FROM PANTS GOLFER TO VINTAGE GOLFER: a tribute

I got the big invitation.  Suddenly and without warning.  From Vintage Golfer.  He wanted to know how his protégé was doing. Much like a loud and unexpected thunderclap on a fine summer’s day, it came like a bolt out of the blue.  I suspect it’s a bit like getting an invitation from The Queen to her gaff at the end of The Mall - except this came from VG and was a sight more impromptu than anything I’d seen Her Majesty trot out.  Not that I’m in the habit of getting invitations from Elizabeth II, you understand.  She’s a meticulous planner – so I’m led to believe – but, for my part, I am unable to lay claim to any first hand experience of this.  I can’t see it happening in the not-too-distant future either but, Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I would be happy with a dame-hood to rack up alongside my collection of silly hats.  Just sayin’, Ma’am.

VG isn’t likely to get an invitation either but that’s a whole other story and, quite frankly, I lack the inclination here to enter into the combinations and permutations of why those born between the Turf Wall and Hadrian’s Wall might not qualify for a royal summons.  Just letting you know, Ma’am.

Suffice it to say the I spent a short time wondering how much of the contents of a salmanazar of fine Rioja he had drunk when he decided to beckon me into his presence.  Or maybe he had been hit on the head with a kettle of wet mackerel? Who knows?  It all amounted to the same thing: I was summonsed to play golf so that VG could give me and my wonderful game the once over. 

I could have told him in no uncertain terms how his protégé was doing.  If words were money, I’m not short of a bob or two and I was up for giving him a detailed account.  But he was having none of my wordsmith ploys and it was all down to demonstration.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man or, in this case, woman.  Preparation was high on my agenda and I planned my game with meticulous diligence.  Now, this is where any half decent golfer would have taken themselves off to the driving range in a fit of swings, chips, runs and flop shots.  Not so me!  I’m not halfway to half decent yet so I bent myself to careful research.  I am fully au fait with the effects of stress on the cardiovascular system.  Tacotsubo is my middle name  (No, it is not a type of Japanese wrestling.  Get with it!). The resultant shock-horror of exposure to my style of game could stop even the most stalwart heart and I, on a day off work, did not want the inconvenience of a resuscitation – even if it was on my mate VG.  A day off is a day off.  I was of the opinion that VG had probably never seen the likes of my game before so I needed to know if his cardiac status was sufficient unto the day.  I sent him a cardiac rehab manual and fitness programme, the full treatment regimen for acute coronary syndrome, and appointments for a Holter tape and echocardiogram.  I’m Irish; I needed to be sure, to be sure.  Ma’am, if you’re still following this blog, I am willing to move from honorary to substantive just so as I can wear my dame-hood in public.  You’ll know exactly what I mean by this remark, Madge (that’s short for Your Majesty and not you, Madonna).

The day arrived.  It was high summer.  Except today it wasn’t.  The only day in the entire summer when it rained, and rain it did.  Cats and dogs variety.  Drowned rat look.  Day for ducks.  “Where’s your rain gear?” says VG.  It was a good question and I didn’t have a good answer.  Grubbing round in the darker recesses of my golf bag, I found my beloved Galvin Green who keeps me warm and dry on every occasion.  (It’s a jacket, you grubby minded readers)  

But I was without trousers.  VG disappeared and returned with waterproof trousers. There was no earthly need to trot out that time worn phrase “Does my bum look big in this?”.  The pair of rainproof trousers VG had loaned me were so big that he and I could have practised ballroom dancing in them on the scale of BBC’s “Strictly” and still have had room left over for the remaining part of the trousers to house a wedding marquee.  They were grand trousers but not in the flattering sense.  Wallace and Gromit might have a good line on them as "the wrong trousers" but as they were the only trousers likely to keep me dry in what can only be described as a deluge, I had no intention of complaining about their lack of fashion appeal. And VG’s wet face didn’t look like you could lodge an appeal against their distinct lack of fashion value.  He’s a man of practical pants and there’s no arguing with that line of approach.

Faces: I love a good face-to-face.  I’ve had a lifetime of studying them.  It began with the Sisters of Perpetual Habits who instilled in me qualities that were never set out on education curricula anywhere.  You can always tell the façade from the visage when you study a face.  Vintage Golfer wasn’t looking his cheerful, pragmatic self this morning – more fearsome than fair-some.  In fact, he looked like he had spent the night studying the cardiac rehab manual, failed the fitness programme, recorded syncopal episodes on his Holter monitor, spontaneously passed out, and had a poor prognosis on his echocardiogram.  That or he was coping with the after effects of a salamander of Rioja but, as he always claims he never suffers with a hangover, how could that possibly be the cause?  My heart sank. 

