Many thanks to everybody for reading and encouraging me to continue exercising my brain cell every Thursday.  I’m attempting to modify the habits of a lifetime and get the blog finished before 0400-ish on a Friday morning but that’s a monumental undertaking for the easily distracted and the organisationally impaired.  And it’s blooming freezing at this time of the year with the heating turned off during the day.

It’s all very well being told “to heat the human, not the house” but I feel a bit of a prat sitting at the keyboard wrapped up in my fisherman’s jersey and warmest gilet, with my best cashmere Travelwrap (a bit grubby now because it’s a regular at Tottenham games but I’m scared to wash it) over my knees.  In fact, no sooner had I got tucked in and settled than I felt the need to go in search of my woolly hat and fingerless gloves – any excuse to delay writing a word.

They’re not exactly new resolutions but I’m still intent on reducing my amount of stuff and spending more time on the golf course.  I hesitate to say “play more golf” because at the moment my good walk is punctuated with a series of physical jerks that could scarcely be described as swings or shots; contortions and clouts, more like, as my foursomes partner this week would be (un)happy to confirm.

Our winter comps are over 13 holes and we were just about in credit on Tuesday, with six blobs and seven scoring holes for a not-so-grand total of 15 points.  We were far from last but the runaway winners had an otherworldly 31 points.  I don’t care what level you’re playing at, that is good going in foursomes.  Well played Jenny L and Sue J.

Lots of people don’t like foursomes because it’s an unforgiving format and it’s hard to score well if one or other of you is off your game – and heaven help you if you’re both misfiring.  It can test patience and stretch friendships (and relationships) to the limit.  I’ve always loved it because it suits my lazy nature and if you hit a poor shot, it’s up to your partner to sort it out.  The only rule, really:  Just get on with it.  No sorries. (Every sorry equals a gin and tonic.)  No tuts. (Don’t even go there!) And, in my case, do not play with your spouse.  NEVER EVEN CONTEMPLATE IT.  DO NOT BE TEMPTED.  I could partner Dai in a fourball but foursomes?  NEVER.

Apart from the fact that he was likely to visit boondocks that I never even knew existed, the main problem was that our approach to the game was very different.  I’d evolved from being a bad-tempered little sod, a stormy petrel who threw clubs, into something a little more laidback and less obnoxious, capable of treating the two impostors just the same – more or less.  Dai?  Not so much.

Mark Garrod, who runs the AGW’s PYP (Association of Golf Writers’ Pick Your Pro), our annual competition in futility, was the Press Association’s golf man for many years and played quite a bit of golf with Dai, one way and another.  He recalled a time they were playing in Phuket, in Thailand and Dai’s first five shots all finished in a lake.  Ever droll and understated, Mark said, “He took it well, of course,”……

Mind you, Dai and I shared an aversion to water on a golf course, perhaps because our balls were invariably attracted to the watery depths, never to be retrieved.  One of the reasons I love Whittington is that there’s no H2O to speak of:  not a lake, not a river, not a sneaky little burn meandering its way across the fairways to trap the unwary and the unskilled.  Saying that, I was at WHGC on Wednesday afternoon and put five balls in the water.

How so?  I was up having an indoor lesson with Rachel Bailey, one of our pros, who’s trying to encourage us to do a little work on our games during the winter, ready to blossom in the spring.  There were a couple of us there, having our games exposed by the numbers on the screen as we hit into it.  We decided that doing a bit of pitching and chipping would be less depressing than seeing how glacial our swing “speed” was. Then, encouraged, we headed off to play Nailcote Hall, a par three course of considerable complexity.

Well, it was too complex for me anyway.  Ball after ball tailed off into the water and there was that sinking, sinking feeling that I’d never get round, doomed to spend the rest of my golfing life in the dropping zone.  Even so, Nailcote has a special place in my heart because I once spent a wonderful day there, at their Par 3 Championship, chatting to Max Faulkner, Open champion at Portrush in 1951 and Bert Gadd, from a long line of golfing brothers.  I didn’t say much because they regaled me – and the rest of their audience – with enough stories and anecdotes to fill a library of books.  They were both well in to their 80s but sprightly wasn’t the word for them.  It was a magical day.

