It’s been a different sort of week with a quick little trip back to the homeland, – not for golf-related things, but to attend the North West 200, one of the world’s great motorbike road races.  I haven’t been to the North West, as it is called, since my student days and the race course is slightly different from then but it’s as thrilling and bonkers as ever.  My better half was, of course, in seventh heaven, albeit a little cross with me that it has taken me twenty-plus years to organise this trip. All other jaunts were heavily weighted in the direction of golf, you see – and well, the dates never really suited.

Despite forecasts of rain the weather was predominantly sunny, but chillingly cold, rarely staggering up to double figures Centigrade.  With the bikes reaching speeds of up to 212mph there’s no earthly use positioning yourself on a straight bit of the circuit, so we sensibly tucked ourselves in at selected hairpins and got a first-class view.  Only then could you begin to appreciate the incredible skill level of the riders – and their fearlessness.  It’s a potent mix to witness.

I did manage to pop in to Portstewart golf club, my old stomping ground and found the members relieved and pleased that recent renovations to the two courses are coming to an end.  There’s still some work on the practice ground to be completed but it looks like it’s well on the way.  The 16th hole on the Strand course has been altered and the distinctive plateau that gave the hole its name is no more, therefore a request has gone out for suggestions for a new name.  I decided I’d put in my two pennies worth.

My suggestion for the new name is “Red Sails” as in the “Red Sails in the Sunset” song.

The well-known Irish lyricist Jimmy Kennedy was inspired by the sight of the yacht “Kitty of Coleraine” with her red sails out in the bay off Portstewart strand and penned the words to the famous song.  You can just see a portion of the bay in the poster to the left of the clubhouse.   The song has subsequently been covered by numerous well known artists including Bing Crosby, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Fats Domino and Dean Martin.  You can see this bay as you play up towards the green.

So, that’s my modest submission but I did rather like the idea of another member – “Thank God, we’re almost finished.”  Possibly a tad too long and potentially tricky for the printing of the scorecards, I fear.  It’s a pity Patricia wasn’t with us – she has a great knack for coming up with just the right name or phrase on these occasions.

We got back home on Sunday just in time for me to settle down to see if the Alex Fitzpatrick fairy tale was set to continue.  He had a one stroke lead going into the final round of the Truist Championship at Quail Hollow in Charlotte but lots of contenders were snapping and snarling at his heels.

He fought hard but a late double bogey at the 17th ultimately put paid to his chances and he finished solo fourth, “settling” for a cheque of $960,000.  As he left the final green his Mum and Dad were there to congratulate him with sage advice – “Don’t forget to sign your card.”  Can’t imagine they’d have felt the need to say that to older brother, Matt.

The last twelve rounds of golf have yielded Alex a tad over $2.8 million and it’s fair to say his life has changed beyond recognition.  He now has a two-year exemption on the PGA tour, he’s eligible for the limited field, big money events and he’s teeing it up this week at Aronimink in the men’s second major, the PGA Championship.

The only time I’ve met Alex was when in the company of former Curtis Cup player Maureen Richmond (nee Walker).  The week before the 2023 Open Championship Mo and I had arranged to walk the course at Hoylake.  I was on commentating duty and Mo, a long-time member was kindly giving me the benefit of her extensive inside knowledge.

Alex and his caddy arrived on the first tee at exactly the same time as us and Mo and Alex soon renewed their acquaintance from the 2019 Walker Cup which had been held at the club to celebrate its 15oth year.  Mo had been lady captain and Alex was making the first of his two appearances for the GB&I Walker Cup team.  He was outgoing, friendly and charming and here he was, four years later, back at Hoylake to tee it up in his first major.  I’ll be watching him closely this week in this, his second major, as he rides this incredible streak of results – and I will be hoping he doesn’t wake up any time soon.

Kudos, too, to Kristoffer Reitan (picture at top), from Oslo who won the Truist Championship, a signature event, on his 15th start on the PGA tour.  Eighteen months ago he was on the HotelPlanner tour, the second tier of the DP World tour.  Now the world is his oyster as he follows in the footsteps of close friend Viktor Hovland in becoming the second Norwegian to win on the toughest tour in the world.

Like Fitzpatrick he will be making his debut this week in the PGA Championship and thus will complete the goal of teeing it up in all four majors.  He made his Masters debut last month and his first appearance at the Open was in 2025 but you’ve to go all the way back to 2018 when he was still an amateur to find his name on the start sheet for a US Open.  He qualified at Walton Heath and so became the first Norwegian to play in that championship – one of the few times he’s beaten Viktor to anything.

