Spurs are the gift that just goes on giving:  I’m only travelling to home games but it’s rarely the same route twice, so my organisational and navigational skills are frequently tested to their limits and beyond, not forgetting my stamina.  That took a bit of a hammering last week when we played West Ham at 2015 on the Thursday – drive to Bedford, via Woburn Sands for lunch with friends, coach to N17, back again without the Woburn detour and home by 0345;  then it was Newcastle on Sunday afternoon via Stansted.

“What on earth is she doing at the airport?”  a friend asked, her mind already boggled by my devotion.  “Is there a European match?  Oh, never mind.  I gave up trying to get you to use Google Maps long before you missed your last flight…”

I was at Stansted because fellow Spurs tragic Denise was flying in from Dublin (along with a fair few other Lilywhites, turns out Stansted is a bit of a Spurs hub).  We were then getting the Stansted Express to Tottenham Hale and walking from there to the ground.  It all worked perfectly although parking was expensive but worth every penny because it was very close to the terminal.  We had plenty of time to shop, catch up with John from Derby, have a beer and cheer our boys to a cracking win.

Two happy Totspurs after a 4-1 win. Better than the 2-1 loss to the Hammers three days earlier.

We had our Christmas comp on Tuesday, 13 holes, five clubs each (think I only used four) and my partners and I escaped the torrential rain that soaked the later starters.  We had 47 points (two out of three to count), not bad but not good enough when the winners had 53, next best 50.  We got off to a humdinger of a start (18 points after four holes) but tailed off a bit after a shot of home-made sloe gin…That was our excuse anyway.

No sand iron in the bag wasn’t a problem here – the GUR sign itself is nearly drownded.

I had a Christmas top, dug out from the Middle at Lidl, the bargain middle aisle that is always worth a nose.  My hoodie cost a fiver and passed muster as a Christmas effort but overall I didn’t come close in the outré stakes, as you can see from this small sample.  There were plenty of others, not captured by my camera.

Jacque, next year’s ladies’ captain, getting in the swing.

Ho, ho, ho. Pamela striking a pose.

My golf wasn’t too bad, so heaven only knows why I had a golf-related dream of Mo-like proportions.  It wasn’t utterly horrific but took a potentially unpleasant turn at the end, so much so that I had to wake up to escape and was very, very groggy, taking quite a while to tune in to what the sainted Petroc was saying on radio 3.  I even tried to scrawl it down, it was so vivid.

Mo and I were playing somewhere like Birkdale, except it wasn’t because when the four guys in front of us eventually decided to call us through (they were having some sort of feast that included – vegetarians and vegans look away now – a lovely looking ham), there was no space.  Our tee was in the middle of a very busy thoroughfare, with people rushing to and fro, coming or going to a railway station.  There was barely a break to get a ball away and I needed one of those rubber, winter tee thingies and I couldn’t find one.

“I can’t do this,” I said to Mo in desperation after nearly hitting an old woman on my practice swing.  I just knew that I had nowhere to go.  At least the sister could hit the ball properly.  But she hit some sort of right-wing banana effort that bounced on a path into a flowerbed where some children were retrieving it.

“Do you play golf?” sez I.


“I’ll have it back then, please.”

The ball had a green mark on it and a dent and wasn’t Mo’s and the children were starting to say something, then Mo said she might need a new handbag because she’d lost her brush and comb and would be hard pushed to find others that fitted into her bag….

Then I had a vision of the Christmas turkey arriving and being far too big for the oven and Maureen saying she knew it’d be too big and that my fridge was too small too….

No wonder I woke up in a bit of a panic and a lot of disarray.

Before going into the Christmas/New Year break, there are two things I’d like to mention, two people who deserve to be on your radar.  First there’s a young golfer from France, who’s doing ok on the Alps Tour and is a cheque writer’s and engraver’s nightmare.  Well, would you want to be etching this name on the Claret Jug?  Here goes:  Oihan Guillamoundeguy.  Bonne chance, young man. I look forward to the day.

Watch out for the name. [Alps Tour Golf. Not sure of the photographer, sorry]

And, closer to home, the amazing Chloe Brennan, partner of Matt Jones, one of our greenkeepers at WHGC, has just finished third at the World’s Strongest Woman championships in America in the under 73kg category.  She’s the European champion and this was only her second go at the Worlds.  She also runs her own business, Holistic Strength Coaching, so perhaps one of our New Year resolutions should be to sign up to her Power Up weights course.  All the studies show that weights work whatever your age or stage.

Go Chloe (and Matt) and season’s greetings to everybody.

Chloe with fiancé Matt.