I am by now half dressed like a fisherman on a deep-sea trawler and sporting a wet look I didn’t rate.  Suddenly, I get pounced on again and he’s looking irate.

“That glove,” he says, “You can’t possibly play decent golf with that.”

Inference is never wasted on me and my glove was certainly looking jaded.  My immediate and optimistic conclusion was: swap the glove and my golf will be decent.  Sigh, perhaps this is the time to give up on optimism or dial it down a bit.  I need to tell his nibs it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference but he has strong opinions and studying his wet face, I knew this was not the time to air my views.  I had a rare moment of silence and held my tongue.

By now, I am all of a dither but fate had one more trick to play.  Heading out to the first tee, his long-term golfing buddy whispers in my ear “Good luck.  You’ll need it.  He likes to win.  He takes no prisoners”.  That’s one of those hole-in-the-head remarks you never need but always get so, with the final nail in my coffin, I now knew that there really was no hope.  That’s a tough call when you are an optimist.  And so, with these conflicting thoughts, I find myself standing on the first tee in a downpour. 

Oh happy days!  “You swing your best when you have the fewest things to think about”.  I salute the late great august master Bobby Jones for this wisdom.  Thank you, Bobby, but before I take leave of you, there is one burning question I need to ask.  Where did you get a middle name like that?  I mean come on, mate, “Tyre”: what’s this about?  I’d have no truck with nomenclature of this ply if I were rolling in your tracks.  Ma’am, if you’ve stuck with me this far, could you find a posthumous award for Bobby?  He deserves a medal.

I’m on the first tee and my brain is squishing squillions of thoughts about, so much so that I swung my worst swing ever and landed the ball all of two feet to the left of the box.  Yup, Sir Robert Tyre Jones, you holed-it-in-one on that prophetic pin if you were thinking of the likes of me when you made that erudite comment. The only positive outcome from this debacle is that VG suddenly finds his missing laugh.  And he used it heartily, wallowing in a protracted guffaw.  I would delete him from my Christmas card list forever but, alack, I don’t send any.  I’m currently working on a suitable punishment.  And so we set off.

There is a perennial list of strong-lettered words embedded in my brain.  They were hammered in there when I was the young side of little and they were words I was not allowed to use - ever.  Of course little me made a mistake and accidentally trotted out one of those words in adult company.  It was a first but, happily, not a last as I’ve practised some of those forbidden fruits a few times since - whenever there was a deserving cause.  It was also the first time I experienced time-travel.  After innocently quoting from the list, I was promptly knocked into the middle of next week. And now VG was doing the honours of floating a word for possible inclusion on that list but, now that I’m all grown up, I’m in charge and I decide when a word qualifies or not.  His did, emphatically. He used the “S” word when describing my swing.  You see, my swing comes with the cardinal sin of “sway” attached: read “anathema” to low handicappers.  In the great high church of golf, I’m not fit to add the coals to the thurible, much less swing it.

And so we wended our way round a wet and windy field.

Back at the clubhouse, Vintage Golfer consumed about five gallons of orange juice laced with lemonade.  It seems good golfers dehydrate as a result of their focus and concentration.  As I don’t suffer with that problem yet, I was replete on a mug of Rosy Lee.  

Now it’s time to play my Get-Out-Of-Jail card: Vintage Golfer, you taught me a few things about golf that day and I’m grateful – why, you even got me started in this crazy game - but here’s something I need to teach you.  Visualisation.  Even eejit golfer me knows visualisation has a bang-on hot role in golf.  In my head, I have a picture of my driver.  And you’re wearing it.  I am not making public which part of your anatomy it’s ensconced in but, if you ever wish to find out, just run that word “sway” past me and my swing one more time.  Apart from that, I give you free licence to say what you want about me.

Now, Ma’am, I need to have a word with you too: you can send Philip out with me for a round of golf.  He’s in safe hands.  I do a mean line in resuscitation and, if it doesn’t work, you can at least be assured he will die laughing.  I guarantee that.

