It’s that time of the week again and boy, does it seem to arrive more quickly than ever.

I’m referring, of course, to blog-writing day which, for me, is a bit of a moveable feast.  As we post on a Friday morning, I generally like to have things done and dusted by Wednesday at the latest.  Sometimes, I attack the writing in two goes, getting half of it splurged onto the page on say, Tuesday, and then returning with hope and inspiration to get me over the line on Wednesday.  Occasionally I write on a Monday and get finished on a Monday – it just all depends…..and very occasionally Thursday is called into play.

Patricia, however, is much more routined and predictable.  Thursday evening at around 10 pm is her “now what will I write about?” moment.  Presumably, a lifetime of writing to deadlines and dealing with changing scenarios has led to her leaving everything to the eleventh hour but hey-ho, horses for courses and all that.

The reason I’m pondering our respective modi operandi is because, amazingly, this week we have clocked up nine years of madillgolf.com.  NINE years!  It’s scarcely believable, but what is even more astonishing is that some of you have been with us from the very start.  Seriously?  Yes.  Seriously.  So, thank you.

While we here in the UK are enjoying gloriously sunny, reminiscent-of-lockdown weather, those in the environs of Quail Hollow in North Carolina, site of this year’s USPGA Championship, have been sloshing their way round a saturated golf course in practice.  No spectators were admitted to the grounds on Monday and the bad news is there is more rain forecast.  The club’s sub-air system will be severely tested if the championship’s organisers, the PGA of America, are to produce the firm, fast-running test they favour.

Soggy conditions always favour the bombers but they also aid the wayward, with crooked tee shots having more than a sporting chance of holding on to the fairways and not running into trouble.  Ditto round the greens.  So, perhaps more than ever, those who bring their putting boots will prosper.

One of the little quirks of the PGA is that the top three players in the world are grouped together for the first two rounds so it’s no surprise that Scottie Scheffler, Rory McIlroy and Xander Schauffele, the defending champ (see the pic at top), tee off together.  Traditionally, this group starts from the 10th tee on Thursday and I remember one year (I think it was at Southern Hills so that would make it 2007) being on duty early doors to commentate on Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson and Adam Scott as they launched their campaigns to annexe a PGA Championship title to their resumes.  At that time they were Nos 1, 2 and 3 in the world respectively.

The 10th tee was a long way from the clubhouse and the players were shuttled out there but lowly commentators like me had to trudge out under their own steam.  When I arrived at the tee there were no spectators to watch this stellar group (it WAS rather early).  There were the three players, three caddies, a sprinkling of officials and me.  Both Phil and Adam came over to shake hands and bid me good morning and I remember having to effect a left-handed handshake with Adam as he had closed his right hand in a car door a few days earlier.  Tiger, of course, stayed in his bubble.

What a treat it was to walk the first nine holes that morning as virtually the only onlooker.  Talk about an unencumbered front row seat!  The usual antipathy between Tiger and Phil was present, bubbling away below the surface;   Adam was consumed with the task of manufacturing a swing and hitting shots that would protect his injured hand;  and Tiger was……..well, getting on and doing his own thing with the blinkers securely on.

Tiger won the championship, his thirteenth major at the age of 31.  It would have been incomprehensible then to think that he would “only” win two more but life never does run smoothly, does it, even for the most gifted?

This year 99 of the 100 top-ranked golfers are playing and it’s the only major in which no amateur can put in an appearance.  Strictly professionals only.  It may surprise many of you to learn that the guy in charge of all this, the Chief Championship Officer for the PGA of America, and the man with the overall responsibility for the course set-up and the running of the championship is an Englishman, Kerry Haigh, who hails from Doncaster.  He is held in the highest esteem by the players for his fairness in his course set-up and his ability to listen to those around him before making balanced decisions.

I met Kerry when we were both in our first jobs post uni.  I was working for a golf promotions company helping organise pro-ams in Spain and Kerry was finding his feet working for the PGA of Great Britain and Ireland.  He used to come out to the Costa del Sol (along with subsequent renowned golf rules guru of the DP World Tour, Andy McFee) and run our pro-ams.

They were great days.  We were young and ambitious and all passionate about golf.  I remember sitting having a coffee with the two of them one morning in Puerto Banus, near Marbella when the conversation turned to where we all saw ourselves in five years’ time.  This would make for a better yarn if I could recall specifics but suffice to say our dreams were generally to forge a path in golf.

