The end of the year is fast approaching as is the blog’s annual holiday (thank goodness, I hear you all cry!)  We started this little Madill golf project in May 2016 and the sister suggested we try to keep it going until the Open was played at Portrush.  She meant the last time the Open was played in Portrush – ie in 2019 – not the upcoming (I hate that word!) one in 2025.  Her reasoning was “we’ll have plenty to write about until then”.

I was aghast at the prospect of finding something to write about for three whole years, yet amazingly, here we are seven and a half years later.  Admittedly, golf has been elbowed aside somewhat for football and sundry other topics and the number of articles filed under the heading of “other stuff” has increased exponentially.  I expect this may well be another such missive.

The end of the year is also a good time to tidy up loose ends – and there seem to be a multitude of those from my attempts a fortnight ago to name the Welsh women golfers who have won on Tour.  I had my knuckles rapped (rightly) for omitting Lydia Hall and now it has been pointed out to me that Amy Boulden was also left out.  Just as it’s possible to suffer from a multitude of bad hair days I’m putting this all down to an extremely bad memory day as Amy is another of the blog’s favourites and not easily overlooked.

Sorry Amy.  And sorry to anyone else who may have been omitted.  Let’s close this book on my obvious lack of grey cells.

Loose ends abound in the men’s professional game and there’s absolutely zero chance of any framework agreement between the PGA Tour and LIV Golf being cemented by December 31st as previously promised.  Increasing unrest among the rank and file members of the Tour has led to an undisclosed number signing a petition requesting to meet with the shakers and movers who are supposed to be representing their interests.  Confidence in being fairly represented is at an all-time low for many and the schisms caused by the arrival of LIV Golf are widening.

The golfing landscape for male professionals is changing before our eyes and the only given is that it will not go back to the way it was.  Quite where it will end up is anyone’s guess.  I suppose it’s far too simplistic to think that a tournament should start with a full field, have a cut and that the better you play the better you will be remunerated?  Let’s not have a two or three tier tour but a good honest sporting contest which rewards skill and not the number of hits you get on social media.  Keep it simple and, if possible, with some vestiges of integrity.

And now we have the prospect of a long awaited rollback of the ball.  I tend to think that as far as the professional tours are concerned it may well be too little, too late.  It is much needed from an environmental and sustainability standpoint and should have happened years ago.  Anyway, I wonder if you’ll even notice if your favourite pro only drives it 320 off the tee on the way to winning the Masters as opposed to 335?  That’s all the distance loss that is expected for the very longest hitters in the game.  I welcome it because I’d like to see more emphasis back on shotmaking through the bag and proper testing of a player’s mid- and long-iron skills.

The majority of recreational golfers seem to be up in arms at this latest proposal, incandescent that they will be cheated of yards and yards when, in fact, it is estimated that the loss to his or her distance game will be a mere four yards or so.  Is that really such a negative impact?

I must say my sympathies are all with the ordinary, female club member who doesn’t hit it very far at all.  For the majority of women players their handicap is made up of the fact that they do not hit it far enough to get on many greens in regulation – they simply don’t have the strength or firepower.  They are the ones who can ill afford any distance loss at all – it won’t make a scrap of distance to most men.

That is one of the reasons why I’ve always been in favour of bifurcation – different rules for the pros and amateurs.  It’s important to keep the enjoyment level of this very challenging game as high as possible for the recreational player.  And we already do, in essence, have a bifurcated game – you’re kidding yourself if you think you can arm yourself with the same equipment as Rory and the like.  For some reason, however, bifurcation is not in the lexicon of any of the game’s governing bodies.

No need to panic just yet, however.  This proposal isn’t due to come into being until January 1st 2028 and there is a further two-year grace period for amateurs.

Plenty of time to tie up (or create more of) those loose ends.

In closing, I’m sure it won’t have escaped your notice that Tiger Woods has been back competing in his end of year bash for twenty invited players.  The proceeds benefit Tiger’s own foundation and as the host he invites those he wishes to play.  Not surprisingly Tiger finished down in 18th spot but he is doing very well to be out competing again.

The big bone of contention is, however, that this little gathering awards an inordinate number of World Ranking Points, about the only thing in the sporting world that the Saudi money can’t seem to buy.  Tiger started the week at world No 1328 and four days later had vaulted to 898th, a leap of 430 places – and yet he beat only two people.  Doesn’t seem right to me.