And while you’re at it, Ma’am, could you please ask Princess Anne to rescind that silly remark about her preference to walking the dogs rather than playing golf?  It’s not looking good on her now that she’s in the newly formed female inner sanctum of St Andrews. 

Sigh, bang goes my dame-hood!

ON BUGS, RESUSCITATION, VINNIE JONES, AND THE MANY LAYERS OF GOLF…

I have a beautiful grandson – gorgeous, gregarious and engaging.  He is full of wonder, vim and vigour and he is at that age where he soaks up knowledge in the sponge-like manner that only the very young can effortlessly achieve and then regurgitates it, as adult wisdom, full of ingenuous humour.  He cracks me up endlessly.  I get to be three all over again when I’m in his presence.  He is also generous and shares everything, which is how I came to acquire a certain infection.  I came to babysit recently and his opening salvo ran like this: “I’m a poorly boy, Nanna, and poorly little boys need their hugs and kisses”.  In a flash, fourteen years of hand-hygiene-to-the-fore went out the window, I reneged on all the research-based evidence that was ingrained in me, infection control was blown out of the water, any erudite conversations with a consultant microbiologist or two were filed under “Highly Unnecessary” and I engaged in close encounters of the hugging kind.  Scooping poorly boy in my arms and smothering him with kisses, I loved him at the point of his need – and paid the price.  He generously shared his infection with me.  Those of you of a delicate disposition should look away now and switch off your brain’s visual display.  Let us dwell not too long on the permutations of the Norovirus bug but, ahem, clutching the toilet pan in the wee small hours like it’s your new best friend is nobody’s finest hour.  And it wasn’t mine.  Le Bug met Le Bog several times that night.  Now I was poorly.

It’s winter here in the UK.  That means two things: it’s cold; warming layers are the only fashion statement.  Switch your brain’s visual display back on, recall Sir Rannulph Fiennes fine comment “ There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”, think golf course, think Michelin Man (America - the look is poppin’ fresh Pillsbury Doughboy) and you have us down to a tee.  You cannot see gender easily (or so I thought): we are all homogenously onion shaped from the neck down.  Sounds sensible but I have a few things to say about layers.  Stick with me here, reader, it’s worth it…

A week later and somewhat recovered, there I was standing on the tee box, strutting my layers and yielding my body into the power force that constitutes a perfect drive when, all of a sudden, the resultant four pound weight loss from the trajectory of Le Bug through my system manifested itself. I could scarce believe my rods and cones but my eyes were not deceiving me.  Suddenly, I was wearing that low-slung-crotch look beloved of “saggers” and hip-hop youf culture everywhere.  I don’t rate the look and I can only describe the event as a bum rap or, to be spot-on pedantically precise, more like a bum unwrap.  Intent as I was at modelling the Rory McIlroy bombing-it-for-an-eagle-on-a-par-five swing, I had swivelled fast and furious.  All was well with my body but not with my now loose trousers.  They took on a life of their own and headed south, along with two other layers, till I was inadvertently showing what is graphically described as builder’s bum.  Since I am a fully paid up member of the gym bunny brigade, perhaps I exaggerate the yardage of my lower cleavage.  Maybe barefaced cheek might be a more suitable euphemism.  Whatever phrase you use, there was a lot of unwanted flesh hanging out.  A thoroughly frozen asset, I might add, that left me somewhat embarrassed.

Oh yes!  I am hot on layers.  Comes with the work territory.  It wasn’t in the Job Description when I signed up to my current post in the cardiac world but I quickly learnt it was an everyday part of wintertime clinics.  Roger Neighbour wrote a seminal book on how to conduct a medical consultation.  I plough my way fervently through that inner consultation model with each consultation and every patient.  It works brilliantly.  The appliance of science and I’m lovin’ it, Rodge, except for one thing: nowhere in that sterling textbook of yours does it tell me how to find my patient under the Layers ‘R’ Us ensembles that appear in my clinics in the guise of patients.  It’s obvious women score high in the layer department: there the vagaries of a bra, then the thermal camisole, over layered petticoat, blouse (with tiny buttons), skirt, waist high tights, cardigan, and overcoat.  But I have to hand it to the men.  Yet again, they’ve managed to outrank and outsmart the ladies on layers.  More importantly, it’s the manner in which they apply them that’s the problem.  Take your average man: thermal vest (occasionally string…OMG! what’s that about), shirt (with even tinier buttons), pullover (the tighter the better), fleece gilet, lined jacket, underpants, long johns that extend from ankles to armpits with gripping elasticated waistband tight enough to stop the circulation, woollen socks to the knees, and surmounted by an overcoat.  Every item on the top half is tucked deeply into the folds and layers of the bottom half and then he adds the final piece de resistance: belt and braces.  It’s total lockdown.  Carnage.  It would be easier to pull a successful heist on Fort Knox or vanquish the vaults of the Bank of England than unsheathe a man ensconced in these items of body armour.  I don’t think the Crown Jewels have such tight security.  And I lose fifty percent of clinic time just digging out my male patients from the bowels of their clothing.  Now if Lady Misfortune were to smile on such a person and decide to send an unsolicited gift in the shape of a cardiac arrest or myocardial infarct, there would be little hope of exposing that chest wall to the timely necessity of a zap or two from a defibrillator.   In essence, it’s a pretty dead end look in every sense of the word.

