At the moment, really, I’ve got nothing in my world to worry about – at least nothing I can do anything much about.  Many years ago, when I was an impressionable teenager staggering under the weight of the world and the many things I didn’t understand (only the age and perhaps a modicum of understanding have changed), one of my uncles advised me not to worry about things I could do nothing about.  Both uncles had survived the war, so they were worth listening to.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling a bit discombobulated this week, a bit unsettled. The trusty dictionary says it’s a transitive verb (pretty sure I used to know what that was) meaning “to disconcert, upset (origin obscure)”.  It’s probably because I’m trying to do something that doesn’t come naturally:  get organised.  And when your first thought is that “disconcert” is something to do with The Proms, you realise that you’re not quite with it, that you probably should go and lie down and not write a blog.

Still, the show must go on and Mo and I have some lovely supportive friends who look forward to logging in to this LOG (load of old guff) on a Friday morning.  And that’s why we do it, to connect with our friends, to have a bit of a laugh, remember old times, be in awe of the skills of today’s players – and realise that they’d have a tough old time beating the stars of yesteryear.  The Greatest Of All Time?  That’s a great debate but there’ll never be an answer because we can’t get them all together on what I believe is called a level playing field.

And, once again, please, please, please can somebody come up with something better, more flattering than GOAT!!!

My bruised knee and I made it to the 1st tee at WHGC on Tuesday morning  but the heavens opened and it hammered down, soaking us and our stuff, so we retreated to the clubhouse for coffee and chat and a bit of bridge.  Later on, under blue skies, we ventured out for a few holes, the sensible option because it was just enough to get the knee ready for this weekend.  It’s going to Spurs v Everton on Saturday and playing golf at Horsley Lodge in Derbyshire on Sunday, fingers crossed.

Yes, you’ve guessed it, the footie season has started again, even though the summer is still in full squelch.  And cricket is in full swing.  England are playing a test match against Sri Lanka at Old Trafford and Mo and Brian were there with cricketing friends on the second day.  Rain delayed the start but they got plenty of play and were even spotted on the telly.

There’s proper golf being played at St Andrews this week, the AIG Women’s Open, in suitably tricky conditions.  The rain seemed to hold off  on the first day but it was beyond breezy and Dame Laura Davies, in the commentary box for Sky rather than on the course, was astounded that anyone broke 70.  There were, in fact, several scores in the 60s and the best of them was Charley Hull with a classy 67, five under par, one shot ahead of Nelly Korda, the world No 1.  Looks like the championship is bubbling up nicely.  And Charley is my PYP (pick your pro) choice this week.

I’ve been sticking closer to home, not least because I didn’t want to miss the Social Singers’ summer get-together this year.  As most of you know, I’m not much of a singer but the social side of the choir is just as important and I knew there’d be tea and cake – and scones and sausage rolls and all sorts of goodies – in a lovely garden.  It didn’t rain – a real bonus – and there was plenty of chat and some not-too-serious singing, mostly daft rounds and lots of laughter.

 

My general unease may also be because I have to do some packing that has to include items that must pass muster at a couple of dos that are formal enough to have a dress code.  Aaaagh.  Formal is not something I have much call for these days and I’ve been waking up at night in a cold sweat at the very thought.  Do I possess anything suitable?   The first outing requires “jacket, collar and tie/ladies’ equivalent.”  Well, we could be here for days discussing that one.  And that’s without getting in to anything more complicated than two genders.  I toyed with the idea of a summer dress but then I looked at the weather forecast, put my nose (red) out the door and started rooting in the wardrobe for a coat and some thick tights.

The second invitation says “Dress:  Business Formal” and I have to confess that had me and some of my mates completely stumped.  One kind, intrepid soul googled it and as the rain lashed down outside we spent a happy half hour or so perusing the options.  Fingers crossed all is well on the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have exchanged the marathon telly viewing of the Open last week for a visit to my home club Delamere Forest and a spot of actual golf watching – my first since the US Open at Pinehurst in June.  Last Sunday, on a glorious day weather-wise, 107 professionals and top-class amateurs teed it up in an 18-hole pre-qualifying for the AIG Women’s Open later this month at St Andrews, the home of the game.  They are all trying to get a little closer to the Women’s Open trophy held by last year’s champion Lilia Vu in the photo above.

