I was fiddling about the other day on social media (has there ever been a more time-wasting activity?) when I came across a little video of Charlie Woods, son of Tiger, teeing off in the second round of something or other.  The announcer started off with a bellow, ” ….and now the 06.32 tee time …” and a mini Tiger came out of the early morning gloom and teed up his ball.

Then a strange thing happened.  This young man turned into Rory McIlroy, right down to the identical follow-through and the ball was dispatched into the mist.  Charlie strode off the tee, turning to hand his club to his caddy, 15-time major champion and Dad, Tiger, who, it has to be said, looked as if he was walking normally, a rare occurrence over the last decade.

It was an early start for the pair and it set me wondering as to what time the alarm had been set for.  To my knowledge most players with an early start on tour set their clocks for three hours prior to their tee time.  Towards the end of Tiger’s career when he was succumbing to the inexorable demands he had put on his body for so long it took him five hours from bed to tee.  I can’t imagine that the caddying duties would be quite so onerous though and he looked happy to be there, even at that ungodly hour, striding along after his son.  I wonder if the roles will be reversed next April at Augusta?

I had a number of very good caddies when I was on tour, one of whom was the multi-talented Angie Bell, who used to tow her caravan from her home in Yorkshire to all the tour venues in the UK and on the European continent.  From early April to the beginning of November Angie criss-crossed her way across Europe, calling in at the tournament sites a month or so ahead of time to walk the course, measuring it with a wheel (no lasers in those days).  She would then produce in excess of a couple of hundred course planners, some in yards, some in metres, for the players and caddies and these would be waiting for us when we arrived at the tournament.

Aside from this, she became the first-ever tour rep to travel on the Ladies’ European Tour, employed by Ping to look after their players.  Angie did all the regripping and minor repairs required and carried supplies of extra Ping brollies, gloves, headcovers and the like, attending to the needs of some fifty players a week.

She fitted all this around looking after me, getting up at the crack of dawn every day and often working on clubs well into the evenings.  As if that weren’t enough, a group of us often went to the caravan for one of Angie’s legendary chillis for supper and the conversation would frequently turn to the topic of where exactly would the impending cut fall.

One player, who often travelled with Angie, was an absolute mastermind at predicting said cut, arguably because she spent most of her career sitting on that very line.  She had an uncanny ability to assess the weather, the strength of the field, the state of her game and sundry other imponderables.  Once she got her opening tee shot away on Thursday morning her brain was consumed by where the axe would fall.  She was rarely wrong.

These memories were triggered for me a few evenings ago when I rustled up a chilli con carne, something I hadn’t cooked in an absolute age.  The sister was present for food that night (as she often was for an Angie supper when she was covering our tour) and out of the blue I recalled those long-ago days when we used to enjoy Angie’s chilli.  Once again we were aboard the reminiscing train, an increasingly frequent pastime the older we become.  (The featured picture at the top of the blog is of The Glacier Express, which runs from Zermatt to St Moritz.  It’s on my wish list for the near future.)

Anyway, in the interests of keeping anno Domini at bay and recapturing former tour days, I had another foray up to Delamere this week to hit a few more balls.  The real draw, however, was lunch with the lovely Karl Morris, the mental skills guru who has helped so many players unlock and achieve their full potential.  I must have known Karl for thirty years or so and we now find ourselves members of the self same golf club.

Despite some of his own health challenges Karl appears to show no signs of slowing down and, though he won’t admit it, he has been a major contributor to Kiwi Ryan Fox’s incredible last two or three seasons.  He prefers to remain in the shadows but I know his job satisfaction must be high.

It’s hard to believe it’s twenty years since the two of us did a mini lecture tour alongside the four Harmon brothers, Dick, Bill, Claude and Butch.  It was at a time that Tiger had just fired Butch as his coach and his three brothers didn’t half give Butch some stick.  They claimed Butch was the only coach to be fired by two world No 1 players, having previously been given a red card by Greg Norman.  The conversations over dinner were amazing…….and unabridged, and something I’m sure neither Karl nor I will ever forget.

