I’ve been at two wonderful, very different concerts this week and apart from the technical excellence of the performers the thing that impressed me most was the teamwork.

Friends and I were in awe at the CBSO’s Scheherazade, a vibrant performance inspired by their charismatic Japanese conductor Kazuki Yamada, pouring his energy and enthusiasm into his musicians.  They responded with every ounce of their skill and musicality, working together to weave Rimsky-Korsakov’s magic, leaving us all entranced – and breathless.

In the first half, we’d had a bit of Berlioz and Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23, with the renowned Scottish pianist Steven Osborne, so we were totally spoiled.  We floated home, full of the joys and on the train home we encountered a similarly euphoric group who’d been to a comedy club gig at the Town Hall.  The only unhappy punters were the Villa fans who’d just watched their team lose 4-1 at home to Chelsea.  Football bloody hell.

At least it’s only Villa’s title hopes that are disintegrating; at Spurs it’s the whole edifice, with relegation looming.  On Thursday night, we lost 3-1 at home to Crystal Palace, continuing our role as Doctor Tottenham:  if you’re finding wins hard to come by, just come to us, we’ll revive you.  Down to ten men before half time – captain sent off – we went down with barely a whimper.  Oh, admittedly, I did hear, on the radio, the magic words:  “Spurs are having a go…”  Even so, Palace didn’t have to get out of second gear in the second half, so comfortable were they.

Thank goodness I’d decided weeks ago that I wouldn’t be going – the late, eight o’clock kick-offs are a killer, it’s so hard to get home, especially if there’s a lot of added time, which there was.  There were lots of empty seats as people streamed out, fed up and wanting to be in bed before the early hours.  If you were leaving uplifted, after a CBSO-type performance, you wouldn’t care what time you got home…

TEAMWORK.  Ah, would that my football club knew the meaning of the word.

Optimistic note:  wonder if any team’s been relegated and won the Champions’ League in the same season….COYS.

Did I mention that the concert tickets cost a £1, for a seat in the stalls?  It was a summer promotion and we ended up at the CBSO Benevolent Fund Concert, with the players giving their services free.  The Fund is keen “to help put health and wellbeing central to the company’s core values.  The Fitness to Work Scheme was devised to tackle this damagingly embedded culture of normalising exhaustion and injury in the pursuit of excellence.  Now we provide regular free specialist treatment, better access to knowledge about our bodies and minds and work to improve available data on our experiences to strengthen health and wellbeing policy.

“Already we feel the benefits of what we have achieved – including happier musicians, relief from stress and injury and better working relationships across the company.  We are proud to work with some of the best practitioners in and around Birmingham:  sports massage therapists, physiotherapists, counsellors, performance coaches and breathing experts, to name but a few….”

Musicians are athletes too.

You’ll be glad to know that we put some notes in the Benevolent Fund buckets.

The other concert, on Monday evening, was The Serenade Trio of Clare (piano), Lisa (clarinet) and Helen (soprano) strutting their stuff at Sutton Coldfield Town Hall.  The last time I was there was many years ago to give blood but this time it was for Let’s Face the Music and Dance and it was a joy.  The programme gave the threesome the chance to showcase their talents with numbers as varied as Let’s Face The Music and Dance, Ave Maria, the Clog Dance from La Fille Mal Gardee, Oblivion and Cheek to Cheek, to name just a few.

Afterwards, expecting an encore, I waited expectantly with my camera but the girls had disappeared to line up in the foyer to thank us all for coming, so there’s no sign of them in the picture below.  Apologies to all concerned.

Ah, faded grandeur, yet another reminder of Spurs.

Nearly finished the blog and nary a mention of golf, so let’s see what we can do:  Luke Donald has agreed to captain Europe’s Ryder Cup team for the third successive match, this time in Ireland at Adare Manor.  He’s led the Europeans to wins in Italy and New York and is risking biting the bullet again, aiming to became the first captain to win the cup three times in a row.

Hannah Green of Australia won the HSBC Women’s World Championship at Sentosa in Singapore for the second time, made even more special because her husband Jarryd Felton was caddying for her.

And, finally, a moan from me.  We were playing our comp last Tuesday, only a 13-hole Waltz but a comp nonetheless and when my team and I arrived at the 18th tee, one of the greenkeepers had been driving a big machine up and down and the tee markers were lying at the side of the tee.  There were a few more groups behind us, so why on earth he’d been instructed to get stuck in instead of waiting until we’d finished, who knows?

