I could be doo doo doo dooing without success from now until doo doo doo Doomsday…

At least that made me laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello everybody and Happy New Year.  First things first, apologies for my dearth of Christmas cards; am starting early this year in the hope that I’ll be able to work my way through my list and let my friends (most of whom are not psychic) know that I’m thinking of them.  If I write a few every month between now and December, my main worry will surely be remembering where I’ve put them.

One of my friends told me to “keep writing the bollocks”, so here we are again.  I wasn’t sure Mo and I would start up again – she’s not feeling great and has had to suspend her golf club membership, not least because she can’t cope with being in the car long enough to get to the club and I’ve been spending more time going up and down to Tottenham Hotspur Stadium (think I’ll go back to calling it White Hart Lane) than on the golf course.

And much as I enjoy watching people playing golf in shirt sleeves with a sparkling sea in the background while I’m bundled up in multiple layers, I’m not that excited by a few multi-millionaires in a jostle towards billionairedom annoyed that they haven’t broken 60!  Fantastic players, some amazing shots but, frankly, at this time of year it’s the view that appeals to me.  And making full use of my season ticket.

My golf, such as it is, has been so sporadic recently and so rubbish that it’s as well that I now play for the company and the exercise – and the worse the golf the greater the exercise, so I suppose you could call that a bonus.   Then, last week, oh happy day, the new irons that I’d ordered in July arrived at WHGC.

We’d played bridge in the morning – most of us still beginners but definitely getting better and now almost sedate enough to survive a hand or two at a proper bridge club should they (and we) be desperate enough.  Anyway, the course was closed for most of the day because of fog but lo and behold it cleared just as I was about to head for home after a leisurely lunch, the sun was out and I couldn’t resist the temptation to try out the long-awaited irons (living on your own without a dog your time’s your own).

I left the driver in the locker and played a loop of five holes.  Of course I hit the new clubs beautifully most of the time because there was no score to worry about, no pressure to do anything but test them out and do my best to judge the frozen bounce.  I’d forgotten how lovely it is to play a few holes on your own on a beautiful evening simply for the joy of it and I had a bit of a revelation.

I am still a golfer.

Blimey.  That came as a bit of a shock.

Not a person who can hit a golf ball well, not even remotely that sort of golfer these days; after all a friend who was a proper golfer couldn’t believe that my new irons consisted solely of a 7, a 9, a wedge of some sort (think it’s got a U on it) and a sand iron.  No sign of proper irons like a 4 or a 3, let alone a 2.  She used to love her 2-iron, hitting it miles, especially when the fairways were dry, fast and hard-running.  Dead as the dodo now thanks to hybrids and different lofts and lies and myriad modern tweaks.

No, I’m not a golfer who can hit the ball properly, I’m just a golfer who has discovered, rather to her surprise, that she still loves golf, that the game itself is the main thing.  Weird.

Our AGM’s today (Friday) and there’s been a lot going on, what with big changes to the constitution, the move to the new clubhouse, COVID 19, loads of trees being cut down as we prepare the ground for a return to proper heathland and the monstrous HS2.  Any number of people have put in hours upon hours of time and effort to keep us going throughout the disruptions and I’m full of admiration and gratitude for their dedication and diligence – and their ability to cope with the gripes and snipes, the moans and groans of the rest of us.

We women, greatly outnumbered, still have to fight our corner as part of the whole, as all minorities do (albeit in this case a pretty privileged one) but hey ho, we relish the challenge and send our representatives in to the fray armed with a smile, a packet of paracetamol and membership of The Wine Society.

Over in Australia, where even the male chauvinists are forced to be creative (isolation, small market, small fields, economic forces, that sort of thing), they’re getting quite good at accepting that it makes sense for the women and men professional golfers to run their events concurrently.  The other week the Australian PGA Championship and Australian WPGA Championship, both sponsored by Fortinet (a cyber security firm as far as I can gather) took place at Royal Queensland, separate tournaments played together on a proper golf course.  Hallelujah.

Jed Morgan (keep an eye out for him further afield) ran away with the men’s event, smashing all sorts of records on his way to lifting the Joe Kirkwood Cup and Su Oh won the women’s championship to take home the inaugural Karrie Webb Cup.  Stoked to give her name to the trophy, Karrie apparently insisted that it be big enough to hold a bottle of wine! Slainte.