More loose ends.

Well, by Georgina (or whoever, why must it always be George?), I did it.  I arrived in time to catch the coach to the Totspurs Stadium for the match against West Ham, the bubble-blowing ‘ammers.  Blowing bubbles is usually a soft, playful, non-threatening activity (hammering not so much perhaps) but long before we started arriving in our thousands, my mate counted at least 30 Met Police vans lining up ready for whatever off-pitch action the rainy night would bring.  There were also several police dogs straining at the leash and barking fiercely, in no mood for any nonsense.  The whole operation must cost a fortune.

 

The reason for the animosity between West Ham and Tottenham has always escaped me but I remember a Spurs fan telling me he’d once sought refuge with some Arsenal fans to avoid a menacing claret and blue horde – not Villa or Burnley supporters but the crew from east London.  Crikey.

The blog is being composed on the coach, hunt and peck style because of the cramped conditions, even though any sensible soul would have had it done and dusted long ago, knowing they’d be lucky to be home by first light on Friday.

Admittedly, there hasn’t been much light at all in my part of the world these past couple of days, as the rain took over from the frost and, shock, horror, a bit of snow.  There was no golf on Tuesday – 13 holes open but too vile to play in the morning – and my Round Robin opponent and I have re-arranged our match for February!!!  At least we now know that if we both agree, we can play our match over 13 holes, or whatever.  Thanks for the info, all-knowing, long-suffering handicap guru.

 

Still on the golfing front, a bit less tenuously, I was looking forward to cheering two family firsts: Min Woo Lee and his sister Minjee winning their respective tournaments on the same weekend, ditto the Fitzpatrick brothers Alex and Matt.  Sadly, none of them won – Minjee came closest, Ashleigh Buhai pipping her to the ISPS HANDA Women’s Australian Open title in Sydney by a single shot.  In the men’s version, Min Woo finished third, two shots behind the eventual winner Joaquin Niemann (second extra hole) and Rikuya Hoshino.

The championships were played concurrently on the same courses and I think it’s amazing and wonderful that the Australians, of all the golfing people, should have become so enlightened.  It does my old heart good to think of some my more chauvinistic male friends spinning in their graves downunder.

You’ve heard my NFS* story, surely?  If not, I’ll give you chapter and verse over a bottle of our choosing.

When I first went to Australia, many years ago now, I couldn’t believe the rampant misogyny; I, who grew up surrounded by Ulstermen, for goodness sake, was shocked to my core.  The Aussie men made our lot look like committed feminists and I had to dredge up long-forgotten, sharp-tongued survival skills learned in pubs and clubs many years previously.  It was exhausting.

It’s all very well having to fight your corner now and again but if you have to justify your existence every second of every minute of every hour of every day, well, you get the picture.  And there were those who seemed convinced that writing about golf, reporting on any sport really, was a man’s job, far too tough for women.  Must have been all that heavy lifting involved in the days of the typewriter.  We had lots of great times, though and plenty of laughs.

Talking of women, as we often do in this wee corner of the world, have you come across two of my favourites on their programme/podcast Now You’re Asking? on radio 4 on a Friday night at the moment.  Marian Keyes and Tara Flynn are two talented friends based in Dublin, who take it upon themselves to mull over knotty questions sent in by listeners from wherever about whatever.

Tara and Marian wouldn’t call themselves agony aunties but they’re old enough to have a lot of experience of a lot of things and wise enough to admit that there are lots of things they don’t know, so.  So they’re worth listening to and they’re often very, very funny.  Listening to them the other night, to stop myself fretting about my long to-do list, I fell asleep laughing.

You can’t say fairer than that.

Last Friday, two friends and I took ourselves into Birmingham to a place called The Electric Cinema to watch the timeless Christmas classic (isn’t it obligatory for a classic to be timeless?) It’s A Wonderful Life – with wine.  A real live sommelier, formerly of the Hotel du Vin in Brum, conducted the wine tasting with great aplomb, giving a performance that stood up well to those on screen.

At judicious intervals we sampled a fizz, a white, a light red (a German pinot noir), a more robust red (from Italy) and a delicious port.

