As I sat down to write this ultra-considered piece I promised myself and by extension my reader that de-cluttering would not get a mention but the truth is that I’m obsessed, so so much for good intentions and welcome to the Boris Johnson school of promises.  At the moment the long road to a tidy, organised home and freedom from extraneous stuff fills my every waking minute.

As I hope you can see from the picture at the top of the blog, a brave new world of clarity and space awaits.  The sofa bed is open for business, so to speak.  To reach it without having to clamber over numerous boxes and to be able to sit on it without having to throw piles of paper onto the floor – or as near the floor as possible – was bliss.  Instead of closing the door and pretending all was well, I left the door open and stood grinning inanely at the sight of a rediscovered, newly hoovered carpet.

Pathetic?  Probably.  But a joy nonetheless.

There’s still work to do, as you can see and it’ll involve a lot of reading and sorting but I can’t follow the advice of one reader, who recommended a skip and a ruthless attitude.  It’ll be the Moyra McElderry method for me.  She wrote: “Please put all those lovely letters, articles and photos in a file…very therapeutic if time consuming but I’m sure you’ll have a lot of smiles along the way.”

And a few tears as well no doubt.

It was Dai’s birthday a few days ago and I found some of his diaries dating back to 1965.  Little tiny things that I, with my sloppy, sprawling scrawl, couldn’t cope with in a million years.  They won’t be going anywhere near a skip, not on my watch anyway.

Of course, the trouble with having cuttings and books all over the place, safely on their shelves or on the floor, is that one has an overwhelming temptation to read.  And since I’d been listening to the news on radio 4 and 5 Live, I jumped at the chance to cheer myself up in the company of Pooh, Piglet, Roo, Eeyore – well maybe not Eeyore, the determinedly depressive donkey – and company.  What a delight.

On the golfing front, Adrian Meronk, who was so unlucky not to be Poland’s first Ryder Cup player this year, won again, for the third time this season and the fourth time in 15 months.  He had two eagles in a final round of 66, six under par, to win the Estrella Damm N.A. Andalucia Masters at Real Club de Golf Sotogrande by one shot from Matti Schmid of Germany.

There aren’t many things Annika Sorenstam hasn’t done in golf and now she’s become a member of Augusta National.  They don’t usually discuss such things -“that’s club business, ma’am” is the stock answer – but Fred Ridley, the chairman, couldn’t help himself this time.  After all, Annika is quite a catch and will be more than a match for most of her fellow members on the course.

“…I am very excited about Annika,” Ridley said.  “…I’ll just say that.  She is a delightful person.  As you know, we have a number of women members and have for quite a few years.  I think it made us a better club and they are an integral part of our culture.”

Congrats to Annika – and her family, who’ll be able to enjoy the odd round or two on one of the world’s most cosseted courses.

Just by the by, it ill behoves an institution that has morphed from being simply a members’ club into one of the most influential bodies in world golf to be so secretive.  Control freakery rules OK?

I managed to find my way onto the golf course on Tuesday and although it was damp under foot, the rain held off and my partner Pauline and I had a respectable enough score in the greensomes – not last anyway – but a long way from the winning score of 45 points, an amazing effort.

On Sunday, several of us groupies of the City of Lichfield Concert Band went to hear them perform in Lichfield Cathedral and the old joint was jumping.  The concert was called Around the World and was performed under the world, a massive installation called Gaia by Luke Jerram.  It’s seven metres in diameter and features 120 dpi detailed NASA imagery of the Earth’s surface.  To quote further:  “The artwork is 1.8 million times smaller than the real Earth with each centimetre of the internally lit sculpture describing 18 kilometres of the Earth’s surface.  By standing 211 metres away from the artwork, the public will be able to see the Earth as it appears from the moon…”

Whatever the technicalities, it’s pretty awesome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s started already.  The pacing.  Well, to be honest (a phrase I’m very suspicious of because it usually means the person uttering it is being anything but honest…), it started a few days ago.  The moment Ireland beat Scotland so comprehensively in Paris last Saturday, I started fretting about the quarter-final and the All Blacks.  For goodness sake, how on earth can the No 1 team in the world (that’s us, glory be) be meeting New Zealand in the QUARTER-finals of  the Rugby World Cup?  Beyond bonkers.

