Visitors, important visitors, are coming to stay with me in Lichfield this weekend, so, of course, as usual, the place is in disarray and I’m beginning to panic.  Earlier in the week, I was calm and relaxed enough to think that I had several days to get ready, even allowing for golf on Tuesday.  No sweat.  Now, with barely half a day left and a blog to do, there’s a hint of perspiration and more than a whiff of panic.

In a way, however, I’m exaggerating because my visitors won’t be arriving with a series of checklists and malice aforethought like the people on that horrible tv programme where they look under beds, slide fingers along picture frames and examine the loo forensically.  One is the sister, who’s used to the chaos and the other is honoured guest Mary McKenna, who’s a very relaxed host(ess) (don’t know the accepted form nowadays) and will I’m sure be happy enough if she can see a clear path to her bed and the bathroom.  Fingers crossed I can at least manage that.

At the time of writing the landing – a small space but mine own – is acting as a storage overflow, cluttered (there’s that word again) with stuff that’s waiting to be sorted and, possibly, dispensed with.  Let me put it this way:  when I have ceased to be, no one, absolutely no one will be keeping this stuff, so why, oh why am I?

On closer inspection, it’s probably another exaggeration to say that it’s all junk, of no worth whatsoever but what to do with it is the big conundrum.  That’s why it’s still hanging about being of no use in particular, waiting for me to make a decision.

There’s a photo of Dai with Jose Maria Olazabal talking to him just before his comeback from a crippling foot/back problem.  It’s signed but the message has faded and is barely visible:  “To my dear friend Day, with my best appreciation….”  At least I think that’s what it says but the signature is quite clear.

There’s also a frame with a couple of photos (no signatures) of Harry Vardon playing an exhibition game at Rhyl in 1908.  Vardon was six down after the first 18 holes but in the afternoon showed everybody why he ended up with six Open Championships and one US Open title, holing a monster putt to win on the 36th.  His opponent was Rhyl’s professional Ted Matthews, a Midlander who later spent many years at Walmley.

Ted, father of our great friend Harry, was an excellent player but told Dai’s father Rod, who wrote for the Birmingham Evening News, “I soon realised that I was going to be a club professional, not a tournament player.  I actually lost that match when Vardon holed a 15-yarder at the last but I virtually lost the match at the 1st in the afternoon.  I hit the ball so hard that I finished in the humps and hollows beyond the fairway.  Vardon won that hole and set out to beat me.”

And there’s a slightly tatty head cover from the US Open of 1986, at Shinnecock Hills, this year’s venue.  Raymond Floyd won, in the days of persimmon drivers with tiny heads.  Not only did the pros use them but so did we!!!  How on earth did we manage?

For a blast from the past, Floyd won by two shots from Lanny Wadkins and Chip Beck, with Lee Trevino and Hal Sutton a shot further back.  They were a shot ahead of Ben Crenshaw and Payne Stewart, one ahead of Jack Nicklaus, Bernhard Langer, Mark McCumber and Bob Tway.

Mention of Sutton reminds me that he remains my all-time favourite US Ryder Cup captain.  He was in charge at Oakland Hills in 2004 and was flamboyantly Texan – and completely outplayed by his opposite number, the cool calm and collected Bernhard Langer.  Europe won by 18 1/2 points to 9 1/2 and won every session bar one.  Blissful.  In my pile of “junk” I discovered a media bib signed by the European team.

Talking of the Ryder Cup, tickets go on sale in Ireland today (Friday).  A weekly general admission ticket (Tuesday to Sunday) is just shy of 2,000 Euro (1,999) and a match day ticket (Friday to Sunday) is 499.  Prices have been hiked substantially since Rome but as the people in charge pointed out that was four years ago and a lot has happened since then, with nothing getting any cheaper.

That explanation hasn’t stopped punters calling it greed and suggesting that ROI (Republic of Ireland) stands for Rip Off Ireland.  I suppose the main lesson is that if you want to go to a home Ryder Cup, it’s best to have a four-year savings plan because you’ll have to factor in travel and accommodation as well as tickets, meals and so on.  If you want to go to America?  Save harder.  And if you want to go to the football World Cup this summer, it sounds as though you have’ll to sell your worldly possessions.

On a happier note, a week or so ago Luke Donald and his wife Diane took the Ryder Cup to Limerick for an outing with local school children.  It was their first official visit to Adare Manor in the run-up to the big event next year.  Edoardo Molinari, the king of stats, the first vice captain to be named, also made the trip to inspect the golf course and some of the team spaces.  The defence begins.

