My eyes have been turned towards the Middle East for the last ten days or so.  Of course, part of the reason is that the DP World tour ends its lengthy and arduous 42-tournament season with two wonderful play-off events out in the desert.

Last week the Abu Dhabi HSBC Championship at Yas Links GC provided enough drama to keep you going till Christmas.  Wolverhampton’s Aaron Rai won for the third time on this tour keeping some stellar players at bay.  He had a slender one-stroke advantage going into the final round and held firm against all onslaughts.  Recently minted Career Grand Slammer Rory McIlroy came thundering up the leaderboard with a spectacular ten under par 62 which must have frightened the living daylights out of all those ahead of him.  He’s an ominous sight in anyone’s rear view mirror.  However, at the heels of the hunt Rory finished on 24 under alongside Ryder Cup team mate Nicolai Hojgaard, both a shot shy of the play-off.

Tommy Fleetwood continued his brilliant form of the last few months and matched Rai’s 25 under total but his failed birdie attempt at the first play-off hole gave Aaron the perfect read and the now world No 23 gratefully took advantage.

This was no flash in the pan.  Rai has been quietly grafting out on the PGA Tour in America since 2022 and scored his maiden win there last year. In September he only narrowly missed gaining a Ryder Cup berth but he has been absent from the fairways since the BMW PGA Championship at Wentworth almost two months ago.  He had a rather large wedding to organise and attend – his own.  Talk about getting back to work with a bang.

There was another reason I had the UAE on my mind.  A very, very dear, long-standing pal (resident in RAK) was coming to London for a few days and could I make it down to the Big Smoke to see her?  Could I ever!  Hurried train reservations were made and last weekend we had a whirlwind 36 hours or so together.

“What did you do?” asked my deserted husband when I got home.  The truth was we didn’t do anything except eat, drink and blether, blether, blether, catching up on each other and our respective families.  Understandable when you consider we had six years to fill in.

My pal, the matriarch of the Middle Eastenders as the Madill connection calls her family, is a non-golfer but has supported me right from my playing days through the eras of coaching, broadcasting and speaking engagements.  She reminded me of when she attended an Irish Open I was playing in at St Margaret’s just outside Dublin and as she put it – “you weren’t having a good day”.  Apparently, I unleashed a pretty wayward tee shot which headed off into some deep stuff.  I can only assume that as I had hit a provisional she deemed the original ball to be of no further interest to anyone – so she picked it up and put it in her pocket.  No one was any the wiser.

At the end of the round there were lots of little boys and girls clamouring for balls, tees, gloves and autographs.  My friend waited patiently at the end of the line and when I reached her she innocently produced my “lost” ball and asked me to sign it.  She says I spoke to her in Anglo-Saxon!

She has that ball to this day.

It’s a slow process adjusting to not having golf in my life and a couple of weeks ago I resigned from the PGA (Professional Golfers’ Association), a few months shy of being forty years a member.  Not a bad innings, all the same, and I still have many, many friends part of the Association.  I’ll be able to keep abreast of things through them, I’m sure.

I am very much enjoying keeping in touch with other golfing friends from Delamere too, although we don’t exactly live next door to each other.  We used to have a fourball on a Tuesday so, obviously, the name of the WhatsApp group was “The Tuesday 4”.  Over the last wee while the name has altered slightly because of a change of activity.  We now meet up for walks and coffee/lunch sessions and some brain-box (not me) brilliantly renamed the group “the Walkie-Talkies”.  Sums us up perfectly.

A sad piece of news reached us last week of the death of the irrepressible Judy Bell at the age of 89.  Judy played in and captained Curtis Cup teams epitomising the spirit, generosity and friendship of the transatlantic match.  In later years she became the first female president of the United States Golf Association (USGA).

I met Judy through Mary McKenna, Ireland’s legendary female amateur golfer, who was a close friend.  I spent some time with Judy when Brian and I called to her home in Colorado after the 2013 Solheim Cup.  Even then she was suffering with her health but her sparkle remained undimmed and we have several precious hours of fun and humour to look back on.  What a gift – and all the more precious as it was the last time we saw her.

RIP Judy.