We did make an arrangement to meet back at that coffee shop five years hence to review how things were going.  Neither of them turned up…….but neither did I, so I guess that was a full house of no-shows.  I expect life got in the way – forging a path is quite a time-consuming activity.

So, as we enjoy watching this major, do spare a thought for those behind the scenes who meet every challenge head-on and with seriously little sleep.  Perhaps when this week is over we should see about resurrecting that coffee date.  We might be more than forty years behind schedule – but, you know what they say …….

Better late than never.

 

Well, where to start?  With the US PGA golf I suppose.  Nothing too deep.  The PYP (Pick Your Pro) reminder came out, I double-checked my picks and burst out laughing.  You get three for the majors and mine are, in order, McIlroy, Theegala, Koepka.

Bear in mind that these choices were made many months ago and there was no way I was ever going to pick Rory to win the Masters but I had to choose him for one of the biggies.  So Quail Hollow, described by some of his peers as “Rory’s Country Club” because he’s won there so often, was a bit of a no-brainer.  And after his Masters win there was, of course, talk, not just of the career Grand Slam but of the all-in-a-row, in-a-year slam, the Holy Grail above and beyond all others.

So Rory, at odds with his driver, his Excalibur, hooking it towards the water on far too many occasions but not getting wet, just in difficulties that left him floundering well behind the leaders, had a round that almost equalled my excrescence in the Tuesday medal.  Almost, but not quite.  I had more double bogeys and a triple or two and he did at least start with a birdie.  Just in case you’re interested (ho! ho!), I did manage three pars that’ll do nicely for the eclectic, especially since one of them was at my least favourite hole at Whittington Heath.

Back to the main event, the sainted one is not quite out of the championship – a lot depends on how he gets on in round two – but even though he’s my chosen one, I’m not holding out much hope.

At least he made it to the first tee, unlike Sahith Theegala, who withdrew before the off with a neck injury.  Alex Smalley, his replacement, took full advantage of his opportunity and opened with a 67, four under par, well in contention.  Rory had a 74 and my other choice, Brooks Koepka, three times a PGA champion, had a 75.

Strange things happen but I’d look elsewhere for this year’s PGA champion if I were you.

Last Sunday, a friend and I went to watch the mighty Spurs – Europa League finalists in case you hadn’t heard – play Crystal Palace – FA Cup finalists, who take on Manchester City at Wembley tomorrow (Saturday 17th May).  My mate, a true Tottenham tragic, had flown in from Dublin (easier than trekking from Lichfield) as a treat and we were treated to – dross.

We were abysmal and well beaten but hope springs eternal for our final against Manchester United in Bilbao on Wednesday. Goodness knows why!  COYS.  Come on you Spurs. I’m not going to Bilbao but I’m still having anxiety dreams about not getting there – or anywhere else – on time.

My being late won’t come as any surprise to any number of people but I can’t remember being late for a tee time – and I think I only ever missed one deadline, which was something to do with thunderstorms, power cuts and things well beyond my control.  I still felt sick and thought I’d be sacked but survived, somehow.

Mo’s the one with the dreams but a few nights ago I had one so vivid that I had to get up and write it down.  It still doesn’t make any sense but here goes…bear in mind that reading on is not obligatory.

For some reason I was playing Bernhard Langer.  We’re both on the green and  he holes for a three.  I’m closer to the pin but my ball is buried below the surface in the kind of strangling spaghetti stuff that Harry Potter and his mates and yer man from Raiders Of The Lost Ark get entangled in.  For some reason best known to herself Mo, my caddie, hands me a 5-iron – I don’t even own one these days.

I’m standing over the ball, waggling this club, knowing I haven’t a hope in hell of making contact when I realise that I can declare an unplayable lie and take a drop.  It’s an interminable time before that light-bulb moment  and then, thank goodness, I wake up – and write it all down.

This is ridiculous.  I don’t have dreams like that.  Every now and again, I’m trying to get somewhere and can’t find something crucial – car key; passport; accreditation; house key; whatever.  The sort of thing that reminds me why Dai always packed his work bag the night before and put it by the front door with his badge (accreditation) on top.  All ready to go, no panicked scrabbling about in the morning.

All pretty mundane, absolutely nothing blockbusterish, no monsterish octopus-armed, woman-strangling  plants.  Where on earth did that come from and why on earth was the sainted Bernhard dragged in to the whole gruesome scenario?

In the end I put it down to eating cheese so smelly that it made the fridge unplayable, then the house, then the garden.  It ended up in a bin in the park, several hundred yards/metres away.  Phew.  All visitors can breathe again.  Double phew.