 

To say the blog is back by popular demand is stretching it a bit but a handful of people have said they’d like us to keep going, so here goes.

Maureen, who’s just had a much-needed break in Gran Canaria, is hanging fire for a little longer as she recovers her mojo and works out how to fit blogging in with blood-bike controlling.  I’ve always been in awe of her discipline and organisational skills and when I saw what being a controller entailed, I reeled away to lie down in the darkened room.  It’s always wise to recognise your limitations…

Many years ago, when I thought I was smart, I rather fancied being foreign secretary or a diplomat but the diplomatic corps didn’t want me (wise decision – a friend nearly passed out laughing at the thought;  “you’re the least diplomatic person I know,” she said) and I never trained on in the other regard.  Just as well, really.  You think the world is in a state now?…

Fortunately, my delusions of grandeur are long gone and I even thought long and hard about continuing with this weekly guff, some of it golfing – be patient, golfers – most of it random ramblings.  Truth is, even though I enjoyed all those non-thinking Thursdays, I enjoy chatting away to my friends more.  When you all stop reading and responding, we (Mo and I) will stop writing.

If you would, please keep an ear and an eye out for the dread phrase, “It is what it is.”  Aaaaagh.  My first hearing/sighting of the year was from Patrick Reed in Dubai, talking about his spat with Rory (no need for the McIlroy in this company, surely?).  If you’re not a devotee of twitter and the like, you may be baffled but because I was baffled and had no clue what everybody was wittering on about, I had a look and, lo, all was more or less revealed.

There was Patrick wandering over to Rory on the range, shaking hands with Harry Diamond, Rory’s caddy but being ignored by Rory, who was fiddling with his bag and didn’t look up.  Patrick took the hint and walked away but semi tossed a tee peg (LIV variety, apparently) in the vague direction of Rory, one of LIV’s sternest critics, who remained oblivious.  It was all grist to the preview mill, ahead of the Hero Dubai Desert Classic and led to enjoyably nonsensical items like “23 questions about the Rory-Reed feud, answered in 23 one-sentence responses”.  That’s from the supposedly respectable (am I so old that that just means ignoring the bollocks?) Golf Digest.  I suppose 24/7 online stuff makes fools of us all.

Anyway, it turns out that on Christmas Eve somebody had turned up on Rory’s doorstep (well, presumably there were a few gates to go through first) and issued him with a subpoena (roughly, more or less, ignoring the precise legal niceties, related to Reed and LIV versus the PGA Tour).  So Rory wasn’t inclined to say hail fellow, well met when Patrick ambled over in Dubai.  “If roles were reversed and I’d thrown that tee at him, I’d be expecting a lawsuit,” he said, perhaps not entirely flippantly.

The phrase “immature little child” popped up somewhere.  Which one would that be, do you think?  Why, Rory of course – according to Patrick. The blog couldn’t possibly comment – but only because one of its resolutions is to moderate its language…

Back in the real golfing world, down at the original, amateur level, it’s the centenary year of The Staffordshire Union of Golf Clubs (men) and the culmination of years of planning and hard work.  There are lots of competitions and celebrations in the diary and Andrew Dathan, a member of Whittington Heath who has been involved in Staffordshire golf for nearly 60 years, is the centenary president.  Many congratulations to him – and to the committee that worked so hard to organise everything in plenty of time, not an easy task.

However, the blog would like to pay tribute to and cheer and roar its approval of and admiration for the person who laboured long and hard to produce the centenary book, a woman no less.  Pippa Dathan, please stand up and take a well-deserved bow.

I know how tricky these centenary books are and my admiration knows no bounds.  The Staffordshire Union of Golf Clubs could not have found a better, more qualified chronicler, diligent, knowledgeable and steeped in the subject and its characters.  A dentist by profession, with a scientist’s attention to detail, Pippa was a decent golfer and having been married to Andrew for more than half a century, there’s not much she didn’t know about Staffordshire golf.  Now, after all her research, there’s nothing she doesn’t know!

Here’s to a memorable centenary and some good times in 2023 and to those of our family and friends who’ve had a shitty (no other word for it) start to the year, our hearts are with you.  Bonne chance and bon courage.