Keep these clinical findings in your brain’s visual display and let me lead you back nicely to where I was standing on the tee box with my trousers way below the axis of decency…well, let’s not replay that scene.  I looked round surreptitiously to see who had seen my denouement.  And all I could see were layers.  Rammed down in your pants layers.  Belted layers.  Braced to the hilt layers.  And suddenly those onion-shaped Michelin Doughboys had gender.  Man-shaped gender.  I forgot my predicament as the rush of cold air from my derrière esposé hit my brain and, in an instant, I realised what a great disservice the Royal And Ancient do to their male members.  Oh yes, we ladies thought we had it bad with the lads-only rule at Muifield and Troon - and let’s also include here the miscreants from the other side of The Pond: guilty as charged Lochinvar, the shameful Black Sheep Golf Club, the boo-hiss Bob-O-Link, Butler National and Burning Tree Golf Clubs, and the dated attitudes of Old Elm Club and The National Golf Club of Canada – but those faux pas pale into insignificance by comparison with the men’s dress code so gloriously upheld by most golf clubs and at the behest of the R&A.  For once, something in the golfing world swings in our favour.  We ladies don’t have to tuck anything in.

My light bulb moment of inspiration would have me say this:  Boys of a certain age or if you have acquired a cardiac history at any age, ditch the belts, braces and tucked-in-the-waistband look.  Pay no regard to the Royal and Ancient rules and regs.  Defibrillators weren’t on the scene when they wrote those rules.  Forget your local golf course dress enforcement policy.  There’s a tight working window when your body pulls off a cardiac event.  If anyone has to spend thirty minutes seeking your sternum, you’ll have hit the great exit ramp of life at high speed and those bolted down layers will merely be accelerating your exit.  And for what and whom?  Just let it all hang out.

Vinnie Jones is worth a look-see.  Watch and learn from the hard man.

https://www.bhf.org.uk/heart-health/nation-of-lifesavers/hands-only-cpr/behind-the-scenes-with-vinnie

And if you don’t believe in the golf course scenario, listen to Alan’s story.

http://youtu.be/M2STeerbaWA

Victor: I’ve made it easy for you to follow my scribble this time round.  I put the French words in italics

THE FUTURE OF GOLF: a (serious) reflection

There is a rash of suggestions out there that bears witness to the impending demise in golf.  And indeed there is a downturn in the numbers of new participants being recruited to the game in the current times.  The past few years have seen the number of young players in Britain halved while the USA, the new and untraditional “home” of golf, has seen half a million regular players desert the game.  Fingers point continuously at slow play being the culprit.  The argument goes that if we somehow jump on the bandwagon of speeding things up, then all will be hunky-dory in the land of fairways and greens.  Instead of the normal eighteen holes taking over six hours to play, it will be done and dusted in half the time, and the young, the old, the great and even the not-so-keen will flock onto the tee boxes in their millions.

The debate was further fuelled by Rory McIlory’s comment in recent weeks, when asked by the BBC about the fall-off in players, and his response gave wings to this notion of slow play being the slayer of golf.  McIlroy was quick to point out that slow play needed to be eliminated at grassroots only, while players of his calibre should not be required, or penalised, for such play.  