 

You’ll be glad to hear that we’d eaten beforehand, taken snacks (crisps and cheese, lovingly cubed by me), gone in on the train and home by taxi and could still tell you the story of the film and the name of the angel who won his wings at the end after a couple of hundred years of trying.

The fact that I got home without my phone (left in the taxi but rescued by an earthly angel) is another story altogether.

 

* the first word is no and the third is sheilas…

Faithful readers of this blog will be aware that I’m a great fan of a list….. on most occasions.  To-do lists are fine but others can be dangerous and leave you wide open – as was the case in my blog last week when, off the top of my head, I attempted to name Welsh winners on the Ladies’ European Tour.  I did flag up that this was perhaps a little foolhardy.

Kirsty Taylor, who used to play on tour, obviously agrees as she was good enough to get in touch and say, “What about Lydia who won on tour, Mo?”

Aaagh!  Lydia Hall, aka Boom Boom, one of my all-time favourites from Wales and yet I overlooked her!  Senior moment par excellence and cue grovelling and eating of humble pie.  No more lists must be the mantra going forward.  In a futile attempt to make up for this appalling oversight Lyds deserves her own picture in this week’s offering.

Last Thursday was a bit of a red-letter day in that my regular “Tuesday Four” met and had nine holes and lunch.  It was the first time the four of us had been on a golf course together since October 2021 before Mr Covid came calling.  It was a lovely, bright, fresh day and reversing time and turning the clock back was just lovely.  The intervening couple of years have not been kind to us all and respite from the daily grind is a real tonic.  The hot news is that one of our number has been appointed Lady Captain for the 2025 season so plenty of time to practise our curtseys and forelock tugging.  After that we’ll no doubt be handing out our usual unasked-for advice!

Rumours abound at the moment that Jon Rahm (at top) is being wooed by LIV golf for much gold.  The little matter of a $600 million dollar signing-on fee is being mooted.  After two years of declaring he was more invested in winning majors and creating his own legacy, Rahm and his camp have gone quiet.  And, I suppose, who can blame them as they consider their options?  I’m hoping he turns them down, but won’t be surprised if he doesn’t.

If Rahm does accept I shall just fall another little bit out of love with the game that I grew up with.  There is more money in the sport now than ever before but, to my mind, that doesn’t equate to golf being in a “healthy” position.  Obnoxious greed is trumping all at the moment and we are fast losing any grip we ever had on an honest, competitive environment that rewards performance alone.

I wonder how many of you have ever heard of the PIP – the Player Impact Program on the PGA Tour?  You’ll find no mention of it on their website and news of it usually comes via a leak to the media.  This year there was a pot of $100 million dollars – yes, $100 million – to be distributed among twenty players.  These twenty are identified in a nebulous sort of way and awarded points based on how many favourable internet searches and articles they generate, how many fans they attract to a venue or encourage to tune in to a broadcast.  The crux of it all is favourable fan awareness of the PGA Tour and its products through these players.  Rory finished top of the list and scooped fifteen of that $100 million pot, while Tiger, who hasn’t played since he withdrew from the third round of the Masters last April, was second – worth a mere twelve million.

I suppose in the face of the competition from LIV it is a way the PGA can guarantee their “needle-movers” a reward no matter how (or, indeed, if) they play.  For an organisation like the tour, however, it’s surely pretty galling for the rest of the membership to have such a huge amount of money syphoned off and distributed for something other than skill in their chosen sporting arena.  The Tour is in danger of being accused of creating sycophantic disciples purporting all is well and rosy in happy clappy PGA Tour land.  And if Rory and Tiger avow they are not swayed in their views by the existence of the PIP, then surely there’s no need to have it anyway?  Throw the dosh in the pot and play for it – that’s what golfers used to do, remember?

The integrity is oozing out of the game at a brisk pace.  Economy with the truth, lack of transparency and U-turns abound along with the awful realisation that our men’s professional golf tours are in danger of mirroring the murky world inhabited by many of our politicians.  And “murky” is exactly the term Tiger Woods used when asked earlier this week what he thought the future of men’s professional golf was likely to be.

So, hopefully, Jon Rahm will restore my faith in human nature a little and prove that some folk do understand what the word “enough” means – as in “I already have enough money”.  And I fervently hope the women’s tours don’t become any further involved with Saudi money than they already are.

