A Bit Of Bitcoin Madness

Thanks to Anne Tracey for the photo above (fingers crossed), of the old clubhouse being demolished, very carefully, very neatly, very permanently.  It was a right warren and a bit of a wreck but it was full of happy memories and it worked, more or less, so we’re all a bit sad as we see it leaving this world.       On Tuesday, when this picture was taken, we had a par competition, which was won by Karen Crarer, who finished 4 up on the course, an amazing performance.

My own golf was little short of dire, in even more of a mess than the old clubhouse and I finished dead last (not counting the poor soul who had to go in because she was feeling ill.)  The only good thing about my round was an eagle three at the current 13th – it used to be the 14th and is a shortish par 5, often gobbled up by the better players and a reasonable par chance for the rest of us.

By some miracle I’d hit two decent shots and was not too far short of the green.  “Might get a 5 here, I thought.”  No shot, so only a half but they’d been in such short supply that it was a heady ambition.  Then I thought, “That’s pathetic, be more positive, Dad would have been thinking of holing it from here.”  He was a demon chipper and putter and lo and behold, I made a decent contact and the ball disappeared in to the hole, a minor miracle, a bonus for the eclectic and a bauble on the birdie/eagle tree.

In the end, I finished only 9 down (would put the screaming emoji in here if I knew how) and made everybody else feel much better, whatever their score…

I see that Rory McIlroy, who’s been searching for the game that laid all those golden eggs in his gilded youth, has reinstated Michael Bannon as his main coach, relegating Pete Cowen to a consultant’s role, or some such.  There’s nothing that Bannon, who taught a curly-mopped, fresh-faced McIlroy as a junior at Holywood, doesn’t know about Rory or his game and with travel restrictions easing, he can be on hand more often.  At least that was my take on what I read.  Let’s just hope that Rory has the nerve and nous to win a few more majors – after all, he’s only in his early 30s and should just be coming in to his pomp.

This blog needs no excuse to mention the sainted Rory but he was going to get in anyway this week because of a young man with a wonderful name (and a wonderful mane):  Oihan Guillamoundeguy.  He’s French, still an amateur and led after the first round of the final stage of qualifying for the Alps Tour in Rome, so there’s a photo of him and he reminded me of someone.

Oihan had a 78, six over par, in the second round but that’s golf – all ups and downs.  A bit like haircuts.

As you know, you have to take anything you read here with a grain of salt – or sand or whatever your preference is.  It’s very rarely serious and it is written by someone who tries, quite hard, to avoid cliches but was reminded the other day that there really is no fool like an old fool.  Having mentioned sand, I  remembered that I was going to worry about Saudi Arabia and whether the women should be playing there; and not worry at all about Greg Norman’s role in the Saudis’ bid to outbid the PGA Tour or whatever it is they’re planning.

Instead I’ll talk about money – and greed.  Because that’s the only word for it.  How else do you explain an online phobic’s decision to dive into bitcoin, scrolling down from a golf round-up on the National Club Golfer website and being seduced by a piece about the dragons in the den all investing in one particular company and offering you a chance to give it a go yourself and get rich quick?  It’s not as though I really want to get rich – I don’t want a bigger house or car or anything much really.  I’ve paid my subs for the year; am keeping an eye on the energy consumption; don’t really have to keep The Wine Society afloat singlehanded; and have a freezer stocked with edible stuff that’s more or less in date.

So what madness made me keep clicking on despite the warning bells tolling “if it sounds too good to be true, it is too good to be true” and images of Mum being furious when I tore up the letter asking her to invest a fiver or a tenner in the promises of a Señor Oro and Mme Riche many years ago?

Not only did I keep going, I talked to two people, separately, for quite a long time.  Then, I woke up in the night with the screaming abdabs, unable to believe what an eejit I’d been.  The woman at the bank’s fraud department was very helpful, told me not to beat myself up about it but, honestly, what a plonker.

It’s a salutary reminder not to scroll down beyond the golf.

And to hand over lasting power of attorney to a responsible adult.

And who really needs a Lamborghini these days?  Great colour though.