It’ll be interesting watching how these young Europeans fare this week, but don’t forget we’re on Grand Slam watch with Jordan Spieth who “only” needs this title to complete the set.

Oh, and, of course, there’s Rory, Xander, Scottie, Tommy, Cam, Rosey, Bobby Mac et al………….

Should be quite a watch.

A few days ago, I was pondering the state of the world, something even a would-be ostrich like me feels obliged to do from time to time, unutterably depressing as it often seems to be.  After all, there’s little joy or relief to be found in my golf – unable to break 100 on my last outing – or my football team – unable to scrape a win at home on their last outing and still deeply mired in the relegation swamp.

It is, as Sir Alex Ferguson once put it, accurately if inelegantly:  Squeaky Bum Time.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine things being any worse but then I realise that I’m a bit of an ancient and can vaguely remember (or have I just read about it?) the Bay of Pigs; worries about nuclear obliteration (long-range ballistic missiles); the three-day week (sharing a bath every now and again); famines, famines everywhere.  If this is the worst of times, it’s also the best of times.  We’re lucky to be here, we just have to remind ourselves of that, whatever it looks like.

I haven’t mentioned football much recently, for obvious reasons  but I decided I’d have to plough on and go to the last two home matches.  The penultimate game was against the mighty whites aka Leeds United at the unsympathetic time of 2000 on Monday.  Ah, the joys of Monday Night Football – on the telly, not in person.  It’s a bugger to get home – and when the ref conjures up a mind-boggling thirteen minutes of added time, well that’s the 2300 train off the agenda.  Good thing I was booked on the 2330 on a cheap-as-chips advance single with senior railcard!

You can’t get back to Lichfield at that time, so I park the car at Birmingham International and get back home at just after 0200.  There are always other Spurs eejits/tragics/fans on the train.  The two guys near me were lucky enough to be getting off at Rugby, though when we reached Milton Keynes Central, the first stop, I heard one of them say to the other:  “I wish I lived in Milton Keynes.”

“No, you don’t,” said his mate.  “You just want to go to bed.”

And, of course, we were travelling home in a state of high uncertainty, if not anxiety.  The last relegation spot is between us and West Ham United, everybody else is safe.  It’s still in our hands – or feet – I think but only just.  Speculation is rife but futile – que sera sera.

My train down (up?) to London cost next to nothing but it called everywhere and was very slow, so I decided to take a book to help pass the time.  Ideally it had to be a slim volume and easy to read, not too demanding.  I ruled out Autocracy Inc. by Anne Applebaum, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, with the subtitle The Dictators Who Want To Run The World.  Hmm.  Slim, brilliant but too serious and close to home.

I settled for something a little older, just as brilliant but a different animal:  James Thurber’s My Life and Hard Times.  His  self-deprecating “Preface To A Life” concentrates on “writers of light pieces running from a thousand to two thousand words”….

“Your showpiece writer’s time is not…..Professor Einstein’s time.  It is his own personal time, circumscribed by the short boundaries of his pain and embarrassment, in which what happens to his digestion, the rear axle of his car, and the confused flow of his relationships with six or eight persons and two or three buildings is of greater importance than what goes on in the nation or in the universe.  He knows that the nation is not much good any more; he has read that the crust of the earth is shrinking alarmingly and that the universe is growing steadily colder [global warming now]…..

“He is aware that billions of dollars are stolen every year by bankers and politicians, and that thousands of people are out of work, but these conditions do not worry him a tenth as much as the conviction that he has wasted three months on a stupid psychoanalyst or the suspicion that a piece he has been working on for two long days was done much better and probably more quickly by Robert Benchley in 1924…”

Plus ça change.

We all have our priorities and one of mine is now to re-read every bit of Thurber I can get my hands on.  He was from Columbus, Ohio and one of my few claims to fame is that I introduced him to Jack Nicklaus, another famous son of Columbus…Well, more accurately, I introduced Jack to the work of James, filling in a gaping hole left by the school system in their home state…

I’m struggling near the bottom of the AGW PYP (Pick Your Pro) table but I have hopes of soaring up the rankings after this week’s PGA Championship at Aronimink. You get three choices in a major and I, praise be, have Scottie Scheffler, the defending champion, Patrick Reed and Harris English.  My sole ambition really is to have my pick actually playing in the event and that’s never a given because it’s hard to gauge in January who’s going to be playing where then, let alone later in the year.