He parked up at the back of the tee and I don’t think he understood my gesticulations and Gallic shrugs asking where the markers had been….We chose a spot and carried on and fortunately we finished well down the field.  Still, I made a formal complaint.  After all, a competition is a competition.

You know how things are ticking along nicely enough and you think everything is more or less under control and then, oops, in the time it takes to open a cupboard, all the plans go out the window and domestic chaos ensues?

Admittedly, in the general global scheme of things, finding a few alien beings resting in amongst the spare pillows and duvet and the Liberty quilt that was a wedding present 43 long years ago is not going to attract the attention of Lyse Doucet or cause the BBC to interrupt their Winter Olympics coverage with a news flash – that was for the arrest of the Andrew formerly known as prince.

Anyway, I put an SOS out on the WHGC Ladies Social WhatsApp and found out that speed was of the essence because if they spread, they ruin carpets as well as clothes and not just jumpers – anything with wool in it; they made a mess of one person’s woolly carpet; and another had to have the hall, stairs and landing carpet replaced.  A strong spray of some sort was recommended or a kit from Lakeland and a previous sufferer immediately offered to come round and offer advice.

She’s on hold until I sort out the bedding and do the initial spraying, with something that I wouldn’t normally have in the house – I’m trying to be eco-friendly but am ashamed to say I have my limits.  A friend recommended stuff that could be bought from the vet’s and another friend discovered that it was in stock at Pets at Home, so off I went.  As well as being asked if I had an account, they wanted to know if I had a cat because there’s something in the spray that is particularly bad for cats.  Let’s just hope it’s equally inimical to carpet moths – or whatever their proper name is.

My chosen product got ok reviews on the website but a personal recommendation rates highest of all in my book and I’m still hopeful that an infestation can be prevented, that this is just a recce by a tiny advance party that is still asleep on the job….This cold weather and keeping the radiator off should buy me a smidgeon of time, if that’s possible.  Can you count time in smidgeons?

Just in case you’re alarmed by the featured pic (which appears at the top of the piece unless there’s a technical glitch, which is not unheard of), don’t worry:  there was no spraying anywhere near any foodstuffs, let alone a glass of red, Lidl’s best, Stellenbosch, a cabernet sauvignon merlot mix from South Africa.  Very palatable when you’re stressed, though I would stress that alcohol is no substitute for meditative deep breathing and a good night’s sleep….

I don’t suppose Lyse Doucet has too much time to watch the Olympic Winter Games but as a Canadian she’ll know that her countrymen have been making a lot of noise in Italy, the curlers especially.  There have been a few spats and accusations of cheating and at one stage one of the Canadians told one of the Swedes to “Fuck off”, an expletive that needs no translating.  As luck would have it GB’s men, the world champions, aka Scotland, meet Canada in the final.

Curling, with its granite stones that come from Ailsa Craig, that lump of rock off the coast of Ayrshire in the Firth of Clyde, near Turnberry, is baffling in its complexity to those of us who have been channel hopping rather than concentrating.  Even so, we’re now practising our floor sweeping with renewed energy, with frantic brush work that negates any need for the gym.  Never mind the fact that most of us wouldn’t be able to stand up on the ice let alone control a stone that weighs nearly 20 kilos.  The precision is astonishing.

The other night, at bridge, we were discussing the Games and marvelling at, well, everything:  the speed and skill and artistry of the skaters and skiers; the bonkers bounce of the snowboarders with their stratospheric somersaults and twists; the lunatic speeds of the lugers, skeletoners and bobsleighers – of almost everybody, really; they’re all amazing and completely mad.

So, there we were, four supposed grown-ups, a few decades in, sporty people once but hampered now by knees, hips, wrists, feet that creak more than they once did, working out whether we were regular or goofy.  You may remember, that’s the basic snowboarding stance.  So, how do you decide?

Turns out you stand with your feet together and get somebody to give you a little push – not too hard and definitely not down a slope – and whichever foot you put forward tells you your stance.  We all gave it a go and turns out I’m regular, if that experiment really was the thing to go by.  There’s a wee skateboarding park a few hundred yards from the house where I could test it out but think that would be unwise.

