We’ve seen the conclusion of the damp PGA Championship at Quail Hollow and world No 1 Scottie Scheffler reigns supreme.  Boy, does he thoroughly deserve his third major title in the space of the last twenty-five months.

I settled down to watch the early starters on the Thursday and was preparing to be amazed and enchanted by the irresistible threeball of Scottie, Rory McIlroy and Xander Schauffele.  Talk about a slow start by the three of them and it became even more pedestrian and uninspiring when the trio all doubled the 16th, their seventh hole of the championship.  Scottie was the most wayward of the three, looking totally out of sorts and at that point he certainly wasn’t shaping up to put a marker down as a potential winner.

But Scottie did what Scottie does and hung around, excelling in damage limitation until his normal, excellent, ball striking decided to put in a reappearance.  One lightning flash of utter brilliance in round three, where he was five under for the last five holes, (which included the renowned and challenging Green Mile, aka the 16th, 17th and 18th holes), was enough to open up a three-shot lead.  Despite being pegged back on the Sunday by Jon Rahm, Scottie smoothly found another gear and romped home by five shots.  It was a consummate professional performance by a player who did not appear to be at his shiny, squeaky best.

That’s a scary prospect for the rest of them.

There was much interest, of course, in the latest newly-minted grand slam champ, Rory McIlroy, who offered up a very lacklustre performance indeed, just making the cut on the number and then languishing well down the leaderboard.  His on-course performance was completely understandable, I felt.  After all, there’s bound to be a monumental reaction to achieving his lifelong dream of winning all four majors.

It appeared, however, that off the course, apart from his pre-tournament conference, we were to be treated to the picture-but-no-sound version of Rory as he spurned talking to the media after each of his four rounds.  I’m afraid this isn’t good enough…..and I’m sure he knows it.  It’s the penalty you pay for living and working in a goldfish bowl, earning millions and millions and being one of the most sought-after athletes on the planet.  Man up, Rory, and get on with it.  (As if he’d listen to the likes of me!)

Now, here’s a quiz question for you all.  As most of you know, Rory McIlroy has just become the sixth player in the history of the game to win the grand slam.  This week David Scott has also become just the sixth member of an elite and exclusive band of golfers – but which one?

I have not met David but hope to do so, sooner or later, on my travels to offer up my heartfelt congratulations on his most recent appointment.  Perhaps I’ll run into him on my visit to St Andrews in July or possibly when at the Open in Portrush.  David, you see, has just been appointed as the Honorary Professional of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, a position that stretches back over a century and one which you certainly can’t apply for.

It is strictly by invitation only and David becomes just the sixth person to hold the post, following in the footsteps of  Andrew Kirkaldy (1910 – 1934), Willie Auchterlonie (1935 – 1963), Laurie Auchterlonie (1964 – 1987), John Panton (1988 – 2006) and Jim Farmer (2006 – 2024).

The R&A could not have made a better choice, in my opinion.  David is a man of golf, a pro’s pro, born and bred and still living in St Andrews.  He is a Master Professional, the current Captain of the PGA and………Scottish (which I happen to think is quite important).  Quite honestly, if you were to write a list of the qualities required of an incumbent of this post you simply couldn’t come up with a better candidate.  The almost two and a half thousand global members of the club will have no cause to regret their decision, I’m sure.

Wishing you a long and happy tenure, David.

More news this week to inspire and make me smile was word of the magnificent staging of the men’s and women’s G4D (golf for the disabled) Opens at Woburn.  Some of the prize winners are pictured at the top.  Strong fields in each Open battled their way round the narrow, unforgiving Duchess golf course and it tested the skills and resolve of the players to the limit.

In the women’s event Daphne van Houten of the Netherlands played beautifully to retain the title she first won twelve months ago.  Her previous winning experience had helped her, she declared afterwards, as she felt comfortable playing with the pressure of a lead and in front of crowds.  The 26-year old was born with scoliosis and has other health challenges, including dizziness on the course.  She did acknowledge it was sometimes difficult to deal with, proving to be a master of understatement as well as of her clubs.

In the men’s event, Irishman Brendan Lawlor scooped the title with a solid 54-hole total of three over par and he was justifiably proud of himself.  He’s the world No. 3 in the G4D rankings and said, “It feels unbelievable.  I played extremely solid all week. My game is in fantastic shape. It’s such a tight course. You can’t go in trouble and I stayed out of trouble a lot over the three days.  I’m absolutely chuffed.”