Well, in another phrase that I loathe with a passion:  “It is what it is…”

Ireland, who are beyond awesome at the moment, have never gone beyond the quarters and New Zealand have won the thing three times.  So have South Africa, the holders, who are playing France in the quarters on Sunday.  That leaves Wales against Argentina and England, the only northern hemisphere team ever to the win the title, against Fiji.  Blimey.  This title is anybody’s.

It was bad enough last weekend, which turned out to be fantastic for me from a sporting point of view.  First of all, the beloved Totspurs, with the luck – and no little skill and doggedness – hanging out of them, won 1-nil at Luton, playing with 10 men (there are meant to be 11) for the second half.  That meant we were top of the table!  Admittedly it means nothing at this stage but it’s a joy all the same.

Then Ireland, who have moved up more levels than those of us who go back a long way can quite comprehend, were ruthless in beating Scotland.  Even I relaxed with more than ten minutes to go…!  This team doesn’t go out onto the pitch with the words, “Do you realise this is the 13th consecutive defeat we’ve shared together?” (Cecil Pedlow to Tony O’Reilly before a game against England many moons ago.)

All winning runs come to an end and perhaps ours will this Saturday but it’s not a given.  Whoever loses will be gutted but it won’t necessarily be us.    And the players have more belief than wimps like me.  It should be a cracker. My tee shirt is washed and ready to go.

Just as an aside, I’m delighted that those who lobbied for the haka to be done away with pre-match were overruled.  If I were playing New Zealand and discovered that there was no haka, I’d be really pissed off.  It’s great that all the Pacific Island teams have their own version, their own challenge to the opposition, it all adds to the drama, to the feeling that this is something special.

Judging by the pictures most of Ireland seems to be in France for the rugby but much though I love a comp that requires no nous or knowledge, I’ve still resisted entering this thing that comes up on the screen during every match.  In fact, I’m thinking of asking the radio 4 programme More or Less if anybody really does win and if they do what are the odds.  These things pop up everywhere and the address is always the same:  a PO Box in Derby.

And something similar came up again during Loose Women – I blame the men’s Cricket World Cup for drawing me in to daytime telly; there was that Derby address again.

Should I enter these things?  Would I have a hope in hell of winning?  Hell, no.  Ah well.  I’ll just have to watch the final on the telly – and forget about the million.

Since coming back from Rome, I’ve paid my golf club subs (just under a fiver a day, so still well worth it); cut back the buddleia at the front (hope it comes back, it’s a stunning colour); played 18 holes (blooming hard work but fun); been to the osteopath (amazing how the body contorts itself to accommodate kinks); tidied my desk (no small feat); and toasted those who are no longer with us (a joy to remember the fun and the laughter).

Yesterday a friend sent an email reminding us that it was two years ago to the day that the incomparable Renton Laidlaw had died and suggested raising a glass to him.  From all corners of the globe we paid tribute.

Finally, I’ve been feeling guilty about not mentioning Caroline Hedwall and her amazing win in the singles at the Solheim Cup.  Three down with six to play against Ally Ewing, the Swede, a self-confessed controversial pick, exploded into life with four birdies in the next five holes.  She was, incredibly, one up playing the last and when she blasted her second shot onto the green at the par 5 18th, she had won her point and helped secure the first drawn Solheim, 14-all.  Viva Carolina.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe me, you wouldn’t want me as captain of your team, any team, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant.  Because, really, if you’re on a team and you’re trying your damnedest, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the Solheim Cup, the Ryder Cup, the Champions’ League, the Ashes or the Lower Sandford Street Not-Quite-Silver Salver, you want your captain to be on the ball.