Although I do have a duvet or two that are on their way out and would help soften the landings…

 

 

 

I had a birthday last weekend (thanks to all of you who sent good wishes).  No, it wasn’t a big one – just a normal one…….but perhaps at this end of the age spectrum every one becomes a big one?  Anyway, I was lying in bed, dozing, and was brought fully awake by the phone ringing.  The name showing on the display was “Rossie” and I instantly thought to myself, “Gosh, it’s my birthday!”

Rossie is an old pal from school and lives in Greystones in Co Wicklow.  A horsewoman and a hockey player, she would have made a very decent fist of golf but the game never stole her heart.  Although we don’t see each other all that often she never misses my birthday, nor I hers.

“Happy happy birthday” she breezed down the phone and I thought what a lovely way to start my day.  As you can imagine, two Irishwomen can blether away for hours but we were only fifteen minutes in when the conversation turned to football – Rossie being an ardent Liverpool supporter.  Soon we moved on to the disappointing form of Spurs and Patricia’s gloomy trips up and down to N17.  At that juncture eleven points from nine home games was providing scant enjoyment for the faithful but undaunted P was going to sally forth again that weekend for the home fixture.

As my brain was grappling with which day were Spurs playing, I said to Rossie, “What day’s this?” and barely were the words out of  my mouth when she screeched, “It’s the 31st.  It’s not your birthday at all.  We’re a day early!”

Cue much chortling and guffawing and disbelief that we could both get it wrong.  Still makes me laugh when I think about it.  And, no, she didn’t ring back the next day, just sent a text, “Happy ACTUAL birthday!”  What a hoot!

Last week I posted a photo of the first daffodil in bloom and I’m happy to report that that lone, brave little soldier has now been  joined by squadrons of others.  And far away, on the west coast of America one of the blog’s favourites, Justin Rose, was also blooming, and in quite a spectacular way.

The Farmers Insurance Open, played over the two courses at Torrey Pines, has been kind to Rose in the past.  He won there in 2019 with a record score of 21 under par and when he opened this year with a blistering 62 I’m sure many of his rivals suspected they were on a hiding to nothing.  How right they were.

Rose, now the grand old age of 45, went wire to wire following up that opening salvo with scores of 65, 68 and 70 for a record breaking score of 23 under par and victory by seven whopping shots.  It was a masterclass of a different order.  After all, a test of being seven ahead with only eight holes to play is not the norm.

He stayed in his own bubble of pure focus and concentration, controlling the controllables to the best of his ability, never wavering for a single second.  That oft-given piece of advice – just take it one shot at a time – can hardly be bettered but is rarely accomplished, even by the best in the game.  Rose kept a grip like a steel trap on his mind over the hours it took for the last round to unfold with nary a flicker of focus.  And so, much to my delight, he secured his thirteenth win on the PGA tour, the most of any Englishman.  I was doubly delighted because I still feel a tad guilty at pulling against him so vehemently at last year’s Masters.

There have been so many advances in golf in my lifetime.  The landscape of fitness, technology, coaching and technique are all different and highly advanced, pushing boundaries to the limit.  In my opinion the final frontier with room for significant improvement is the mental side.  I have two small personal examples for believing this and for marvelling at the human mental capacity.

Many years ago when playing out in Australia Alison Nicholas, former British and US Open champion, persuaded me to accompany her to Cairns so she/we could scuba dive off the Great Barrier Reef.  Ali was a reasonably accomplished diver whereas I was a complete novice, never having ever even donned a wet suit.  The company we were diving with assured me that total beginners were their speciality on these “hand-held dives.”

With some trepidation I allowed myself to be led down a guy rope tethered to a pontoon anchored in the outer reef.  The worst 40 minutes of my life then ensued with my instructor seemingly impervious to my sheer terror as my mask filled with water and I fought every instinct I had to bolt to the surface, which I knew was definitely the thing NOT to do.  I remember thinking that it was strange that it was here that it was all going to end.

I realised that my very life depended on me not panicking and on following every instruction from our guide.  I must have done a good job because he failed totally to gauge my distress.  When we got back to the surface I threw up every few minutes for SEVEN hours, so I truly understand the phrase being sick with nerves.  Not even a sip of water would stay down.  If I had only been able to summon a smidgeon of that focus when competing on the golf course, I’ve no doubt I’d have done a whole lot better.

Another occasion when my mental capacity took me aback was when Gill Stewart and I attended an Anthony Robbins gig in London Docklands.  Robbins was adept at exploring how control of your mind could lead to extraordinary feats, to which both Gill and I can attest as we successfully walked barefoot, in a measured fashion, across a ten-metre bed of white hot coals.   Gill didn’t suffer a single burn while with my final step I lost focus and instantly earned myself a blister.