You know I’m always going on about decluttering and sorting the place out, much to the amusement of my friends and family?  Well, this week, somebody who was checking out my electrics (the house’s, which are at least, it turns out, in some sort of working order), remarked that they’d never seen an attic with so little in it…

Validation of sorts, surely…

 

And most of these are going too.

 

There is a patio there somewhere…

 

And if it all gets too much and you feel overwhelmed, take a step back and reset.

I’m sitting waiting for a call from one of my Sirius XM colleagues from the States, Taylor Zarzour, to do a slot on his radio show.  We’ve been trying to set this up since you-know-who won the Masters and, so far, have failed to find a mutually convenient time to connect.

I thought we’d blown it yet again as I arrived home from my exercise class to find I was locked out of the house.  I had omitted to take a key as I was expecting the place to be still full of people on my return.  But, no – the husband AND the kitchen floor layers had all scarpered, quite naturally expecting a sane body to take a key with them.  And no, we don’t have one hidden in the garden under a plant pot for such an emergency.

Anyway, there was a small window open which enabled me to open a larger one and hey presto, in I glided like a veritable cat burglar!  That’s a bit of an exaggeration – it really was anything but ease and grace but I have realised we need to rethink the defence of our castle.

So, I’m recovering now with a cuppa in hand and wondering if Taylor’ll want to talk about golf in general as well as Rory in particular.  If he does he’ll be disappointed.  Despite being only present at the Masters through the TV screen I am suffering a reaction to McIlroy’s win and his attainment of the grand slam.  The effort of heaving Rory over the line has left me feeling saturated with the game and I’ve been happy to potter about with a warm fuzzy feeling of contentment, paying scant heed to the various goings-on in sundry tournaments.

Knowing, however, that this interview was imminent I did make an effort to check in on Scottie Scheffler in the CJ Cup Byron Nelson played in McKinney, Texas, just down the road from where he lives.  Any interest was soon dissipated when I saw he had an eight-shot lead going into Sunday, a margin he maintained for his first win of the season with a record-equalling total of 31 under par.

I’ve been spoiled my whole life by being able to watch (and be present at) some exhilarating golf performances that stir the blood.  Sublime as Scottie’s was, this was not one of those occasions.  When forty-seven players are ten under par or better I usually can find something more interesting to do than watch dartboard, one-dimensional, golf that results in just about everyone putting for eagle or birdie on every green.  The skill set required for the golf course, saturated by torrential rain, is not hugely varied but kudos to Scheffler for maintaining his mental edge right to the finish of a boring tournament.  He’s not No 1 for nothing.

In a week’s time the spotlight will be on the PGA Championship and the Wannamaker Trophy (pic at top).  It is the men’s second major of the year and will be held at Quail Hollow in North Carolina.  The course is a particular favourite of Rory’s (he has won four times there), Scottie is obviously on form, Justin Thomas has won again after a three-year drought and Jordan Spieth is beginning to look a bit like his old self.  And Bryson has just won on LIV.

It all appears to be bubbling up nicely – a good golf course, top players in form and lots of different storylines.  I wonder how Jordan will cope now he’s the solo next in line to take that giant leap into the Grand Slam club?  It will be intriguing.

Taylor has just phoned and we have done the interview.  It was all about Rory, thankfully, going back to his early days and when I had first seen him play and moving right on up through his career.

There are certain things that stick in your mind for ever – for example, the 2005 Open at St Andrews.  Tiger was romping home victorious, seemingly oblivious to the awful weather we were assaulted with from time to time, when word came through that Rory McIlroy had shot 61 round Portrush in the North of Ireland Championship.  In those days the final couple of holes were fairly straightforward (and a little boring) and often players out for a fun round could peel into the clubhouse from the 16th green – a good ploy in particularly inclement weather.  Upon hearing of the 61 I asked had Rory left out the last two holes.  It seemed unbelievable that a 16-year-old could fashion that score round the Portrush links.

Ten years later, in 2015, I was back in St Andrews – but Rory wasn’t.  He should have been defending his Open title at the Home of Golf but had gone over on his ankle playing footie with his mates.  Who could have dreamt then that it’d be another ten years, in 2025, before he won his next major?

And I reckon we’ve got another ten years to see what this extraordinary human can achieve.  No one knows how he’ll react to joining the Grand Slam club.  No one else has taken over a decade between achieving the third leg and the final leg.  Who knows what it may do to him – he may be like a punctured balloon.  He doesn’t know, we don’t know.  Perhaps winning majors will become easy-peasy again for him.  He doesn’t know, we don’t know.