 

 

 

It’s glorious sunshine outside here in Lichfield and I’m inside with the telly on, writing the blog (early) and wallowing in the build-up to The Masters.  There really is no hope for us golf tragics.  In truth, it’s too hot for gardening and my back garden is now lacking shade thanks to the ravages wreaked by Storm Dave a few days ago.

Part of next door’s huge fir tree ended up in my garden and that led to a flurry of tree felling, which leaves a bit of an open look that will take a little getting used to.  Will I miss my shade?  Probably.  Might have to consider some sort of brolly, pergola, whatever, so, like most things, it’s all a work in progress.

The fir tree was really too big for where it was and it shed its needles all year round, much to my irritation.  I took a photo of one of the branches and tried to identify it via the Woodland Trust tree identification app with no luck.  However, something called picturethisai.com (ah, the dreaded AI) came up with Deodar Cedar (aka Himalayan Cedar or Cedrus deodara).  Apparently deodara is Sanskrit for “the wood of the gods” and it’s a sacred tree for Hindus.  Oops.  Perhaps cutting it down will bring bad luck…

 

 

In truth, gardening is for next week because it’s all about Augusta for the rest of this week – except for those competing somewhere themselves; good luck to all at Roehampton and Royal Portrush – and our annual draw has been completed.  Rock on Tommy!

It’s already been a big month for a few people in golf, including David Llewellyn, who’s just become the 86th captain of the PGA.  Lulu, as I’ve always known him, is now the executive head professional at Carden Park in Cheshire and the Welshman is beyond proud.

“It’s the greatest honour the PGA can bestow upon a golf professional,” he said.  “I feel very humble and even now, having known about the appointment for a little while, I still get a bit of a tingle at the back of the neck.  My responsibility is to uphold and support the values and philosophies of the PGA but also to pass the message on to the younger generation.  That’s what our job is, to spread the word of golf and encourage the next generation to play.

“Whatever happens, you’ve got to keep that conveyor belt going of getting people to play the game.  That’s what members of the PGA should be doing and that’s one of the things I’ll try and get over.”

Back in 1972, Lulu, who’s now 74, was rookie of the year on the (very new) European Tour but it wasn’t until 1988 that he won the Biarritz Open with a score of 258, 14 under par, a record total that stood for 32 years.  In one round he had a putt for a 58 but three-putted.  He was in to Zen at the time so wasn’t really aware of his score and only vaguely registered the huge crowd that had materialised round the 18th green then melted away…

The year before he and his partner had won the World Cup for Wales at Kapalua in Hawaii, beating Scotland, represented by Sandy Lyle and Sam Torrance, in a play-off.  Lulu’s partner?   A bloke called Ian Woosnam, who won the individual title by five strokes from Lyle.

Sandy went on to win the Masters in 1988, with Woosie winning his own green jacket in 1991, following Nick Faldo, who’d won in 1989 and 1990.  It really was a golden age of British and European golf, paving the way for the stars of today:  they grew up realising that anything was possible, that big-time golf wasn’t just the preserve of the Americans.  (Looking at the dates, it would have been their parents regaling them with tales of Seve, Langer and company!)

There’s also a new CEO of the LET (Ladies European Tour), once described by some long-suffering soul as the hardest job in golf.  That’s debatable but Tom Phillips says he’s up for the challenge and the blog wishes him all the best.  He has a lot of talented players to work with and golf doesn’t want to get left behind as other women’s sports grow and grow.

Tom has an extensive cv that includes a lot of experience in Asia.  He has worked for the DP World Tour, most recently as Director of Middle East and before that he was CEO of the Hong Kong Golf Association and of the Faldo Series, so he should be pretty clued up on all aspects of the game.

Lauren Coughlin, an American who must surely have Irish antecedents, played beautifully at Shadow Creek, a notoriously difficult course, to win the co-sanctioned (LET and LPGA) Aramco Championship by five shots.  She led from start to finish and the runners-up were Nelly Korda, the world No 2 and Leona Maguire, Ireland’s finest, who returned to form after a bit of a barren run.

Talking of Ireland’s finest, Mary McKenna, a bona fide legend, is celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Mary McKenna Salver.  It’s an annual match between the Irish Senior Ladies and the Scottish Vets Ladies Golf Association.  I think that’s the official designation but in simple terms it’s the Irish Old Dolls agin the SODs….Sorry girls, couldn’t resist it.