The mind, indeed, is perhaps the final frontier in sport and that mastery might keep older competitors, like Justin Rose, at the top of their games for longer.

One thing is certain, they’ll undoubtedly have the clarity to know their own birthday.

 

 

 

 

 

Here in England, in the Midlands, it seems to have been raining non stop for weeks, so everything’s grey, muddy and if you’re really unlucky, flooded.  The wellies are living in the car, just in case; the latest walk in the park has been round the perimeter, on the path because the grass is too muddy and slippery to be safe; and everywhere the puddles are deep and often need to be sidestepped even though my boots are still waterproof.

So, that’s all the explanation you need for the snowdrops at the top.  They’re out and others are on their way.  Even so, with spring almost in the air for us optimists, it’s easy to find lots of people heading to the airport in search of some sun and blue sky and a bit of warmth.

And I must confess that this week, on blog day, having cancelled a round robin match (very wise), I put the waterproof trousers on in the morning, went for a swift walk – to feel virtuous – and kept the troos on until the evening because I was too mean to put the heating back on.  Spring in the air my….active imagination!

There was no sign of any warmth when we played golf last Tuesday but fortunately we’re only playing twelve holes at the moment and it was foursomes, which is the speediest form of the game, played properly.  Admittedly, we’re not reliably accurate enough to do that.  There’s no point scurrying a couple of hundred yards up the fairway if your partner is liable to skittle it into the heather in front of her nose or you’re fifty-fifty  to hoick it miles left or slice it miles right in to the boondocks.

I love foursomes – it suits my lazy nature and if you make a bog of things, it’s your partner who has to get you out of trouble (with luck) – but lots of people don’t.  They can’t stand not hitting every shot or they can’t cope with going several holes without having a pitch or a short putt or whatever.  Or they tut at their partner.  That is an absolute no-no.  Dai and I could not play foursomes together because we had a completely different approach to the game and, I suppose, we weren’t willing to compromise.  Or, maybe, on reflection, I wasn’t willing to compromise.

I still think that a good foursomes combination doesn’t depend so much on the games being compatible as the people being able to get on, on the golf course at least and appreciate the other’s qualities.  No sorries. No tuts.  It’s the ultimate in hit it, find it, hit it again.  The essence of golf.

Enjoying it, that’s the key, however annoying, irritating and frustrating the game is.  It’s probably harder to have fun when you’re a professional and it’s your job and it can be hard not to let the daily grind get you down.  Especially if things aren’t going well.

One man who’s risen to the challenge, year in, year out, is Padraig Harrington, who didn’t turn professional until he was 24 but this week clocked up appearance number 500 on the European (now DP World) Tour, at the Qatar Masters in Doha. The Dubliner, who has won 43 time in his career, including three major championships, reckons he’s probably played close to 800 tournaments worldwide.

“I couldn’t have dreamt of the career that I’ve had,” he said.  “I’m quite an optimist and that’s what I love about golf, it always gives you that hope that you’re going to find the secret and I’m still doing that today.

“I still have a pure love for the game.  I’m fascinated by it, I enjoy it, I love coaching and thinking about the game.  Twenty years ago we pretended we weren’t golf nerds but I’m as big a golf nerd as you can get.”

It’s hard to disagree.  Once you get Padraig started, he’s hard to stop and, sometimes, hard to follow – or at least you have to concentrate because his mind is inclined to wander down mysterious highways and byways.  He’s never dull, so if you get a chance to hear him speak, take it – but make sure you don’t have a train to catch, you’ll need plenty of time.

One last Harrington bon mot:  “I’m full of fear now, the opposite of fearless…I try to enjoy it, it’s the only way I can do it now…I enjoy it more now.”

There hasn’t been too much joy at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium recently – well, not for the home team anyway.  We’ve had some dire performances and last Sunday, against Manchester City, it looked as though we were going to be humiliated.  Two-nil down at half-time, looking clueless and letting City do what they liked, using us as training statues.  This could get ugly.

Then, lo, we came out in the second half like a different team,  more organised, more aggressive, better and they let their grip slip.  The stadium came alive and we drew 2-2, even forcing their keeper in to several excellent saves.  The buzz was palpable.

It was, in the end, worth the journey.