The air of nervous expectancy was instantly familiar.  It’s the same the world over in any sport where it matters so much to those taking part, with their supporters probably having the worst job of all, watching on helplessly from the sidelines.  The course, as usual, looked glorious – all thanks to our course manager, greenkeeping guru Andy Ralph and his team.  It almost (but not quite) made me wish I was teeing it up myself.

The club also rose to the occasion with loads of the members giving up their time to fill the volunteer roles – starting, ball-spotting and suchlike, aiding the R&A to run a successful day.

Lily May Humphreys, playing out of Royal Norwich (where I first dipped my toe into the international arena many moons ago) was second out at the crack of dawn – well, 0711, to be precise.  She returned a sparkling score of 5 under, 66, which wasn’t challenged the entire day.

The home crowd turned out to see Gemma Clews, one of their own and were rewarded with a solid 69 and second place.  Playing on your home course brings its own set of pressures which all need handling and Gemma rose to the occasion with ease.

In all, 22 players have made it through to final qualifying over the Craighead course at Crail Golfing Society in a couple of weeks’ time.  Eight players on 73 had the nerve-wracking experience of playing off for the final three spots available – gutting for those who just missed out and are on the reserve list.  Mind you, there usually are a few withdrawals because of illness or injury so perhaps the disappointment  of the play-off will be assuaged by a late call-up to action in Fife.  Be prepared!

I must make mention of two friends of the blog who were grinding away in an attempt to qualify.  Neither is a full-time player any longer but they can still hang with the best.  Firstly, congrats to Heather Macrae who, despite battling health issues and running on empty, managed to birdie two out of the last four holes to sign for a 72, thankfully managing to avoid the dreaded play-off.

Secondly, what an effort from Rachel Bailey, the pro at Whittington Heath, the sister’s club.  Seventeen holes of solid play and a horror story at the 8th.  Kudos for a terrific display of guts and determination to cover the rest of the course in two under after that body blow.  Rach – I shall personally see to it that the 8th hole is dug up and disposed of as retribution for making you suffer!  Hats off nonetheless.

All sport tends to be a rollercoaster, a fact brought into sharp relief if you’ve watched even one iota of the Olympics.  It’s extraordinary how invested you become in sports that for three years and eleven and half months interest you not a jot.  I was screaming like a banshee for Ireland’s Mona McSharry in the women’s 100 metre breaststroke final.  She swam brilliantly to win a bronze medal, Ireland’s first medallist at these games and Irish swimming’s first medal since 1996.  Not only is she Irish, she’s from Sligo, Dad’s birthplace – ’nuff said.

I’ve realised that, for me, this summer of sports watching may also lead to being dubbed the summer of the expanding waistline.  I console myself with reasoning that my constant, and completely necessary, armchair leg-kicking required to get GB&NI’s equestrian team over the jumps to a gold medal must at least burn off a few calories.  Ditto the rugby sevens, the tennis, the cycling (oh, the mountain biking!), the gymnastics, the judo and the rowing.

And, of course, the men’s golf has now started with the women’s to follow next week.  I can hardly bring myself to mention the golf as I get so cross with the powers-that-be for settling on the tried and tested 72-hole strokeplay format.  Set alongside the adversarial excitement of the other sports, the golf is hardly attention grabbing – at least, probably not until the last nine on Sunday.  What an opportunity missed to showcase the sport with a matchplay, team element, possibly mixed, that would draw everyone in – even in the early stages of the competition.

And please, don’t give me that old chestnut about medal play identifying the best player.  We do have nine majors across the men’s and women’s games to do just that.  Olympic golf should be all about increasing the global outreach of the sport, inspiring non golfers to give it a go.  The drama which matchplay assuredly delivers can more readily provide that inspiration.

There’s another thing that miffs me a little at the moment – and that’s the weather!  Summer has finally arrived – just in time to coincide with wall-to-wall interesting sport to follow.  I do feel resentful of the weather gods drowning us for the first seven months of the year and then producing the sunshine while I’m forced to draw the curtains in the middle of the day and shroud myself in darkness to improve my spectating.

Ah well, we’re never satisfied, are we?

There really is no excuse for leaving it until after midnight to finish this blog because here in the Midlands of England it’s not a day for being out and doing – unless you’re testing waterproofs or wellies or installing water butts.  I don’t even have to go out and tend to my ailing plants because the weather is doing its best for me.

