I had a great time this weekend just past: a family wedding on the Saturday – Mark, one of the great-nephews (Dai’s side), married Amy in Leamington Spa – then it was off to Wrexham on the Sunday for a lunch to celebrate Pam Valentine’s 70th birthday. They were both joyous occasions and well worth the detour.

Pam wasn’t keen on the follow-through but everybody loved the cake – and the wine. Iechyd da Mrs V.
And, of course, there were detours. Trying to find the Holiday Inn Express Warwick in the dark last Friday (not really that difficult, it’s hard by the M40) proved beyond me and my Waze app. Trouble was I couldn’t get the thing to speak to me and it’s well-nigh impossible to follow the route highlighted on the phone when you’re devoting most of your attention to the road. I ended up going through the middle of Warwick, which was packed with hundreds of revellers, mostly female, either hen partying en masse or reclaiming the night or some such.
In the end, the problem was solved the old-fashioned way: by ringing the hotel and getting directions from a knowledgeable local. Phew. Time for a hug with the groom and half a Guinness with his dad. I cadged a lift to the ceremony with the groom’s mum and her mum and even though we went to the wrong church first of all, we made the right church on time – just! Good thing Leamington’s roadworks aren’t as all-encompassing as Lichfield’s – we’d have had no chance.

The latest Mr and Mrs Bramble, Amy and Mark.
Then, at the start of Masters week came some sad, sad news: Peter McEvoy had died at the age of 72. He was an extraordinarily good golfer, one of the best amateurs ever to represent Britain and Ireland, capped goodness knows how many times for England (despite his Scottish heritage) and winner of the highest honours: the Amateur Championship in 1977 and 1978, leading amateur in the Open twice, the first British amateur to make the cut at the Masters, member of numerous Walker Cup teams and non-playing captain of two winning teams, at home at Nairn in 1999 and then in 2001 away at Ocean Forest on Sea Island in Georgia. His list of achievements runs much longer but those are the highlights.
More importantly, he was Dai’s and my best man and gave the eulogy at Dai’s funeral. Peter, who played for Copt Heath and Warwickshire, was one of Dai’s Birmingham Post parishioners and they became good friends. There’s nothing better than having a star to write about (and the Post had a few, not least Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam) but a star with opinions that they’re happy to share, well, that is beyond price.
McE, who qualified as a solicitor, had more than his fair share of opinions, often backed up with impressive statistics, many of which he’d made up off the top of his head. Dai and he enjoyed many a full and frank discussion (translation: argument), as Peter explained in the piece he wrote for The Guardian’s special, unpublished front page produced to mark Dai’s retirement as golf correspondent. It’s a great, entertaining read.

McEvoy on Davies and their competitive, combative encounters, enjoyed and relished by both parties.
In his book For Love or Money, written with Mark Reason and published in 2006, Peter talks about his love of the game but admits that if he’d had his success twenty or so years later he would almost certainly have turned professional. “Agents would have been splashing so much cash in my face that it would have been almost impossible to say no. I was 25, not much more than a year older than Luke Donald when he turned pro.
“Nowadays I could expect a plump signing-on fee, various clothing and equipment contracts and exemptions to a number of tournaments. I could have expected to pick up something in the region of half a million pounds…But the only thing that you were guaranteed in the Seventies was a dodgy haircut.”
The book’s a cracking read, funny, insightful and a wonderful look at golf at the highest level. Re-reading it is a joy and I’m just sorry I can’t tell Peter that. Maureen and I send our love and condolences to Helen, Peter’s wife and all their family and friends.

Peter, the best man, with Dai, me and Mo on a very happy day.
To finish, I just can’t resist using this joke from The Essential Dave Allen, edited by Graham McCann. It’s called Heaven and Hell and it’s easy for those of us old enough and lucky enough to have seen a lot of the inimitable Irish comedian to hear him weaving his magic with this gem.
“Many people think that Heaven and Hell are on different levels. They’re not. They are side by side, separated by a fence. A wooden fence. One day, God was walking around the area and he started to inspect the fence. It was falling down. All bits and pieces had fallen off it. So he calls out to the Devil over the fence: ‘Excuse me. Mr Mephistopheles? Hey, NICK!’
The Devil yells: ‘Whaddyerwant?’
God says: ‘The fence. Look at it. It’s falling down, it needs repairing. And the posts are on your side. This fence is your responsibility. When are you going to fix it?’
The Devil says: ‘Ah, screw you!’
God says: ‘Now, listen: if you do not do something about this fence very soon, you are going to hear from my solicitor!’
The Devil says: ‘Where are YOU going to find a solicitor?'”
Well, we know where: on the golf course. And God would have the Devil’s own job getting them off it.
RIP dearest P McE.

Peter practising at Cypress Point, a little bit of golfing heaven on earth, prior to the Walker Cup in 1981.