I’m not holding my breath.

Earlier this week I missed an aeroplane, an important aeroplane.  A loved one, who shall remain nameless, said, “I knew you’d miss that plane.”   Tired, cross and furious with myself, I suggested tartly that this person with a mystic gift should buy a lottery ticket.  End of conversation.

Now, I do have a well-deserved reputation for lateness (of which more later) but in all my years of travelling, I can think of only two missed flights:  the infamous Bangkok bollocks, when I (and Dai, who had flown off somewhere else but was equally culpable) got things so wrong that I was 24 hours late.  Oops.  The flight was just after midnight and we got the time right but not the day!

How could two experienced travellers have got something so basic so wrong?   We decided that it was because we hardly ever travelled at that time.  Simples.  (And very, very stupid.  Mind you, I was heartened when I saw that I was not alone in the please-help-us-eejits-get-to-where-we-want-t0-go queue; it wasn’t short and it wasn’t just oldies, which was a real relief.)

The other time was when Dai and I were going somewhere, Frankfurt I think and the flight was delayed.  We were in the BA lounge and heard nothing, then found out belatedly that the delayed flight had been re-re-scheduled, brought forward and we were left mouthing imprecations at the poor pilot as he eased away from the stand.  Dai was incandescent and it took a lot of deep breathing and persuasion to get ourselves on a plane that took us near enough to where we wanted to be, when we had to be there.

Twice in a quarter of a century or so, not so bad.  And I’m pretty sure I only missed one deadline in 20 or so years of reporting/writing (there were of course extenuating circumstances; whatever they were, they’re lost in the mists of memory).

So why did I miss my flight on Tuesday?  Well, the short answer is that I didn’t leave home early enough.  If I’d left earlier, plumping for a route that included a crucial road that turned out to be closed wouldn’t have mattered because there’d have been time to double/triple/quadruple back and still get held up at security.

How to count the ways?  Having to take off the furry boots (heading north); then another rookie error (very much out of training, especially with hand luggage only) of not putting the rolled up, nearly empty toothpaste tube in the plastic bag; and, worst of all, having my breakfast confiscated.  “It’s liquid,” they said.  “But it’s solidified,” I said (chia seeds soaked overnight in kefir).  Security weren’t impressed.  Not solidified enough apparently.  My goose wasn’t so much grounded as cooked.

If you miss your flight, you then have to hang around and wait to be escorted off the premises – you’ve gone through security , remember – but there were no handcuffs.  There were three of us, the other couple had missed their flight to Belfast.  They were going for the Christmas shopping.  Blimey.  “Is Belfast good for shopping?” I asked, not really knowing, being well out of the loop.  “I don’t really know,” the wife said, “we’ve never been.”

I had a coffee and an almond croissant (no great shakes) before wending my weary way home.  So much for my new making-a-big-effort-to-be-early  regime.  Crashed at the first real test.  I’d been trying to follow the advice of Philippa Perry, wife of Grayson, in her latest publication, “The Book You Want Everyone You Love* To Read. (*and maybe a few you don’t.)  In the section on how to change old habits, she tackles the subject of habitual lateness, right up (or down?) my rabbit hole.

Terrible timekeepers can change, she says.  “We don’t just reach adulthood and stop developing.  The brain is plastic, we can therefore change it.  We change it by noticing what we normally do, inhibiting our normal reaction and working to form an alternative response, and thus developing a new habit.”

Ah well, the only thing for it is to persevere  – even Philippa isn’t perfect, not that she would claim to be I suspect.  I bought the last two signed copies of her book in Foyles at New Street station (spoiler alert:  potential Christmas presents) and discovered on closer inspection that even she has her limits.  See if you can spot the difference.

There was nothing for it but to take myself off to singing, better than moping about at home berating myself.  Helen, our teacher, a trained soprano with perfect pitch, is so kind and encouraging, even with a toneless numpty like me.  She hoped choir would make my day better and when I said it undoubtedly would if I were a better singer but I’d enjoy the company, she couldn’t have been more sympathetic.  “Our choir is never ALL about the singing Patricia…it’s the laughter, the chat and friendship that really matter.”

That’s why I keep going. It’s a joy.