Oh dear.  Choo!  Choo!  There’s that reminiscing train racing down the tracks again!

There’s probably not going to be much golf in this dispatch but I loved the happy, smiley picture of Tommy Fleetwood, so thought I’d better start with him.  This was taken, by Getty Images, as Fleetwood was preparing for the Nedbank Golf Challenge at Gary Player Country Club in Sun City, South Africa, hoping to win the title for the third time in a row.  He started with a round of 71, five behind Nicolai Hojgaard, Max Homa, Vincent Norrman and Dan Bradbury.

Last Monday night I went to the football, to watch Spurs v Chelsea, only my second visit of the season.  My Chelsea-supporting mate was at a low ebb, depressed by his team’s inability to score and his prediction was 4-1 to Spurs.  Well, he got the score right but it was his lot wot won it.  It was  beyond bonkers.

It was all go from the start, with us scoring in the 5th or 6th minute – at my end no less – and then going 2-nil up, or so we thought.  The dreaded VAR (video assistant referee) kicked in and ruled that it was offside – by a fraction from the look of it.  From then on it was total mayhem, with more goals disallowed, two for Chelsea, handball and offside; a red card issued (Romero of course); penalty given and scored, though our goalie got his hands to it; and a general air of chaos and no love lost; two of our best players went off injured but there was still hope.  Cool heads were in short supply and the Chelsea numpties surely couldn’t keep a full complement on the field….

As it turned out, it was another Spurs numpty (Auld Scots for idiot, eejit) who was sent off, so we were down to nine men and they still had eleven.  The Spurs nine performed heroically but eventually even Chelsea worked out how to make the advantage count and scored a second just as I was leaving.  They’ve brought the last train forward by half an hour, so with all the added minutes I couldn’t afford to hang about any longer.

I hate leaving early – it’ll have to be the coach for these late games from now on – and as I was going down the stairs to the exit there was an almighty roar.  No!  We couldn’t have equalised, could we?  Well, turns out we had, a cracker from an unlikely source (Eric Dier) but VAR ruled it offside.  We had a couple of other chances too but Chelsea cracked it in the end.

A friend who was watching at home (not from behind the sofa, not a Spurs supporter) confirmed that there were more than twenty additional minutes  in all and most of the offside decisions were tight, so that didn’t help.  She praised our fighting spirit and the team got a standing ovation at the end!  After losing 4-1 to one of our deadliest rivals!

Even leaving early I got my money’s worth and it was hugely enjoyable in a macabre sort of way but who knows what sort of toll it’ll take.

At singing on Thursday we got told off for neglecting our homework and we’ll have to work harder if we want a standing ovation at our concert next year.  Edelweiss and Can’t Help Falling In Love are particularly tricky and a quick run through just before leaving for the session (so I could say I’d done some homework) won’t be enough.  Oops.  Is breaking the habits of a lifetime all in the mind?  Or is it physical?  Like putting the bum on the seat whenever it’s time to write?

As a NIP (nothing in particular), which is a step or two up from a SATBAM (stand at the back and mimer), I’m with the men and the tenor ladies, on the end, almost in the car park, where there’s a digger that’s more tuneful than I am.  Even so, our rendition of Can’t Help Falling In Love, with its confusion of notes, gave me goosebumps.  There’s hope for us yet.

Noel Fitzpatrick, aka the Supervet, was in evangelical form in Wrexham last week and his mission is to encourage us all to bring more love into the world, the unconditional kind that comes so naturally to other animals.  Mainly dogs and cats I think he means.  Anyway, it’s a big job but it’s surely worth the effort, even if we fail.

Mo was talking about the joys of winter golf last week and I came across this perfect illustration.  What better way to end.  Note the wee bags.