Just how do you pay tribute to a legend?  A woman who over time took the world of golf by storm, who changed it for ever while loving the game itself and many of its traditions.  She did it by being herself:  warm, funny, scatty, intelligent, shrewd, successful, competitive but oh-so-gracious in defeat no matter how much it hurt.

An aged off-white sunhat (see pic above, technical issues permitting) hardly seems enough but its little label/logo says “Sport Buddy” and I treasure it because it was given to me on a sunny day somewhere by Judy Bell.  And I think the words sum her up.

I’m in awe of almost all of the people I’ve met through golf, starting right at the beginning, at the age of ten or eleven and carrying on until now, these sixty years later.  But, over the years, being in awe doesn’t mean being blinded to faults or being unable to recognise an arsehole when you meet one, whatever their status or successes.  There’ve been a few of those, though not too many and Judy, affability personified but nobody’s fool, treated us all the same.  She was a people person par excellence.

A wee girl from Wichita in Kansas, with three older brothers. Judy reached the heights of golf, as demonstrated by the lovely obituaries on the websites of the USGA (United States Golf Association) and the R&A (Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews), the governing bodies of the game worldwide.  Rhonda Glenn, a good friend, who eventually persuaded Judy, the first woman to be president of the USGA,  to write her autobiography (it’s called Breaking the Mold, well worth reading despite the spelling), also thought she should run for the Senate.

Initially Rhonda had no luck with the book or the Senate.  “Judy refused to do either.  She wasn’t interested in running for the Senate and, she said, writing a book about her life would be presumptuous.  By 1997, I had given up the idea of Judy running for political office.  She wouldn’t, after all, accomplish much as a Senator – she’d spend too much time caring for every person in America and trying to solve their problems.  Besides, she’d be late for every vote….”  The book, however, happened, on the proviso that some of the proceeds went to charity.

Judy had become the first president of the USGA in 1996 and why the R&A and Augusta National failed to take their golden opportunity to make her their first woman member and save themselves years of angst and ignominy, I’ll never know….

The USGA tribute (have a look at usga.org) recounted the first meeting she took as pres, which was about how the USGA would spend television revenues, a not insubstantial sum.  To the horror of the lawyers present, Judy encouraged an open meeting, with ideas flying everywhere.  It was near pandemonium apparently.  The lawyers, horrified, wrote little notes:  “You’ve lost control of the meeting.”

“Thank you,” Judy said, smiling broadly.

“It was like a Bell family dinner,” she said afterwards.  “I was very much at home.”

No wonder everybody loved her.

Diane Bailey (née Robb, then Frearson) had a special connection with Judy, one that the American handled graciously.  “Our friendship went back to 1962, when I played against her in the then 36-hole singles in the Curtis Cup and managed to win by quite a convincing margin,”  Diane said.  It was at the Broadmoor, Colorado Springs and the States won comfortably, by eight matches to one.  “I was the one,” Judy, who lost 8 and 7, got used to saying.

When they were both selected as captains of their respective teams for the match in 1986 at Prairie Dunes, in Kansas, very much home territory for Judy, she sent a message to Diane:  “Can you be a little more gentle with me this time…”  If anything the result was even more brutal, with GB and I, against all the odds, winning comfortably and becoming the first side, male or female, amateur or professional, to win on US soil.

“Our attitudes to our players were very similar,” Diane recalled. “We both believed in keeping the spirit of the Curtis Cup as intended by the Curtis sisters, of  ‘friendly rivalry’ between the players.  We wanted them to socialise and we dined together during the days prior to the matches.  One memorable time was the party at the Bells’ family farm when Judy lined us up opposite each other to throw eggs at each other which we had to catch – or else!

“Having told my players the sad news, from the messages I’ve received from my team members, they all have such happy and inspirational memories of Judy.  She was there for the game of golf at all levels.  She was there to support in any way possible and for everyone.  She left her mark wherever she went and on whoever she met.  With her cheeky smile and constant sense of fun, she gave so much back to the game.

“My life has been enriched by knowing Judy.”

Jill Thornhill, a member of that team at Prairie Dunes, was also more than happy to share her thoughts:  “Judy was a remarkable woman.  I have felt very privileged to have known her and have many wonderful memories of the times I was fortunate to spend with her.  One in particular stands out.