In my humble opinion and as a newcomer and beginner in this great game, the argument does not hold up on many fronts.  Little does McIlroy seem to recognise that slow play, with its painstaking pre-shot routines, focused study of greens and the steady reconnoitring of terrain for course management, comes as a top down model.  Slow play is beamed out to every home on the planet through the media of TV.  We are all familiar with the edited cut, the pan of the camera from the popular player to the more obscure one when the popular player is in contemplative mode.  Anyone who has walked a tournament in full swing will know that it is precisely the interaction of variable speed and pause that causes the contrast, and therefore the drama of golf.  It is a head game that relies on the minute counterbalancing of concentration, nerve and conscious self doubt that renders a shot effective or a fail.  Slow play is therefore an integral part of the game and is necessary at amateur and professional levels in equal proportions.

Most sports are built on acceleration of thought, grasp of opportunity, speed and competitiveness but golf stands alone in that it is a game of focus, played one shot at a time, and is executed in such a manner as to render it almost pedantic as it is played primarily against the course itself and ultimately against the player and their capacity to control their clubs and ball.  It is also unique in that it is perhaps the only sport in which the ball is played away from the player.  Ball sports played against an opponent will trigger the natural fight or flight response which engenders, anatomically and physiologically, an adrenaline surge – and hence the capacity for rapid response – while golf requires the opposite: the calming of the monkey brain.  Its very nature is based on a downturn in response, a calming manner and a slower style of play.  These responses will vary from player to player.

Reducing game time by nearly half will not necessarily make a round of golf any more attractive to those in demanding and time-consuming jobs.  It is far easier to indulge in many more activities for relatively short periods of time on a daily basis – like tennis, football, running or cycling – and see greater results than the time required to grow a game of golf.  Golf is by its nature slow but that very essence is what makes it attractive, and to seek to speed it up – the latest fad being in football golf or increasing the hole size to pizza-sized holes – seems to rob the game of its greatest assets: being outdoors for long periods of time, employing the mind to work out the changing facets required in course management, the balancing of club against terrain and each other, the maintenance and endurance of mind and body in all elements, remaining calm and relaxed under pressure to produce and perform consistently, and the social triumph of a day well spent.  In our time-strapped society bent on instant gratification and rewards, the long traditions of golf hold small attraction to a younger audience.  Speeding up slow play will not solve these problems or increase its appeal.  There is so much more that needs to be addressed – like outdated dress codes, a myriad of stupid, anarchic rules, a misogynist outlook from a male-dominated sport, and the poor image perpetually propounded by the Royal & Ancient.

While sauce for the goose should equal sauce for the gander at all levels of play, it is naïve for anybody to believe that eliminating slow play has any solid evidence of increased recruitment of numbers or, indeed, that it is the only cause of the game’s loss of appeal.  I’ve read a million reasons why the game of golf is dying – and it is; I could add a million more of my own – and I might; but they are all down to personal opinions.  Not one of them is research-based and that’s because nil-to-very-little research has been done.  Without research, and the subsequent formulation of a concrete approach from that research, the best response we can hope for is hotch-potch solutions in isolated pockets of the world.  Am I the only idiot on the block who’s figured out that if golf dies, a whole lot of jobs might go?  It’s an industry, right?  I cannot fathom why independent studies, much less meta-analysis, have not been carried out.  I work in a world whose very existence depends on these sorts of reports and analyses.  There are many stakeholders and businesses with overt and vested interests in the business side of golf that could easily head up research, postulate solutions, pilot the ideas, and carry best solutions into reality.  But it’s not happening.  It’s looking like everyone is out to prove Charles Darwins’ theory all over again – survival of the fittest.

Here are a few articles to whet your appetite on the state of play today:

http://www.golfshake.com/news/view/8397/The_future_of_the_game_Junior_Golf.html

http://www.golfshake.com/news/view/6332/Friendly_flexible_and_family_orientated_courses_could_double_number_of_golfers.html

http://www.golfshake.com/news/view/8019/Its_a_magnificent_game.html

http://www.golfshake.com/news/view/8018/Golf_is_in_decline_but_can_we_fix_it.html

http://foleysmith555.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/on-origins-of-mamil.html

ON THE ORIGINS OF MAMIL

Crank up the volume.  Shout it from the rooftops.  Let it be known far and wide.  I’m in love.  His name is Vassos and he’s Greek.  He could be a Greek god but I have no idea.  He might even be dressed in an eclectic fusion of classic-on-contemporary, flamboyant-on-elegant metrosexual man-gear or a simple brown paper bag but I wouldn’t know.  You see, I’ve never met him.  But love him I do.  Vassos hangs out on The Chris Evans Breakfast Show and delivers daily potent pint-sized pieces that keep me bang up to date with the shenanigans of the sporting world.  I listen to him most mornings but the other morning, he grabbed me by the ears and I haven’t been the same since.  Perhaps I never will.