I sympathise with the person who found that their choice for the tournament in Qatar was, in fact, playing in Phoenix, Arizona, that week, a mere 8,299 miles away.  That led to another colleague, renowned for his speed, accuracy and knowledge, admitting that he’d once told the world that Stephen Bennett was leading a tournament in Spain, only to take a phone call from him:  “I think you’ll find it’s Jeremy Bennett who’s leading.  I’m at home in Grimsby…”

Sometimes players are not where you want them to be and things aren’t quite how you want them to be.

 

 

 

Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland, declared him a “global treasure”.  It’s a term that smacks of gross over-exaggeration – but not in this case.  She was referring, of course, to the one and only Sir David Attenborough who celebrates his 100th birthday today (May the 8th).

Older than the Masters tournament, Sir David first appeared in a programme bearing his name in the title back in the sixties and right from the off, his love for the natural world and passion for the environment shone through.  It wasn’t trendy back then to be “green” but Sir David was like a one-man King Canute attempting, not to hold back the waves, but uncivilised man from decimating the natural world in the name of  “progress”.  He never harangued, never dictated, just gently pointed out the wonderful, captivating world few of us were even aware existed.  And he repeated his message over and over and over across the decades.

He has inspired many; he’s universally trusted; he’s consistent, an example to us all and a breath of fresh air.  Happy, happy birthday Sir David.

By comparison, chasing a little white ball over four miles or so of rolling countryside seems, no IS, a ridiculous way to spend a lifetime.  That can be said about all sport, really, when you think about it.  They are all games that captivated us in childhood and some lucky folk are skilled enough to pursue them into adulthood and make a nice living.

Making more than a nice living at the moment is Nelly Korda who is forging her inexorable way towards the LPGA Hall of Fame.  She won the Riviera Maya Open at Mayakoba last week in Mexico, her eighteenth triumph on the LPGA tour and her third victory this season.  She was particularly delighted with the sombrero – see top picture.  This all means she has now accumulated 23 of the required 27 points to gain entry through those Hall of Fame gates into the rarefied atmosphere of the very best to have played the game.

Nelly comes from arguably the most talented sporting family in the US.  Her father Petr was a Grand Slam tennis champion, her mother competed for Czechoslovakia (now the Czech Republic or Czechia) in the Olympics, sister Jessica has won six times on the LPGA and brother Sebastian is in the top 30 of the world tennis rankings.  Can you imagine the competitive juices flowing over the Christmas game of charades?

Nelly recognises she is living her best life at the moment.  She is happy on the course, happy with her team of caddy, coaches and physio, all of whom are highly motivated and have been with her since her second year on tour.  That’s an eight-year span.  Life is good off the course also – she is engaged to be married and about to become an auntie for the second time.  All of this is translating into superlative performances on the course and watching any athlete at the height of his or her powers is a joy and a privilege.  I look forward to seeing her in the flesh later in the year.

This is the time of year that here in the northern hemisphere the really important part of the game gets going.  By that I mean the amateur game, the bedrock of the sport – not the pointy, sharp bit at or near the top of the pyramid where you find the pros.

Golf is one sport where people like to play it much more than they like to watch it.  Perhaps that’s partly due to having the ability to be a participant longer than in, say, football, hockey or tennis.  I do remember attending many, many Opens (think Royal Troon) in a working capacity and seeing loads of folk heading, not to see Tiger, Phil or Rory, but to one of the myriad of courses next door for their regular fourball.  Absolutely NOTHING was going to stand in the way of that.

It’s interesting, too, to learn how golfers get started in the sport.  I had lunch this week with three pals, all of whom I met through the game and taught back in the day.  One Christmas, some 25 years ago before I knew them, two of them, Sue and Annie, attended a grand charity auction dinner which was raising funds for a worthy cause.  They were perfect guests, partaking freely of a few adult beverages and bidding enthusiastically for various lots.  It was all for charity, after all.

The next morning their husbands informed the girls that they had bid for, and won, a fourball at Gleneagles for the following September.  Now, you’d have thought that as non-golfers they’d have been horrified at this news of the previous evening’s antics, but not a bit of it.  When the New Year dawned they arrived with me for lessons and told me I’d to get them ready to take on the King’s course at Gleneagles.

“What are your handicaps?”  I asked them.  “Ah, we don’t play,” came the reply.  “But, don’t worry, we have until September!”