The Christmas season is fast approaching – in fact, it’s galloping along, and for a person who steadfastly refuses to hang a bauble or send a card while still in the eleventh month of the year I have to admit I’ve already broken all my self-imposed rules.  Full disclosure – last weekend we hosted Christmas dinner (yes, turkey and all the trimmings and plum duff) for fourteen.  This was largely my hubby’s branch of the family and it was a grand collective effort with everyone having an allotted responsibility, food, drink and preparation wise.  So, it all bowled merrily along and the house now seems strangely, and blessedly, quiet.  The most noise since the departure of our guests came from trying to manhandle the bottle recycling bin up to the gate for its next collection.

The reason I mention the festive season is to warn (reassure?) you all that this will be the final blog offering of the year and that we will be taking our annual break until sometime in……… well, who knows exactly when?

For me, this has been the strangest of years with zero golf interaction at any level for me.  No attendance at majors, no research to do, no interviewing players, no being abreast of all the unrepeatable swirlings emanating from the rumour mill.

There’s been no interaction at club level either.  It’s now been thirteen months since I last played and with my golf club being forty minutes away it’s a little too much of a fatiguing drive for me to just pop by the club for a coffee and to see who’s around.  The result is that it’s been an odd (non) golfing year for me and my only connection with the sport that’s been a massive part of my life has been through a screen – either a television one or a computer one.

If you are a regular reader of the blog you will be aware there has been no movement on the instruction front either (ongoing joint pain), so I’m following my friend Mary McKenna’s advice.  “Remind all your readers to just look back at your tips over the winter!”  They are all there on youtube or just go to the Coaching tab at the top of the home screen if you fancy a quiet bit of golfing armchair meditation with a glass of something nice at your elbow..

Here’s hoping things are a little different next year.

I must say I did enjoy the denouement of the Ladies’ European Tour (LET), with the last event, the Andalucia Costa del Sol Open de Espana, being played at Alferini golf club.  There was a smorgasbord of Swedish talent on display with Linn Grant and Maja Stark, two great friends and two great golfers, battling to the wire to see who would triumph in the season-long Race to the Costa del Sol.  In the end, it was Grant who, with a third place finish, scooped the Rookie of the Year title as well as the big Order of Merit one, with Stark runner-up and yet another Swede, Johanna Gustavsson, third in the season’s standings.

One of the main draws in Spain was Leona Maguire, the highest-ranked player in the field at world No 11. She was fresh off the plane from last week’s LPGA event in Florida  and jet-lag or no, she finished a highly creditable fourth, going on on Monday to attend a small Solheim Cup gathering down the coast at the invitation of captain Suzann Pettersen.  By now, I really do hope she’s got the feet up at home in Ireland and is enjoying a well-earned rest after a fabulous year.

Meanwhile, battling it out for the Spanish Open crown was yet another Swede, Caroline Hedwall, (top picture) four-time Solheim Cup player, who has found tournament victories a little thin on the ground over the last eight years.  Always an impressive ball striker she has become a little jittery on the shorter putts and admitted to wondering did she still “have it in her” to handle the pressure and win again.  Her questions were answered when she rolled in a fifteen footer for birdie on the fourth extra hole to deny the elegant Swiss player, Morgane Metraux, her maiden tour title.

Metraux is another to watch for captain Pettersen.  She has just completed her first season on the LPGA and has comfortably secured her card for next year.  Winning is her obvious next step and I don’t think it’ll take too long.

As the players are heading home for well-deserved rest and relaxation I’m looking to start gearing up a bit more if possible.  I decided I really did need to keep the grey cells in some sort of working order so I’ve done the training to become a Controller for the Staffordshire, Shropshire, and Cheshire Blood Bikers.  The Blood Bikers are a network of regional charities, run completely by volunteers offering a 24-hour, seven-day-a-week service to hospitals and health centres.  The riders collect and deliver all sorts of samples and tissues all over their area (and frequently further afield).

My first shift will be on Friday December 2nd, the very day this blog is posted, from 7am until 1pm and I will (hopefully) be in control of 3500 square miles and up to seven riders from Shropshire, North Staffordshire, East Staffordshire and Cheshire.  This is arguably the most pressure I’ll have felt since I was on tour decades ago, so wish me well as you sip your morning cuppa!