Every so often he comes up with a gem of an idea, a germ of a theory that takes my breath away and the other day was no exception.  Not only do I play golf, I digest vast tracts of theory, articles, forums, videos, vlogs, blogs and reviews like they’re going out of fashion.  I have enough golfing information-flow in my head to sink the Titanic all over again.

I’ve read a million reasons why the game of golf is dying – and it is; I could add a million more of my own – and I might; but they are all down to personal opinions.  Not one of them is research-based and that’s because nil-to-very-little research has been done.  Without research, and the subsequent formulation of a concrete approach from that research, the best response we can hope for is hotch-potch solutions in isolated pockets of the world.  Am I the only idiot on the block who’s figured out that if golf dies, a whole lot of jobs might go?  It’s an industry, right?  I cannot fathom why independent studies, much less meta analysis, have not been carried out.  There are many stakeholders and companies with overt and vested interests in the business side of golf that could easily head up research, postulate solutions, pilot the ideas, and carry best solutions into reality.  But it’s not happening.  It’s looking like everyone is out to prove Charles Darwins’ theory all over again – survival of the fittest.  Bring it on.

Now back to Vassos and time to get on with my hot topic.

Vassos found a man to blame for the decline in golf.  He pedalled out Bradley Wiggins (Yes, Sir) and then added the rider MAMIL (for the phonologists among us, sounds like mammal).  While I was doing my best impression of an Incredible Me Minion “WHaaat?” while on the traffic crawl to work, his dulcet tones continued to explain that Middle Aged Man in Lycra (Yes, MAMIL) has abandoned the weekend five hour golf outing for a much quicker two hour fix of serotonin and nor-adrenaline – with a massive cardiovascular workout thrown in for free.  Back home, smug and satisfied, he’s now ready to spend the day with family.  And this all started around the time Wiggo was making his Lycra-clad wheeling form famous.  It seems middle-aged golfing man is easily influenced, abandoning the fairways for the lure of polyester, spandex, and a saddle.  Who’d have thought?  And nobody has come close since to putting the brakes on this Diaspora.

But I have news for you, Vassos.  There’s one that got left behind. How should I best describe him?  More V-Tub than V-Dub.  On his own.  Practising his driving skills and approaches.  Not bothering to putt on the temporary greens.  Out on the course on a Sunday morning.  Not an inch of spandex.  Or a yard of lycra.

Like the polite golfers we are, we wave him through and he plonks his ball to the left but level with mine, just off the green.  Note the fact that he’s arrived in this lie after two shots on a par 5 while I’ve arrived there by way of a million laughs, a game of hide and seek in the gorse bushes, and by some anarchic miracle that results in me landing at this spot with the same ball in my possession that I started off the tee box with.  I’m feeling proud.  It’s a Titleist Pro V1. 

He passes by.  We exchange polite, meaningless words and he heads for his ball, except – wait a minute - he scoops up mine.  I was still reminiscing on the V-Dub moment and was deep in Francophile mode so I had to use all my reserves not to shout “Faux play”.  The phonologists among you will have spotted immediately why this would not be appropriate.  Me, I’m saying nothing more. 

But I couldn’t let him run away with the Lamborghini Veneno of golf balls and all the blood, sweat and tears I had endured to shift that little white ball up the course to that particular lie.  Once I got over the shock of non-MAMIL skirting away with my property, I yelled in my best Cockney parlance “Oi you, I think you’ll find that mine”. He dropped it pronto and took off like a scalded cat.

Well, Vassos, he’s one I haven’t seen for a while and I am rather hoping he has pursued your theory and has become new MAMIL man.  Should he ever steal my ball again, I shall be deploying a not-so-nice French technical invention.  It’s called the guillotine.  