By some miracle or meteorological quirk it’s not raining at Lord’s, so I’ve got the cricket on the telly, wondering whether to switch to Wimbledon or the Tour de France or have a wee look at the golf in Scotland (not raining when I flicked in!).  Telly-watching works well with blog-writing, which is a stop-start, intermittent activity for me with lots of tea breaks, stretches and staring in to space.  It’s also fun to watch people who are really good at something doing it really well.

These days I try to be an equable, even-keeled sort of soul but try as I might little things still irritate me.  For instance, I thought I’d better  double check if there was an apostrophe in Lord’s – there is; hallelujah, they still exist here and there, though I’ve resolved to give them up, it’s less stressful in this day and age – and I thought the easiest way was to go to BBC Sport and check the app.  So I did.  And nearly screamed.

It really, really annoys me when you go to check a score, find it, even find out who’s playing who(m), then wonder where they’re playing…and it’s not there.  Why won’t you tell me where it is?  Why isn’t it automatically there?  Right at the top?  Not some sort of afterthought.  It doesn’t take up too much room to put in the venue and not everyone is so keen/well-informed/on it that they know where every match is on any given day/week.  Just include that detail as a sine qua non, something indispensable, vital, not to be excluded.  Please!!!

That’s part of the trouble with today’s (blimey! another apostrophe, though one with a different job) websites, they’re obsessed with wee videos and things that move and seem to have no interest in the basics like what? where? when? who? and how?  They are, in short, bloody annoying for those who just want to know the basics:  what was it? where was it? who was playing? who won? by how much?

It reminds me a bit of my treasured letter from Tom Clarke, sports editor of The Times (and earlier the Daily Mail) for many years.  I sent in a bit of an arty-farty piece from a pretty ordinary tournament in Portugal on a pretty dull day and the subs (probably rightly) chopped it to bits.  I complained and got a written reply from the sports ed which I still have, framed.  Dai said the sports editor was always right…

Whatever the indulgent demerits of my piece, I’m willing to bet that right at the beginning I said what it was, where it was, when it was and who was involved.  My word allowance was usually minimal – a very good discipline for a loquacious bod – but I worked hard not to be too boring or predictable and to make it as difficult as possible for the long-suffering sub-editors to cut out the good bits (well, what I fondly imagined were the good bits).  If this blog had a good sub, you’d have finished reading ages ago.  Perhaps you already have!

Last Saturday, at WHGC, it was ladies’ captain’s day (more apostrophes! didn’t somebody just declare them redundant or extinct or both?)  It’s men’s captain’s day this Saturday but I bet there’ll be a lot less pink in evidence.  The LC’s charity, which I’ve mentioned before, is Molly Ollys, a small charity that helps support children with life-threatening illnesses and their families.  Its main colour is a vibrant pink and their slogan is “Making The Dark Days Brighter”.  So we were all happy to be decked out in pink on a morning, miraculously, without rain.  Some poor souls did get soaked by a late downpour but we all survived more or less intact.

My partners and I played decently but weren’t anywhere near winning, though I cleaned up at the raffle, with such an embarrassingly large haul that I had to get a carrier bag from the car to take everything home.  Mo said I should play the lottery but those odds aren’t really in anybody’s favour.

After a card-free three weeks or so in America, it was back to bridge and the feeling that the time off had set me back quite a lot.  I’ve given up hoping that Maureen and Brian will take to the game but perhaps I should have taken one of my beginner’s bridge books and a pack of cards with me and spent a bit of time reading and revising…Although, in my defence, sometimes the cards don’t help, whatever your level.  Where’s Andrew Robson when you need him?

 

 

Well, what a difference a week makes.  The last blog was done and dusted a day in advance because of having to fly from Charlotte to Dublin and very relaxing that was; must do that again I thought.  So this week it’s back to the same old last-minute effort, starting to write just as the polls close in the UK.  At least that means there’ll be plenty of chat and company through the night, if required.  The exit polls predicted a big win for Labour, so, if they’re right, good luck Keir; you’ll need it.