“The 2008 Curtis Cup was played on the Old Course at St Andrews and the Past Players’ Dinner was held in the clubhouse and the past players from GB&I and the USA were given an amazing tour of the main rooms.  We were incredibly honoured to be shown into the Secretary’s office which has doors leading onto the balcony overlooking the 18th green.

“I found myself on that balcony with Judy, just she and I.  We were chatting away when it suddenly dawned on me that here I was standing on this famous balcony overlooking the 18th green of the Old Course with the one and only Judy Bell and I had to pinch myself to make sure it was happening.

“Judy was the doyenne not only of women’s golf, amateur and professional but of the whole sport of golf and for that matter life itself.

“She was an inspiration.”

The inimitable Gary Player (above) had his ninetieth birthday last Saturday.

The wee South African has been a tour de force in golf since he won the first of his nine majors, the Open Championship, way back in 1959 at Muirfield.  He was a slip of a lad of 23 at the time but he had been visiting the UK since turning professional at the age of eighteen, soaking up experiences and lessons along the way.

His first visit to St Andrews, the home of golf, had been as that gauche 18-year old and lack of funds meant he spent his first night there sleeping in his waterproofs on the beach.  As he later remarked, “The price was right.  The room service was lousy.”  Little did he suspect that some forty years later he would be made an honorary member of the Royal & Ancient golf club of St Andrews and that he would also be awarded an honorary degree from the town’s venerable old university, which was founded in 1413.  It’s been an amazing journey but Player shows no sign of slowing down.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Gary’s obsession with strength and fitness training wasn’t in some measure because of his small stature of 5 feet 6 inches.  Long before a certain Tiger Woods appeared on the scene and changed the landscape of the game for ever, Player had been advocating the benefits of  diet and exercise.  This was in an era when no one was really listening but that didn’t deter the South African whose drive and ambition were second to none.  There was seldom an interview with him at this time that didn’t feature the consumption of a banana or two and a dozen push-ups.

He has a multitude of not-so-modest claims, one being that he is the most widely travelled sportsman on the planet.  As I have learned, there’s not much point taking issue with him.  He claims he’s been travelling for 72 years, criss-crossing the globe and attests to have notched up more miles than anyone else.  His brother Ian was an environmental educator, activist and conservationist so I’m sure (and hope) he ensured his golf-mad brother had off-set all those carbon emissions.

Gary is a master of his own publicity, relentless in his certainty and positivity and it’s hard, nay impossible, to challenge him when he’s in full flow.  When he was captain of the International side in the Presidents Cup, I had the daily duty of interviewing him at the end of each day’s play.  On day one I was armed with what I hoped was an interesting set of questions that would elicit thoughtful, insightful answers.  Two short questions and two exceedingly long, detailed, wide-ranging answers were all we had time for, such was Gary’s reluctance to draw breath.  On day two my first question was enough to set him off and that was our lot.  Similarly on day three.  Day four, I think I said “Hello Gary,” and that was it – off he went dissecting the day’s play, the team selections, the result.  No question necessary.  Total vigilance, however, was required on the interviewer’s part so he/she could utter a quick thanks at the hint of a pause and hand back to the commentary box.  It was either that or cut him off in his prime – an unforgiveable sin.

Nowadays the only opportunity we really have to glimpse his competitive nature is each year at the Masters where, along with Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson, he is one of the honorary starters.  Although Jack is four years his junior Gary busts a gut each year to outdrive him when they hit their ceremonial tee shots off the first.  Tom Watson, fourteen years younger than Player, joined the honorary starters in 2022 for the first time and you may be sure Gary is completely convinced he should be able to outdrive him also.

As this Hall of Famer commences his tenth decade on earth he closed a recent interview with Golfweek with one of his favourite activities – that of handing out little nuggets about life and what he thinks of it.

“……….I believe that age is just a number. Years wrinkle your skin but a lack of enthusiasm wrinkles your soul.  Then he added, “I’ll be disappointed if I don’t live to be 100.”

I wouldn’t bet against it.