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/profiles/4VvrY7VNZ1WGL9KG2NFwR2L/vassos-alexander

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Vassos-Alexander/136678419766384?fref=ts

https://twitter.com/VassosA

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00p2d9w

https://www.facebook.com/ChrisEvansBreakfastShow?fref=ts

https://twitter.com/achrisevans   

http://www.titleist.co.uk

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Titleist-National-Fitting-Centre/1659600134639 64?fref=ts

https://twitter.com/Titleist

http://www.lamborghini.com/en/masterpieces/veneno/overview/

https://www.facebook.com/Lamborghini?fref=ts

https://twitter.com/search?q=lamborghini&src=tyah

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bradley_Wiggins

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bradley-Wiggins/109655292394188?fref=ts

https://twitter.com/search?q=bradley%20wiggins&src=tyah

Lesson One – part 1

Driving to my date with destiny.  In a swirling ferment. And I remember nothing of that journey so, Mr White-Van-Man, if I cut you up or, Mr Porsche-Carrera-GT, if I undertook you via the inside lane while you Sunday-drove as a middle-lane hogger, I make no apology.  Nor do I intend to wind you up.  Not this time anyway.  I am not in the physical journey, you understand, just cruising on auto pilot.  But while I’m here, may I suggest you try moving over?  Some of us have important dates.  I’m going to have a golf lesson. And why own a young man’s car if you drive it like a tractor?  OMG, why am I learning golf?  Who got me into this?  What am I doing?  That’s the sort of ferment I’m in... 

I live and die a thousand emotions on that drive.  I send up a silent prayer for the periodontal specialist who diligently ensures the health of my oral cavity.  If I’d had a set of falsies, they would have vacated my head by now.  Yes, my teeth are chattering uncontrollably and have taken on a life of their own.  Was it too late to invest in PolyGrip – just in case my natural teeth decided to move out?

I keep my hands firmly on the wheel.  I do not want them acting out any non-verbal anthems while I am girl-racing.  I need to keep the wrist action for later.  I don’t really want to girl race but the adrenaline surge, the rattling teeth, the nerves have all kicked in and there’s no stopping me.  Onwards, upwards and to Simon, Seckford, Suffolk.

(Seckford Hall and Golf Course, Suffolk, UK)

Simon.  What’s to say about Simon?  He’s complex.  He does jokes back to back - with excellent timing.  He knows how to make a good pun follow hot on the heels of a double entendre and is not afraid to trot them out.  He wears a funny hat.  He needs to upgrade that - but first he needs a lesson in looking soooooooo good it’s bad.  I see a window of opportunity here to help him – or maybe I should just give him middle child, oldest daughter’s phone number.  After an encounter with her, his hat will soon be up to par.  Or should that be up to scratch?  (Really getting the lingo now!)

He’s also very adept at dealing with gibbering females with chattering teeth.  My peridontist could learn a trick or two from him.  Maybe I should give Simon his number too.

And he has a keen eye for golfing fashion.  My outfit was not wasted on him.  “Did he need Royal and Awesome’s phone number?” I asked.  No, he already had it but he was surprised I wasn’t a Loudmouth.  I fixed him with a sanguine stare.  Me, a Loudmouth??

Moving swiftly on and before I could say anything about a certain John Daly, he was off, fifty balls in a basket and a 7 iron in hand.  Without any more preamble, Lesson One was underway - with a swing.  And the swing was all mine.  Posture, grip, stance, knee flex, head steady, back swing, maintain even tempo, contact, follow through.  I recognize a good litany when I hear one.  It’s the Irish Catholic legacy in me.  It has become my new mantra. 

The lesson was going well until Simon decided to demonstrate certain points of the swing.  “Mirror me,” he said.  And that’s when I remembered Lee.  Lee Westwood? Nooh!  Trevino?  Nope!  Janzen?  Slattery?  Not even close.  Lee Watts, personal trainer and fitness instructor, ex-para.  That’s who.

Lee had uttered those same immortal words one fateful night in kettlebell class.  “Mirror me.  It’s easy, Anne.”  He rattled out those words as he swung his kettlebell with ease in a sweeping figure-of-eight through his legs.  I did as requested with gusto – until I lost my grip and the kettlebell swept from my hands in a mayhem moment of madness and headed on a trajectory for Lee.  All his moments of paratrooper training were as naught in that instant.  Ten kilograms of metal landing on your metatarsals is no mean feat and there can be only one outcome.  Lee’s currently in plaster and gives me a wide berth – and who can blame him?  I looked at Simon who was innocent of all the pandemonium I can cause and I felt a cold terror seize my innards.  I had no idea what fate might befall him if I swung my swing like that loose kettlebell.  I sent up a silent prayer to the golfing gods that they would not let the golfing faeries loose on my first lesson.  I needed to preserve Simon if I was ever to progress in golf.  He’s the one for me.