Being on the ball is not my forte but even I can recognise manna from heaven, the gift from god that does your team talk for you, primes your players better than you ever could, leaves you with nothing much to do but smile benignly and say, “Go to it.”

This year, Xander Schauffele, the Olympic champion, did the business when he said in an interview that it had taken “nothing special” for the USA to crush Europe in the last Ryder Cup encounter at Whistling Straits.  He was probably right because most of the Europeans played poorly (that’s the polite version) but it was an unwise remark and I believe he’s been doing a bit of backtracking since.  That’s all very well but it’s too late, too late, the damage, with a bit of luck, is done.  Go Europe.

First up, however and already overshadowed by the Ryder Cup in Rome next week, as I’ve just demonstrated, is the Solheim Cup, ‘the Ryder Cup with lipstick’ as Tim Glover, who had his own special way with words, put it.  I’ve always thought it was a brilliant, evocative phrase but a lot of people hated it, thinking it demeaning, belittling the women’s game.  Hey ho.  I still think it’s brilliant, even though my lipstick disappears seconds after it goes on.

Stacy Lewis, the US Solheim Cup captain, is trying to make the Europeans favourites for the match at Finca Cortesin in Andalucía this weekend and I do hope she’s right and Suzann Pettersen’s team win the trophy for the third successive time.  That’d be a first for Europe and a joy for those of us who were at the first, hastily arranged, match at Lake Nona in 1990.  The Europeans, outclassed, were well beaten and one commentator reckoned it would be 100 years before it would be any sort of contest.  Two years later, at Dalmahoy, Europe won and the game was on.

There was no television coverage to speak of because no one was expecting one of the great sporting upsets of all time and Tony Jacklin, who did so much to revive the Ryder Cup, had to follow the action on Ceefax – younger readers please consult your history books or wherever it is you discover the details of ancient technology.  He was enthralled and well understood the magnitude of the achievement as the under-rated Europeans demolished a much-decorated US team.

It’s all much closer now – I would say 50-50 – with the result depending on who plays better over the three days and who holes the putts.  Pretty obvious really but as a captain, all I’d ask is for all (or almost all) my players to be playing well and for them to be putting the lights out – not as in saving electricity but as in holing everything.  No doubt that’s why Leona Maguire, Celine Boutier and Georgia Hall spent many, many minutes on the practice green yesterday afternoon.  I was in awe of their dedication, my back aching just at the thought of it.

I was also hot and knackered, having just tramped around a course that is nothing short of mountainous, with gradients that wouldn’t be out of place in the Vuelta de Espana.  From what I hear Marco Simone in Rome is much the same and it just goes to show that the fans, who make these team events the great sporting spectacles that they have become, are the last people to be considered when it comes down to it.

A nice hotel on site, for the players and officials, seems to be the main consideration these days, which is fair enough.  A walkable golf course, accessible for spectators of advancing years, seems to have disappeared from the list entirely. We’ll yomp to the best of our ability, taking as much water as we can carry, wearing our over-priced bucket hats (I can’t believe I handed over 53 Euro; what a plonker) and raising a cheer if we have breath left.  It’ll be interesting to see and hear what the atmosphere’s like.

My crew from Whittington Heath are planning an early start for the first day’s play but I think I’ll wimp out and aim for the latest bus possible.  I’ve done the first-tee-at-dawn bit often enough to feel no guilt at leaving it to others now, secure in the knowledge that my presence is not required and I will not be missed.

Remember, I’m not the captain.  And I need my breakfast.

The gin and tonics come later.

Finally, all the best to all the caddies this week, they’re in for a heck of a trek and a lot of early starts and a special mention to Colin Cann, who’s caddying for Georgia Hall.  He’s come a long way and tramped many, many miles since he started out with Annika Sorenstam close to 30-odd years ago.

And he’s still going strong, striding ahead of Georgia, who’s in the green.

And finally, finally this is the culmination of many years of work for many people, bringing the Solheim Cup to Spain at last.  Viva Espana and viva Marta Figueras Dotti, whose achievements and honours would take another blog to list.  Vamos.