If I survive, and the riders survive, I’ll see you in the New Year.

 

No drenchings on the golf course so far this week but it’s been murky and foggy and not particularly pleasant; time to root out the mittens and hand warmers and the hair-crushing bobble hats.  Fingers crossed for a bit of blue sky for today’s Friday Frolics Christmas Bash (Secret Santa included).

I thought I had it tough when I had to give 16 shots in a Round Robin match last week but Sue Spencer, one of our best golfers, an England international (senior division) and a sweet swinger, had to give an eye-watering 31 shots.  Claire Hicks, her opponent, hasn’t been playing long but is proving a quick learner, hits the ball miles and uses a distance device, not for show but because she already knows how far she hits each club, a skill that still eludes some of us.  Against Spenny she recorded her first gross eagle – a three on the par 5 2nd – and won 5 and 4.

Claire was a bit more wayward next time out and lost to the redoubtable Jenny Smale, who was only giving a shot a hole (!!) and  admitted that she played damned near her very best.  That’s one of the good things about the RR:  you have to play well to win a match; it keeps the best players on their mettle.

There was some sad news earlier in the week when the PGA announced that Sandy Jones, their former chief executive, had died at the age of 74.  Sandy, a Scot from Gartcosh, had a long and distinguished career in golf administration and was a fair player too.  He never looked back after finding his mother’s old clubs stashed in a cupboard at home.

Dai and I played quite a lot with him and his – and our – great pal Bob Cantin.  Every game they played was competitive and their long-running bet, with attendant bragging rights, lasted many years.  I know the inestimable Pat Ruddy says there’s no such thing as a bad golf course but we were playing a particularly ghastly desert creation in Arizona and Sandy summed it up succinctly as “a waste of a perfectly good desert”.  That still makes me smile.  Condolences to his wife Chris and family and friends.

In between watching World Cup matches and marvelling at some amazing results, not least Japan beating both Germany and Spain and England managing a draw with the United States, I flicked over to the golf and drooled over the pictures from the ISPS HANDA Australian Open.  The men and women are playing on Kingston Heath and Victoria, two of the glorious courses that are part of Melbourne’s famed sandbelt.

Cameron Smith, the Open champion, now a LIVer, who won his national PGA title in Queensland last week, is the star attraction but admitted that his golf was “pretty shitty”.  He had a 71, one over par, in tricky, blustery conditions, to be eight shots behind leader David Micheluzzi, a local who is starting to find his form after struggling with performance anxiety when he first turned professional.  If he’s still ahead of Smith come Sunday, he could well be holding up the trophy.

Admittedly, I’m paying more attention to the surroundings than the players, enjoying seeing proper golf courses that require a lot of imagination and variety in the shot-making.  It’s a positive joy after the dreary diet of smash and gouge that makes up so much of day-to-day televised golf.  And how lovely to see natural-looking bunkers instead of traps.  Blissful.  (And being thousands of miles away, in a different hemisphere, I’m in no danger of having to play out of them.)

The sublime, world-class courses are one of the reasons that there have been so many outstanding Australian golfers over the years, whatever the state of the track they started on.  There’s a lot of competition, of course and heroes to emulate, so the Aussies have always more than held their own on the fairways of the world.

Dai and I loved our trips to Australia and he used to say that if he’d discovered the place when he was 19 or 20, he’d have been an Australian.  Here he is at one of our favourite places, Historic Court Barns in Tanunda, in the heart of the Barossa wine country, not far from Adelaide.  He’s wearing shoes, so Elvis, the tame, wing-clipped galah, who preferred pecking at bare toes, has to make do with nipping fingers.

That pic reminds me that I’ve been neglecting my Australian friends, so I’ll root out the address book and make a real effort to send them all a Christmas card and thank them for all their kindness and hospitality over the years.

And thanks to everybody for reading Mo’s and my blogs throughout the year and encouraging us to keep going.  Now that we’ve hit December, we’re signing off for the year and hope to be back in 2023, fit and firing.  I’m off to wrap up my secret Santa and unwrap the Christmas decorations.