I’m guessing it will be a little while yet before I can execute a perfect swing like this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHneHZeD4d8  but, Greg Greksa, I’m working on it.

And in case you want an alternative golf clothing site, try http://uk.loudmouthgolf.com/

As for the excellent Lee Watts, this is the place to be http://www.lwfitness4all.co.uk/

Meanwhile, here endeth the lesson on the perils of kettlebells.  Be back with Part 2 soon.

 

FIFTY SHADES OF PLAY

I’m worried about our Sal.  I don’t like to put it out there large but she’s not been the same since she returned from a Saga 50+ sojourn in some exotic location.  Far be it from me to put two and two together and come up with an answer of fifty but, since her zingful return from Lanzarote, she has developed a notable penchant for grey.  That’s right, she’s gone all grey on us.

Back she bounded on the golf course, full of zip and zest and promptly issued us with belated Christmas presents.  We were given a hat each. Warm, cosy, over the ears, woolly and grey. They are even bedecked with jazzy jewels.  Beautiful.

As I think I’m a bit of a gem myself and I know a diamond geezer vintage golfer (VG) to boot, I asked him about pale grey on me.  I wasn’t really sure it suited my colours and Cousin Sondra had gone to great lengths to ensure my harmonious colours were up to par on every occasion.  His reply left me in no doubt: he was sure I’d look great in grey every time – even classy!  Maybe he should have gone to SpecSavers first, or had a word with Sondra about my need for blue, but a compliment is a compliment and I decided to bask in it and worry about his eyesight and fashion sense later.  Grey it is then.

I have no objection to wearing a great hat.  In fact, I have a sterling collection of them but only one silly head to wear them on.  I mentioned this once to VG and he was profuse in his swift reply of agreement.  I am sure this is not gallant behaviour but, as he’s recently had a milestone birthday and is beginning to show the tetchiness that comes with age, I have decided to ignore these idiosyncrasies.  I was out on the course with my bejewelled grey hat on display.  All should have been well at this point but then I discovered Sally’s agenda or, to be precise, her shopping list.

Right about now it’s time to introduce you to the late, great James Foley.  Long before Stephen Hawking, Jimmy devised the Theory of Everything and, like the outcome of the great professor’s theory, it really amounted to nothing at all.  Sorry, dad, to diss you in so public a manner but at least I have bracketed you with the best brains of our times.  Be grateful.  My dad coached me well in thin edges and wedges.  Of course, he never played golf or held a club in his hand. Rather, his discourse was all about that old chestnut “the thin edge of the wedge” and Jimmy had a prophetic feeling that his youngest daughter might develop a penchant for finding thin edged wedges and following them to crises point.  He wasn’t far wrong there but he had my best interests at heart, bless his cotton socks…and so he taught me well on how to spot a thin edged wedge at a hundred and fifty yards.  It’s just a pity I can’t apply the same distance to my shots.

And that’s exactly what Sally’s gifted hats were.  Sally was bent on arming us with all things grey: socks, scarves, gloves, fleeces, trousers – and I could only marvel at her generosity in providing all this girl-power grey.  I was up for it until I spotted “Lingerie”.  Nothing wrong with a bit of grey underwear, you might say, and I would be the first to applaud a sliver of silver- grey raw silk next to my skin – though I have to confess it’s mainly Bridget Jones’ black “Sensibles” in deepest winter – but come the summer of scorching skorts, I’m up for it.  It was then I remembered the label on the hats: brand F&F from You-Know-Where.  Oh yes, every little helps!

And that “Every little helps” has a fifty shades of grey underwear range.  Now, call me a snob if you will but before you do, pay a visit to your nearest Tesco and tell me that that fifty shades range wasn’t designed by an Ann Summers dropout designer on crack cocaine with a fetish for faux leather and tawdry satin.  I shudder at the thoughts.

It’s time I had a word with Gill.  We need to head up a Rebuttal Committee; otherwise, our butts might be clad in fifty shades of F&F.  I think a set of protocols, pathways and the obligatory flow chart might keep the saga of Sally contained for a while - till the winter sales are over.  Meanwhile, there is one shade of grey Gill and I will need to indulge in while we’re on the committee.  A few fingers of Grey Goose won’t go amiss.

http://www.greygoose.com/en/uk

http://www.clothingattesco.com/

http://travel.saga.co.uk/?pid=ppsg

http://www.eljamesauthor.com/books/fifty-shades-of-grey/

http://www.specsavers.co.uk/