 

For some unknown reason, deep-seated, embedded, ingrained, annoying (but not annoying enough for me to do something about it), this blogger refuses to start writing until the hour is moving towards witching and long after all the studies tell us we should be in bed and hitting deep sleep.  Perhaps it’s an Irish thing?  Or, more likely, a procrastinator thing.

Last weekend I was doing my bit for humanity – not going down to watch Spurs against Leeds, that can’t count no matter how dire we were in the first half – but going up to Stockport to be scanned as part of the UK Biobank project.  I signed up in 2010 to become part of “a large-scale biomedical database and research resource that contains the genetic, lifestyle and health information from half a million UK participants…

“The database, which now also includes genetic data for all participants and the heart and brain scans from over 50,000 participants, is globally accessible to approved researchers who are undertaking health-related research that is in the public interest.”

Well, Saturday was the scanning bit, including a brain scan, so presumably there was one in there somewhere.  I thought of Dad and his dementia as I was lying there listening – and presumably reacting – to various noises, quite relaxed really, knowing that I wasn’t about to be tortured or anything brutal.  Perhaps my scan, added to all the others, will provide some insight in to Alzheimers and the like and help counteract it.  Worth a try.

On the way home, having survived the short taxi ride back to the station, tight-lipped, driven by a lad who had no clue how to drive properly and seemed to forget he had a passenger in the back, I had to change at Crewe.  That got me thinking about the old song, a wartime number I believe:  “Oh Mr Porter, what shall I do?  I wanted to go to Birmingham but they sent me off to Crewe…”

Everything and everybody used to change at Crewe (Dai was born there, the town not the station, before the war) and every time I’m there I think of Mum and her sisters and friends waiting for their connections on the way home for leave or on their way back to duty.  Must have been a lot more chaotic than it is now.

The next day it was off down to north London to watch Spurs, who are now under the charge of Antonio Conte, a man used to winning.  He’s Italian and very demonstrative and if he can’t galvanise a lacklustre, dozy bunch, no one can.  From my seat I can’t see him clearly but on the telly afterwards, after a lucky 2-1 win, he was diving in, bear-hugging his players, some of whom looked shocked at the passion, the emotion, the intensity.  “They’ll all be a stone lighter by Christmas,” a fellow fan commented astutely, clocking just how much effort the players will have to put in to match the manager’s intensity and expectations.

Fortunately, before the match, if the coach gets there in time, no mean feat given the traffic en route, the chef at La Barca caff conjures up a mean omelette (or egg and chips or whatever) and provides enough sustenance to help us cope with whatever the game throws at us.  The length football fans go to to get to games and the ingenuity of their travel arrangements are vastly under appreciated.

I was a bit alarmed when a load of noisy West Ham fans got on my train at Stafford on Saturday – they’d been playing Wolves  and had lost 1-nil but even I had the sense not to mention that.  My geography’s not great but my immediate thought was that Stafford was north of Wolverhampton (it is) and this was not the obvious way back to London.  Turns out it must have been the quickest because the only stop between Stafford and London Euston was, fortunately for me, Lichfield Trent Valley.

I nearly played golf three times this week but my partner in the winter foursomes had a Covid scare and we’ve had to re-arrange for next month, health and weather permitting.  The game is still patchy but my chipping and putting aren’t too bad – though the technique leaves a lot to be desired according to the expert observer I played with on Tuesday.    No more delusions of grandeur here then.

Yesterday I caught the tail end of one of those excellent Open films, this one about Ian Baker-Finch, the lovely Australian who won the title in such style at Royal Birkdale in 1991 before crashing and burning as he tried to live up to the hype of being Open champion.  Guiltily, I remembered following him virtually every step of the way as he struggled to a 92 in the first round of the Open at Troon in 1997.  Feeling like some sort of ghoul or a hyena stalking a wounded animal, I was part of the pack who pursued him into the clubhouse, where he took refuge in the champions’ locker room and cried his eyes out.  Not my finest hour.

The ever affable IBF has admitted that deep down he didn’t feel he was one of the best players in the world and, really, had no burning desire to be No 1 but felt he had to push himself and strive to improve even though winning the Open had been his dream.  He was a very good player in an era of very, very goods and greats:  people like Tom Watson, Seve Ballesteros, Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Greg Norman and Nick Price, to mention just a few.

Baker-Finch gave up the unequal tournament struggle after Troon but stayed in love with the game and blossomed as a commentator, content with what he’d achieved, a career to be proud of and the admiration and respect of everyone he met.