You really don’t have to look far in life to find inspiring people and this is especially true at any level in the world of golf.

 

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.

 

It’s a funny old thing having an Australian manager (albeit with Greek origins) and playing like a load of wimps.  If they’re anything at all, Aussie sportspeople are tough, gritty, stubborn, hard to beat but, my goodness, it’s taking the sainted Ange a very long time to get that through to his/my tottering Totspurs.

You may have noticed that there wasn’t a mention of football in the blog last week but this week I’m hot, weary, a tad disillusioned and up crops the not-so-beautiful game at the forefront of my thoughts.  On Sunday, I watched us help Liverpool celebrate their latest title in grand style at Anfield.  We scored first – “that’ll be 6-1 to you, then,” sez I to my Liverpool-supporting viewing mate – and I wasn’t far wrong. They won 5-1 and we dutifully faded from the scene to leave the Reds to their joyous celebrations.

How we Lilywhites (does that moniker have to make us lily-livered?) long for something to cheer about.  Will we ever again win even an egg cup?

Yesterday (Thursday night), in the first leg of the semi-final of the Europa League, we were 3-nil up at home against Bodo/Glimt of Norway but failed to be ruthless and kill them off.  Instead we did that hideous Spursy thing of falling asleep, allowing them a moment of skill and conceding a late goal.  Now we have to trek to their place, north of the Arctic Circle and play them on their artificial pitch, where they don’t lose many matches and feel completely at home.  It might even be snowing.  At least we managed to beat Tamworth, the mighty Lambs, on their artificial pitch earlier this season.  Is that an omen?

I wasn’t there last night and I won’t be in Norway and I think I’m even more down in the mouth because earlier in the week I marvelled at the skills of Paris St Germain, Barcelona and Inter Milan.  If we win the Europa League (come on girl, be optimistic), we’ll be in the Champions League with the big boys, so at least we’d see some of the world’s best at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

Word is Ange will be getting the sack whatever happens but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.  We’ve been very good at sacking managers over the last few seasons, not giving anybody a chance to lay solid foundations and build a decent team.  We’ve mostly been pretty dreadful this season after early flashes of brilliance but I’d be inclined to back our Aussie and help him sort us out.  I think I’m in a minority, though, possibly of one.

It’s not often that I feel sorry for Arsenal fans, our biggest rivals and much more successful than us recently with quite a lot to crow about.  They looked very good beating Real Madrid home and away to reach the semis of the Champions League but then PSG made them look ordinary on Tuesday night at the Emirates.

Mo and I were at Belfast International having a Guinness waiting for our flight back home and I’d noticed a fair few Arsenal shirts in the bar.  They were heading for the match, via Stansted and it wasn’t a relaxing experience.  Their Ryanair flight, scheduled to leave at 1545, had gone to “Est 1700”.  Oops.

Now I was starting to feel uncomfortable for them and hoping that the pilot wasn’t a Spurs supporter.  A couple of the younger fans were getting a bit upset and agitated and getting to the ground for kick-off at 2000 was beginning to look like a big ask.  It takes about an hour and a quarter from Aldergrove (aka Belfast International) to Stansted and the flight was still on the ground at 1730.  It landed about 1848, so if they made it to the ground via Tottenham Hale and Finsbury Park in time for the first and – luckily for Arsenal – only goal of the game (O. Dembélé – 4 mins), they’d have done brilliantly.

However, this is how some of us seasoned travellers choose to relax at an airport…

You know those days when you wait in for the electrician, the gas man, the broadband installer?  Well, the trick is to phone a friend and ask them to do it for you.  So, profuse thanks to Mike for being kind enough to say yes to my request and wait around all day to oversee the installation of my new, fast fibre broadband.  The phone still has to be sorted but the internet seems to be all systems ago – impossibly long password having been tapped in successfully.

And there’s nothing like a jigsaw to pass the time, so the Isles of Scilly monster is well on its way to completion; well done Michael.

 

Mo and I had a great time in Ireland, enjoying sea, sand and reconnecting with old friends.  The weather was very good and here are some pics to prove it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m still in the recovery position after last week’s tortuously exhilarating career-grand-slam-dunk of Rory McIlroy’s in winning the Masters.