The first match was at Royal Portrush and that’s where it is this year, this coming Sunday and Monday.  Hope the weather is kind.

Last but by no means least a very happy 90th birthday to Belle (Isabella) Robertson, one of Scotland’s finest (despite passing on her rabbit ears to compatriots Colin Montgomerie and, it seems, Robert MacIntyre).  She’s due to be at Roehampton today (Friday 10th April, her actual birth day is the 11th) as the Gold Cup celebrates its 100th.  Many congrats to everybody there, past champions and current competitors.  Play away.

 

 

 

Contrary to what some people think – and what it may look like – a certain amount of thought often goes in to this blog.  I have to confess, however, that the only sure thing about this week’s was the featured pic – and since that often depends on everything running smoothly from a technical standpoint, it’s no given.

The photo is of a lovely magnolia in the park just across the road from me and it takes centre stage because it means that spring has sprung and its time has come.  It could be a very short time because, beautiful as they are, magnolias don’t last long and it’s still chilly enough for them to be living on borrowed time.  We’ve got to enjoy them and marvel while we can.

The clocks have changed but it’s too early to ditch the winter woollies so that can mean only one thing:  the cricket season is about to start here in England, with the county championships beginning today (Friday).  Warwickshire are playing Surrey at Edgbaston and a friend and I are hoping to go on Sunday, weather – and play (sometimes four-day matches don’t go beyond two days let alone last the distance) – permitting.

I’m intending to drive us to the ground and hope it’ll be more successful than my last effort when I picked up a fine for driving in a bus lane that was a no-go area for us ordinary motorists.  Oops.  Fingers crossed we get things right this time.

The IPL – Indian Premier League – has just started and it’s the high-class smash-bang-wallop 20-over stuff (if that’s not a complete contradiction!).  Whatever you think of the brutal short form of the game, the level of skill – batting, bowling, fielding – is mind-boggling and once you start watching, it’s impossible to take your eyes off it.

I decided to follow Dad’s lead – he had a football team in every division in England, Scotland and Ireland, to ensure that he had an interest at every level (Sunderland remained his first love wherever they found themselves) – and pick a side.  “What’s the most northerly team?” I asked a mate who knows about these things – and many others, though, like most of us, he’s not infallible.  For instance, he didn’t know that Jack Nicklaus won the Masters in 1986 but I digress – and, of course, he does now.  “Punjab Kings,” came the instant reply.  Right.

“We” (that indicates a tentative we) were at home to the Gujarat Titans, whose uniform was infinitely classier than “our” red and blue mess with gaudy gold numbers and I was tempted to switch allegiance should the Titans win.  However, they didn’t.  So I’m now cheering for the Kings come what may!  We’re away to the Chennai Super Kings today, so at least my knowledge of Indian geography should improve as I scrabble for my one remaining atlas – a Peters one dating from 1989, so it could be time for an update.  Chennai was probably still called Madras then.  Wonder if I have room in the house for a globe…

On the golf front, we played the Coronation Foursomes on Tuesday and my weather app (the Met Office) indicated that it was going to chuck it down with rain early on and be quite cold.  I rugged up accordingly:  thick winter leggings (which were in the pile to go in to summer storage), waterproof troos, lots of layers on top, woolly hat.  It didn’t rain, the sun came out and I was so warm that I had to take off a mid layer to avoid melting away altogether.  My partner and I came third despite making a bit of a mess of the last two holes and, wonder of wonders, we didn’t blob a single hole.

Going back to India – and up a few levels in golf – Alex Fitzpatrick, younger brother of Matt, US Open champion in 2022, won the Hero Indian Open at DLF Golf & Country Club, just outside New Delhi, his first victory on the DP World Tour.  What made it even more special was that Matt had won the Valspar Championship in Florida the week before.  Apparently it was the first time that brothers had won back to back on the two tours.

“It can be hard sometimes when you’re constantly chasing someone’s accolades,” Alex said, “but luckily it’s my brother so it’s not horrific.  I idolise him and I’m just trying to be like him in every way.  It’s been a good week for the Fitzpatricks.”

With a bit of luck Maureen was about ten when she saw sense and gave up idolising her big sister, having already recognised the feet of clay.  Perhaps Matthew F can cope with all that goes with being an idol…I certainly can’t/couldn’t.  Yikes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was going to put a question mark after the title, in a brave effort at optimism and I wasn’t going to mention football, in an attempt to hang on to the many readers who can’t stand the game.  However, as we know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and I’m trying to write this and watch three games at the same time:  Wales v Bosnia-Herzegovina, Czechia v Republic of Ireland and Italy v Northern Ireland.