My eyes are red-rimmed because I’ve just finished watching the tribute to Andy Murray on a packed centre court at Wimbledon after he and his big brother Jamie had been beaten in straight sets in the gentlemen’s doubles by two efficient Australians, Rinky Hijikata  and John Peers.  The great and the good were lined up – John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova and Novak Djokovic were among those there in person – and on film there were lovely tributes from Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal and Djokovic, the three giants of the game who always had to work ferociously to beat the talented, driven Scot from Dunblane and couldn’t respect him more.  He’s raging against the dying of the light but his battered body can give no more.  He’ll now have to learn to settle for being an inspiration.

Wimbledon always makes me think of the Smiths, Helen (née Lennon) and Colm, great friends who are no longer with us but never forgotten.   Helen, who became Ireland’s Federation Cup captain (think it may be called something else now), was good enough to play at Wimbledon and she had the patience to try and teach me how to serve.  Considering I was aced by Dad, whose serve was even more cramped than his golf swing, that was above and beyond friendship.

Even Colm, who covered golf (and rugby and many other sports) for the Irish Independent for many years, was not old enough to be at Portmarnock in 1931 to see Enid Wilson win the first of her three consecutive Ladies’ British Open Amateur Championship titles.  This year, at last, the championship, recently renamed The Women’s Amateur (Championship), was back at Portmarnock and the winner was the American Melanie Green, from Medinah, New York and the University of South Florida.

Green, relatively unheralded hitherto, defeated Lorna McClymont, of Milngavie and Stirling University, by two holes in the 36-hole final, played for the most part in foul, wet, miserable conditions.  McClymont’s mum Gail pulled her trolley throughout the championship but Green insisted on carrying her own clubs from start to finish.  No one I spoke to, champions all, could believe it, especially given the conditions at the end of a long, tiring week.  She turned down every offer of help and that stubbornness and determination could take her far beyond this title.

I have to confess that I spent most of the final in the clubhouse watching on the telly, the weather was so foul and I was ill-equipped for the classic summer weather.  But not everybody was so wimpish and I couldn’t resist snapping three pals, well waterproofed, enjoying an ice cream.  Does anybody still think golf is for old people?

And some proper pics of the proceedings, taken by champion photographer Mary McKenna.  Many thanks Mc – and thanks for the bed when the Are Lingus pilots’ strike kept me in Dublin for two unexpected extra nights.

To the champion go the spoils, not least a place in four majors:  the Amundi Evian Championship, the AIG Women’s Open (at St Andrews no less), the Chevron Championship and the US Women’s Open and an invitation to the Augusta National Women’s Amateur.  The runner-up, gutted, especially after being four up after eight holes and one up with three to play, had to hang around to receive a very grand but unwanted trophy and listen to kind words about what a player she is.  It’s tough to take but the Scottish Women’s Amateur champion will surely be on Catriona Matthew’s  Curtis Cup team at Sunningdale at the end of August.

The day before the final, there was a reception for some of the best women golfers Ireland has ever produced.  It was a delight and I was there, an interloper who knew them all and I’d include some photos if I could find any that featured everybody.  So, sorry, no pics, for fear of offending and omitting.  There was lots of chat and laughter and the catching up and reminiscing could have gone on all weekend and beyond.

An unexpected bonus was a present from Ann Bradshaw, daughter of Cecil Ewing, the king of Rosses Point and one of Dad’s idols when he was growing up.  She gave Maureen and me a copy of a lovely, lovingly produced book:  The WEST of IRELAND Amateur Open Golf Championship, the centenary history 1923-2023, compiled by Brendan Cashell.  It’s a joy and will give us many happy hours of browsing.  Many thanks Ann – and Brendan, brilliant job.

It’s hard to choose which sport to watch at the moment, what with Wimbledon, the Tour de France (vive Mark Cavendish, the pocket rocket from the Isle of Man, who has just won a record 35th stage on the Tour), the football (will England beat Switzerland?) and various elections, perhaps the most competitive beasts of all.  By the time you read this, a lot of fates will have been decided, one way or another.

Finally, just to give you a laugh.  We took our very dusty hire car to the car wash the day before we were due to fly back home and just as we settled in to be thoroughly cleaned, we realised our exit was blocked – by the local septic tank emptier!!  It was quite a pongy wash and we (well, Brian) had to reverse out.  You couldn’t make it up.

The only thing for it was to head to the pub for one last craft beer.