I crawled to bed about 2.30 in the morning – I defy anyone to come down to a normal heartrate quickly with so much adrenalin rushing around through the ole system.  Rather to my surprise, and really before I was truly awake, I found myself in a challenging exercise class, some seven hours later, attempting to lift each of my legs over a pillar the size of the Eiffel Tower.  I hadn’t remembered the tower being so tall in previous classes, but neither was each leg weighed down by a couple of bottles of red wine.  It was not a pretty sight – and not a pleasant experience.

After that, it was on to pick up a friend and treat her to her 85th birthday lunch.  No, perhaps I’ve got that wrong – I was treating a friend to lunch to celebrate her 85th birthday.  There is a difference, I’m sure.

Next on the agenda was a trip to Delamere Forest golf club to help the ladies’ section prepare for the surfeit of matchplay they would be facing in the approaching season’s team matches.  I had promised the lady captain Maria that I’d endeavour to impart a few words of wisdom but when I arrived I had lost 90% of my voice and was only able to croak out a couple of  “pearls”.  Perhaps that’s why they seemed to enjoy it so much but something worked because the girls won their opening team match two days later with a bit to spare.

That was the Monday after THE Sunday.  Since then I’ve been lying relatively low, recovering both my voice and my sanity, and I have watched NOT A SINGLE SHOT OF GOLF the entire week.  It’s been bliss.

Apologies, therefore, and congratulations to Justin Thomas, who won at Hilton Head, bringing to an end his three-year absence from the winners’ circle.  The same goes for the Swedish rookie Ingrid Lindblad, who won in her third start as an LPGA member.  Garrick Higgo and Ashun Wu also had weeks they’ll never forget but this blogger doesn’t have the bandwidth at the moment to take all that on board – but well done, one and all.

By the time you read this I’ll be back in the wee north (of Ireland) for a few days visiting family and friends and for a wee golfing ceremony, more of which next week.  I’m looking forward to being back at Portstewart and Portrush again and having the sister with me means we can indulge ourselves with reminiscing over our early lives in this magical place where the golf courses, beaches and long summer holidays stand out in my memory.

This is the first year since lockdown that I’ve had the pleasure of a diary filled with trips.  Sure, I’ve had a couple of work commentary outings booked in over the last couple of seasons, but there was always a degree of angst lurking as to whether I’d be well enough to manage the travel and do a decent job.  Sometimes I was and sometimes I wasn’t.

It was my task to book our flights, which I did quite a while ago, along with lots of other travel I had coming up.  As expected, a reminder email thudded in the other morning telling me I could now check us in – just go to “manage my booking” and take it from there.  Sounds easy, should be easy, IS easy, but when following the instructions it became apparent I was the only one on the booking – no sign of Mrs Patricia Davies whatsover.

Too soon to panic, I enquired of Patricia had she booked her own flight.  To describe her response as “vague” would imbue her answer with a tad too much urgency.  Basically, she had no idea but said it had been my job.  Deep down I knew she was right and continued to search for any sign of her on the booking.  There was none.

Next a mad scramble to see if I could now get her seats on my flight but the clunky website wouldn’t let me book a return for some reason.  I had to book two singles and my session kept getting timed out.  By this time I was ready to hurl the laptop out of the window but passed it instead to my better half, who smoothly did what was asked of him and booked Patricia on to the same flights as me.

Phew!  Crisis averted.  Something, however, was niggling away in the recesses of my very small brain and I eventually delved back a few months through the finances to see what payments had been made – and there it was, two separate outgoings to the airline in question.  I HAD bought two tickets and now we had three, two apparently in Patricia’s name.  At this rate she’d be able to lie down both ways.

Then it came back to me as to why exactly we weren’t on the one booking.  We had decided to share a suitcase that would go in the hold and that meant we needed one ticket with that requirement and another that was essentially a ticket with no luggage at all and for some reason that I cannot now recall we couldn’t easily put that on one booking.

By this stage my hubby was urged to take over and hurriedly cancelled the flights we had just bought, all of course carrying a hefty penalty.

This whole debacle took up a morning and boy, does it put you in bad humour.  And then I remembered that special Sunday, and I remembered Rory………..and I smiled.  It didn’t matter.

And so, to Ireland.  I’m sure we’ll pick up a celebratory party or two back home – they’re still going on apparently.