But it’ll be fun finding out.

 

Well, Maureen’s worst nightmare has come to pass:  it’s Manchester United against Tottenham Hotspur in the final of the UEFA Europa League; Brian (husband) against Patricia (sister).  “I think I’ll emigrate,” she said in a message complete with emojis laughing hysterically.

Last week I was cross with Spurs for conceding a late goal at home to Bodo/Glimt, who were relishing the second leg at their place north of the Arctic Circle.  They’re hard to beat there and fancied their chances despite being 3-1 down from the first leg but my lot, ever unpredictable, managed a composed, professional 2-nil win.  Who’d have thunk it?

The players, soaked from some persistent fine Norwegian wetting rain, celebrated wildly with the 400 or so drenched supporters who’d made the trek north.  Their section, like most of the neat wee stadium, was uncovered – no brollies allowed – but they didn’t care; it had been worth the detour.

United, like us woeful in the league, beat Athletic Bilbao 4-1 at Old Trafford, 7-1 on aggregate.  Bad and all as they are, they’re more used to finals than us and are due a win, having lost to us three times this season already…This is the big one and I don’t want to be the unhappy one.

I really, really want to be one of those fans jumping up and down like demented eejits as her team lifts a trophy.

Should have gone to Tamworth.

I did buy a ticket (cost £5 plus booking fee) with the intention of going to watch the mighty Lambs play Burton Albion in the final of the Birmingham Senior Cup but I hadn’t done the blog in time, I had logs to unload (special offer that proved irresistible but unwise when I’m the only lumberjack) and I thought I’d better have something to eat and suffer with Spurs after all.

Anyway, Tamworth won 4-nil and my mate Chris (not playing but watching) got to jump up and down like a demented eejit and lift what’s reckoned to be one of the oldest trophies in world football, dating back to the 1880s or thereabouts.

Unkindly, I hope Chris, a Man Utd fan, is not smiling in a couple of weeks, on Wednesday 21st, the date of the final.  To add to the complications, his wife Essie is a Spurs fan,  so there’ll be a bit of family tension there too.

And there’s very, very bad news for Mo because I’ve just checked the diary and on that date she, Brian and I are all  due to be away together, at the Cambridge Beer Festival…Oops.

Moving swiftly on, I was walking back from the post box the other morning when I was greeted by a woman (unknown to me) walking her dog:  “Do you have naturally curly hair?” she said, without preamble.

“Yes,” sez I, resisting the temptation to burst out laughing at the thought of finding myself in a Peanuts cartoon alongside Charlie Brown, Snoopy and friends.

“I have to have a perm for mine to be like that,” she said, a touch mournfully.  “I’ve got naturally straight hair.”

“Nothing wrong with straight hair,” I said, having often longed for just such a thing.  “Mine just goes this way.”

And we continued on our separate ways.

The exchange, completely random and unexpected, still makes me smile.  It’s one of the joys of getting older:  she didn’t think her opening gambit the least bit odd; she was just curious; and I thought it perfectly reasonable to reply and not think it strange at all, just funny.

Our post is now collected at 0900, so I’d dutifully tootled round to send a birthday card, only to discover that there was no rush because the intended recipient had taken himself off to Paris for two nights.  He and a couple of mates were there to watch their beloved Arsenal play Paris St Germain in the semi-final second leg of the Champions League.  It was a joyous occasion – but not for the Gunners, who lost 2-1, 3-1 on aggregate.

Back to the drawing board, a journey familiar to most of us.

It was back to the fairways for me as I re-discovered the golf course this week.  Having had an annoyingly dodgy knee for a while earlier in the year, I found it easy not to play golf, especially when the weather was manky and uninviting.  Then, a friend sent a message regaling me with details of his latest round, including a hole-in-one (only his second ever in a long career):  “a 6-iron like a missile and a kindly kick off the back of a bunker”.  For the record, it was the 13th at Cairndhu, 156 yards.

Suitably inspired, I played ten holes early on Monday morning   with a friend and 18 in the Ping 4BBB on Tuesday.  My partner and I had a respectable 36 points and we brought in the winners, with a whopping 47 points.  They both played beautifully and would have given a Rory/Scottie combo a run for their money – off handicap of course.

Finally, to finish, another Charles Schulz classic – he was a keen golfer.