Shifting now to the other end of the spectrum, age and career-wise, in the game, I must say a hearty congratulations to Tom McKibbin, one of Ireland’s more recent up-and-coming stars.  Tom, who spurned the opportunity last year to take up his PGA Tour card in favour of joining the dreaded LIV tour, won the Link Hong Kong Open last weekend which has assured him of a place in his first Masters next April.  In addition he will tee it up at the Open Championship at Royal Birkdale.

Tom spreadeagled the field, opening with a scintillating ten under par 60 and winning by seven shots in the end.  Never having met the lad didn’t stop me from feeling annoyed with him when he decided not to take Rory McIlroy’s advice last year, instead opting to join LIV.  I was worried he’d be closing off avenues to the tournaments that really matter in the game -ie the majors.  But here he is, twelve months later, with more than ten million dollars banked and two out of four assured major starts.  I doubt he’s regretting his decision at the moment.

Time I made the seismic mind shift to what’s important to the younger element in the game in 2025.

Well done, Tom.

Well, it’s done and dusted and please don’t read any further if you haven’t watched the final episode of Celebrity Traitors.  Spoiler alert:  I might mention at the end who won.  Then again, I might not….

Thursday nights are usually blog nights, for me anyway and far too often to be healthy they’re so late they move in to the next morning.  That was the case last week because although the words were almost all written in good time – though not quite all – there was an unexpected glitch:  the sister and her husband were coming for a couple of nights and the house was in the process of being tidied.

In other words, it was a tip.  So I had to izzy-whizzy, switch in to overdrive and make the place habitable for visitors.  It was an autumn clean rather than a spring clean and it was a great relief to make inroads.  However, it did mean that my sleep pattern was disrupted even more than usual; and I had a busy weekend ahead.  Aaaaaagh….

The next morning I missed my snooker lesson because I still had the shower and the loos to clean but I made it to bridge in time and don’t think I made any more miscalculations than usual.  The brain cell had woken up enough to make the odd correct call.

Then it was off to London to meet up with a member of the Irish branch of the Spurs supporters’ club in preparation for the big match the next evening and the stadium tour in the morning.  Our leader had also organised a trip to Frameless, an immersive art experience that is receiving rave reviews and is well worth a visit.  No need to rush, it’s on for another three years.

Just one word of warning:  sometimes the floor seems to move – and the ceiling and the walls – and if you’re tired or have had a drink or two too many, it’s not an easy watch.  In fact, the first two rooms reminded me of a rather unpleasant experience on the Scillonian, leaving Penzance on an even keel and staggering off on St Mary’s (Isles of Scilly) with everything all over the place.  Dizzying was the word for it.

I know that Christmas is not that far away – my hairdresser always knows the exact number of days  – but it came early for a couple of Tottenham tragics when we had a match day tour of our swanky new(ish) stadium.  All we lacked was a legend leading us around but the two young men in charge of our group were very good and well informed and managed to keep us ahead – just – of the hundreds of people coming in to start work (including some of the first-team coaches, who descended on the dressing room as we, the last tour on the list, were leaving).

 

The match wasn’t until half past five (on a Saturday), yet another of those random kick-off times designed to suit the telly channels; the fans will pitch up wherever, whenever and pay whatever…Maybe aye and maybe och aye.  Take us for granted at your peril.

Denise, our organiser par excellence, had sussed out a very congenial pub (home fans only) not too far from the ground and we had something to eat (and a drink or two) in  good company, full of hope that we’d beat Chelsea, not something we seem to find easy.  We even found a group of lads from Cavan, fans of Leona Maguire, to take a pic of us full of hope and expectation.

I couldn’t fault the build up to the game but for some reason our boys didn’t turn up and went missing the moment the whistle went; they/we were dire, no other word for it.  Chelsea won 1-nil but it should have been more and we never looked like sneaking an equaliser.  They really do have the hex over us and their fans were jubilant, rubbing it in with justifiable glee as we headed unhappily into the night.

To make matters worse, we got to a pub near our hotel in time to watch Ireland lose to the All Blacks in Chicago.  At least the boys in green led for a good while before succumbing and the craic could hardly have been better.  Sometimes it’s not the result that matters most.

I won’t mention who won Traitors, just in case you still haven’t heard – and I know there are some of you out there who couldn’t care less.  Wish I felt the same about Spurs.