It’s a difficult one this week, the blog. The tech tsar is away, so I’m apologising in advance for my photos, which have been proving problematic over the last two or three weeks or so. As one of my sisters-in-law pointed out they’ve gone from “minuscule to ginormous”, so she can only see the left half of them. In trying to solve the teeny-weeny problem, I seem to have created a monster…
I’ll have a bit of a fiddle to see if I can happen upon a solution but you may just have to bear with me for another week – and that includes the friend who got no photos at all.
With a bit of luck there’ll be some words but who knows if they’ll make any sense…
Probably not much at all since I’m starting off with a real blast from the past, to wit The Magic Roundabout. I loved that programme, totally oblivious to the rumours about Dylan the rabbit and his alleged drug habit – “Far out, man” – and whatever Brian the snail and Zebedee got up to in their spare time, not forgetting Florence and Ermintrude and the rest of the crew.
It all started with a visit to the St Giles Hospice bookshop, to see if they had copies of a couple of books I was looking for. They didn’t but of course I ended up buying a book and as I was mooching at the back of the shop I found something I never knew existed, a Magic Roundabout game. It’s copyrighted 2016 but according to the blurb the game itself dates from the 1970s. The programme started in 1963 and was a French/British co-production. Dame Emma Thompson’s dad Eric wrote the English version and seems to have been responsible for the names and characters. There were more than 500 showings, so no wonder even I remember it.
It’s about this stage that some people will be wondering if there’s going to be any golf anywhere and the answer, of course, oh ye of little faith, is yes. As luck would have it I have a precious copy of Dougal’s Scottish holiday and he is taking his clubs with him on his trip back to his homeland; and here’s the picture to prove it.
The play, a Christmas special, was great fun but confirmed that I was no performer, even though all I had to do was crawl around on my knees trying to emulate Dougal channeling his inner Scrooge as he denounced Santa and refused to hang up his sock: “Load of overpublicised rubbish, taking advantage of the poor consumers…” He still sneaked out at the end of act one to hang up his sock.
Talking of the festive season, the LIV golfers who’ve been thinking that all their Christmases have come at once could be having second thoughts, not least because it seems highly unlikely that any of their events will be eligible for world ranking points and they’ll plummet down the standings at a rate of knots. No doubt Greg will sue as well as rant, so the lawyers will be happy if nobody else.
Cameron Smith, the Open champion, is being touted as LIV’s next big signing – Norman was a hero of his and many other Australians growing up – but I can’t see the point. Smith is already in the multi-million currency of choice seats and is made for life (expensive addictions permitting). All he has to do is smile politely and sit tight, waiting until everything sorts itself out. He doesn’t have to commit himself to anything, just chug along winning a few million here and there as he enjoys the best form of his life. The noughts will come no matter what.
Ah well. His choice.
The PGA Tour is making its debut in Wilmington, Delaware, President Biden’s home state, this week, an old and very successful stomping ground for Dame Laura Davies, who won there several times and her LPGA colleagues. Prior to this week’s BMW Championship, Tiger Woods flew up from Florida for a summit meeting with other big names who have so far turned a deaf ear to the siren call of the Saudis. No one was revealing much about what was discussed but Rory McIlroy said, “There was only one alpha in the room – and it wasn’t me.”
Tiger still rules OK.
I played golf at home on Tuesday and it was lovely to have some run on the ball – well, miles and miles of run – after the lush green fairways of Wentworth, which gave no help at all to those of us in need of it most. Whittington looks like a golf course should look in the summer, especially a hot, dry, droughty summer. I was in shock as I took short irons in to greens (they were green) that I usually try to reach with a rescue. What’s more, on one or two occasions, I actually reached the green and found myself putting for what Dai always called birides.
It was a perennial typo harder to correct in the days of typewriters and Tippex; nowadays the computer fixes it for you, whether you like it or not!
Enough run to make powder-puff Patty feel like Laura D in her pomp and Spurs stealing a point at Stamford Bridge after being overrun by Chelsea for most of the game… Could life get any better?!