Sometimes ignorance is bliss. They had no idea how tall a task they had set themselves – or me.  But we did it!  They played the eighteen, enjoyed it, didn’t hold up the whole course and even managed to get successfully off the first under the steely gaze of the starter.  It was a triumph.

Almost up there with winning your 18th LPGA tournament.

 

 

 

Well, would you Adam and Eve it, they’ve only been and gone and done it.  It’s taken a couple of centuries – and then some, 272 years by my calculations – but the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, founded in 1754, has elected its first woman captain.  Wow.

Many congratulations to Claire Dowling, née Hourihane, on her appointment.  “It’s an extraordinary honour,” she said, “and the reaction has been insane.”

The wee girl from Dublin, who started at the John Jacobs driving range at Leopardstown under the watchful eye of her father Bill, has come a long way.  She had a distinguished playing career, then took to administration – handicapping, course rating, rules, amateur status – and became one of the first ripple of women members of the Royal and Ancient when the club finally entered the 21st century in 2015.

Claire, who’s 68, won the first of her five Irish titles in 1983, the last in 1991 and was British Strokeplay champion in 1986.  She played for Ireland in the home internationals from 1979 – 1992, in the European Team Championship from 1981 – 1991, represented GB and I in the Vagliano Trophy six times and in the Curtis Cup in 1984, 1986 (the famous victory at Prairie Dunes 40 years ago), 1988 and 1992.  She was captain at Ganton in 2000 and that is only a partial list of her achievements.

The blog wishes to claim a bit of reflected glory because Claire made her Ireland debut (full, for the big girls) at Harlech, Royal St David’s, in 1979 with Maureen as her foursomes partner and they started with three birdies, possibly even four.  A few years later, when the internationals were at Whittington Heath, I’m pretty sure I caddied for Claire when Ireland won.

Such traumatic experiences notwithstanding, the most nerve-wracking moment of her playing career undoubtedly lies ahead:    on the morning of Friday 25th September, on the 1st tee of the Old Course, at 0800 precisely, in front of a sizeable crowd, with a cannon firing and caddies waiting to pounce, she will drive in as captain.

Claire and her husband Peter, a retired district judge, became the first married couple to referee at the same Open Championship, at Royal St George’s in 2021.  They were long-time members of Copt Heath in Warwickshire and now live in Devon and play at East Devon, where Claire’s handicap index is 7.6 (at least she will understand the system…)  Her home club in Ireland is Woodbrook, where she’s an honorary life member.

Claire’s appointment might not mark the end of golf being regarded as a game for men only with women unwelcome interlopers but at a time when misogyny is still rife in far too many places where it shouldn’t be, it’s a bloody big crack in the glass ceiling.  Hooray for the R&A, sorry, Royal and Ancient.

 

 

Yesterday (7th of May) was the 15th anniversary of the death of the great Severiano (Seve) Ballesteros and his picture was on the 1st tee at Real Club de Golf El Prat when the Estrella Damm Catalunya Championship got under way.  Quite a few of the players were wearing navy trousers and white shirts, signature Seve, both in Spain and in America, where Rory McIlroy and Justin Rose were two of the Europeans paying their own tribute at the Truist Championship at Quail Hollow.

It’s impossible to exaggerate the Seve effect and probably impossible for those who never saw him in his pomp to appreciate it.  He was, quite simply, magical, incomparable, a joy.  Not perfect by any means but golf’s gift from the gods.

Down here, on planet whatever, my friends and I fear we are in danger of losing the plot.  The other morning, fully awake, or so I thought, I took my hot water bottle – it’s been chilly at night – to the bathroom (in truth it’s a titchy shower room, though the shower is not titchy) to empty it in to the basin…Instead I found myself emptying it in to the wastepaper basket (open weave)…Duh.

Next up, the gardening friend who sprayed her air-fryer-bound veggies with plant food – the bottle looked much the same as the  one containing the olive oil – found herself watering a houseplant that turned out to be artificial….In her defence, it looked so realistic that the rest of us were fooled too – and she’d bought it from the middle of a load of real plants.

The really worrying thing is that we’re still allowed out on our own…Beware.

Notice that there’s been no mention of the dreaded football so far, though I’ve put the Spurs relegation-celebration party on hold because we won 2-1 at Aston Villa last Sunday and looked like a football team with players who knew what they were supposed to be doing.  Long may it last.  It’s the mighty Leeds at our place on Monday night, yet another of those oh-so-sympathetic tee times…

Finally, to cheer me up, one of Mary McKenna’s great photos, a souvenir of her visit to Lichfield.