They’re all part of the closing stages of qualifying for the World Cup and they’re all tight and tense, apart from the game in Bergamo, where Italy were 2-nil up with not much time left (and won 2-nil). ***

Anyway, ever hopeful, I travelled down to N17 last Sunday to watch Spurs play Nottingham Forest, who were just a point behind us in the relegation battle.  They’re now two points ahead after beating us 3-nil.  Essentially it looks as though only West Ham, who loathe and detest us with a passion (for reasons I’m not quite sure of), can save us from relegation.  We’re showing few signs of being able to save ourselves, particularly at home.

“You’ve got to ditch that team,” Mo said.  “They’re hopeless.”  That’s not the way it works, as she well knows.  Thanks to the great Pat Jennings (1967 FA Cup final), I’m lumbered, waiting hopefully for some decent football to cheer.  Yes, we are currently useless, devoid of confidence, too easily picked off by any side that scores first against us but better times must be ahead, surely.

Question is:  will I live to see them?

Relegation will cost Spurs untold millions but, you know, the only reason I’ll be really upset is because it’s bound to cost a lot of people their jobs, people behind the scenes, who probably don’t earn that much but love the club and work tirelessly to make things run smoothly.  They’ve undoubtedly been let down by those higher up, who are proving themselves beyond clueless.

I’m increasingly convinced, this being the era of the conspiracy theory, that Vinai Venkatesham OBE, our relatively new chief executive, who spent many years at Arsenal, is some kind of Trojan horse.  He certainly seems to be presiding over our destruction.  Doesn’t make it any better that I recently discovered that I’m related to somebody who went to the same prep school…

This being spring, officially, despite the other day when here in Lichfield we had four seasons in quick succession, including a good effort at snow, I did a bit of cleaning.  Proper cleaning.  As in hauling stuff out of awkward corners; pulling out fluff-encrusted dead slaters; wiping down cupboards; emptying said cupboards and disposing of contents dated 2017;  thinking about tackling the dreaded (but oh-so-useful) Venetian blinds; cleaning the winter boots; retrieving the summer sandals and sunhats (ever optimistic on the weather front, which could quite easily go the way of the footy).

Yes, you’ve guessed it, it’s the classic blog-avoidance strategy.

I couldn’t bear watching the aftermath of the footy, with the winners leaping about in delight (they still have one more match to win to get to the finals this summer) and the losers not knowing what to do, where to put themselves, how to stay upright, what to say…

So, never being one to give full concentration to the blog before midnight, I put on an old, almost antediluvian episode of New Tricks, which was followed by an even older Inspector Lynley mystery.  The opening scene had a smooth, suave expert witness saying he was still convinced that the woman appealing her prison sentence for murdering an abusive husband knew exactly what she was doing at the time, that there was no way she could now plead insanity.  The judge agreed and the woman’s father threatened the expert….you get the picture.

Next morning, we see the expert, in a beautiful home, giving his wife a surprise present and a kiss before heading for his swanky car.  “Hmm,” I say to myself.  “What’s going to happen here?  Is the car going to explode?  Or…?  No, the car’s going to explode.”  And, a millisecond later, that’s what happened.  I started laughing and thought, “Mo would be furious.”

Time after time, if we’re watching something together, before I can stop myself, I’ll say what I think is going to happen and often, too often, it’s right.  Could there be anything more infuriating!  It’s daft, really because I’m sure I’d be wrong about The Mousetrap.  Didn’t Winston Churchill leave at half-time because he’d sussed it out?  No way I’d outthink the great Agatha.

Anyway, golf, that great game of ours.  Played on Tuesday, in very blustery conditions, even for a person brought up on Ireland’s north Atlantic coast and staggered to what I thought was a very respectable 30 points.  The winning score was 43.  Wow.  Beyond impressive.  Perhaps I should have a lesson or two and discover the route to the practice ground.  On second thoughts, doubt that would do it.  Too late.  Too late.  As a Scottish friend was fond of saying whenever the game was driving him to distraction.

 

***Gutting.  Wales and Ireland beaten on penalties after late equalisers by the opposition and no goals in extra time.  In this case you can’t say “Ah well, there’s always next year.”  The World Cup is every four years.  Bugger.