My mate Kate is a great Elvis fan, devoted to the man – she even went to Graceland and Tupelo with two of her grandchildren earlier this year, the trip of a lifetime.  Dai always pooh-poohed this devotion, decrying Elvis as a debauched druggie (or some such), although I don’t think he ever dared suggest that he couldn’t sing or send an audience into a frenzy.  On reflection, perhaps it was simple jealousy.

You see, Dai used to joke that he could have been the British Buddy Holly – if only he hadn’t lost the dark, curly hair too early and spurned the advances of Larry Parnes at Tommy Steele’s 21st birthday party.  Parnes managed Steele and many other British rock and rollers and apparently had a penchant for young men, though his obituary in the Daily Telegraph said that “he was circumspect about mixing business with pleasure.  The greatest loves of his life were two Alsatian dogs, Prince and Duke….”.

All this came flooding back because we’ve just started back at singing – yes, I’m still persevering, relying on the patience and forbearance of teacher Helen and my nearest neighbours – and one of our new songs is “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, recorded, of course, by Elvis Presley.  Words and music by George David Weiss, Hugo Peretti and Luigi Creatore, arranged by Roger Emerson.  It’s absolutely lovely and sounds amazing, even at this early stage, so I messaged Kate, saying, “Perhaps you were right!!!”

After singing I sat in on a rehearsal for a concert I’m going to miss and now I’m even more gutted that I won’t be there.  Admittedly, I’ll be in Rome for the Ryder Cup, so it’s not all bad but if you go to this concert, you’ll be blown away by the talent.  And it’s all in aid of pancreatic cancer – which doesn’t sound right but you know what I mean.

And here are the performers who’ll be giving it their considerable all.  Don’t miss them.

Earlier in the week, well, at the end of last week, two friends and I went to a concert in the unusual and unique setting of Sandfields Pumping Station in Lichfield, a marvel of Victorian engineering that brought clean water to the Black Country and helped stamp out cholera in the area.  There was a narrator, who’d written most of the material and the shanty singers of the Lichfield Lighthouse Company (a lighthouse in landlocked Staffordshire?), to tell the story of the visionary engineers who made it happen.  It was brill and we only knew about it because Sue M and her art class had been there to do some drawing and painting.

 

What else has there been in the past few days?  Ah yes.  Cricket.  A visit to Edgbaston to watch Warwickshire play Northamptonshire.  There wasn’t a full day’s play because of a bit of rain but we had turkey and trimmings for Sunday lunch in the Tom Dollery Lounge, I shook hands with MJK Smith (book signing) and not a single wicket fell while we there.  By the time we got to the car – just across the road, just after tea – at least three wickets had gone!  Ah well, such is sport – and life.

There was golf too – hooray, a mention at last.  It was WHGC’s Ladies’ Open Texas Scramble and, wouldn’t you know, it rained.  Day after day of sunshine and then…wet, wet, wet. It was persistent but not so bad that it made things unplayable.  My partners and I did OK-ish, respectable enough but a long way off the 61 nett that won.  In this format you have to hole lots of putts and we didn’t.

Still, it was great fun and I got to meet Viv, partner of John, my fount of all Spurs knowledge, at last.  She’s a member at Coxmoor, one of my favourite courses, home of the late, great Dave Musgrove, caddy to Sandy Lyle among many others.  Viv didn’t even know she wanted to play golf until John, a sporty football obsessive, gave her lessons for Christmas and that was it – she was hooked.

Last but by a long way – at least 100 kilometres – not least, many, many congrats to Sue Kershaw and Rachel Bailey, who completed their ultra walk of 100 kiloms alongside the Thames, from Putney Bridge to Henley (I think), in aid of Peaches Womb Cancer Trust.  I’ll spare you the snap of Rachel’s feet after their trek but it’s undoubtedly a good thing that her mum’s a chiropodist…

Outstanding effort.

That was the week that was….