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The Mayor of Wessex, and Bob
I caught a small amount of the golf this weekend, the British Masters at The Belfrey, including the exciting last few holes in which Lee Westwood narrowly lost to a Spanish bloke on the third playoff hole. Golfers usually behave well in victory and defeat, and it struck me that a neutral observer would have been hard pressed to know which player had actually won when the final putt decided it – not because it didn’t matter to them (if nothing else, there was £100,000 difference in first and second place prize money), but because they know how to behave.
I also enjoyed a vintage Peter Alliss moment on the commentary. His fellow commentator, during a lull in the golfing action, mentioned Carol Vorderman, the famously sexy hostess on the word game “Countdown”. “Ah, Carol Vorderman“, said Alliss, dreamily, “I was watching her the other day and I got aroused“. (Stunned silence for a beautifully judged few seconds…). “Yes, 7 letters – not bad for a lad who left school at 15…“.
Elsewhere in the sporting weekend, City slumped to a 2-0 defeat at Wolves. It wasn’t really unexpected, given that Wolves seem to be running away with the Championship, but disappointing nevertheless. (And a cautionary note to cocky Wolves fans – this time last year, it was Watford who were romping, and look what happened to them…)
I was glad not to have listened to the game on the radio, opting instead to wander down to the “Best of Bedminster Show” on North Street Green. It was a great little event, along the lines of the traditional village produce show, with people submitting jams, cakes and strangely shaped vegetables to be judged by ladies from the Women’s Institute. I was delighted to win 3rd prize in the “Best Photograph” category – I won a medal (made of baked sour dough) and a packet of seeds. The prizes were presented by 2 women dressed as men, one claiming to be the Mayor of Wessex, and the other her son, Bob. Once the ceremony was complete, the sun burned through the misty clouds, and the Ambling Band played some pleasant (and suitably whacky) music. It was the sort of thing that makes me really enjoy living here.
The Ambling Band
A compulsive weekend’s viewing culminated in a pretty resounding defeat for the fancied Europeans in the Ryder Cup. Much to my boys’ disgust, I rather monopolised the television for the duration, thereby denying them endless repeats of “Friends” (although they can probably struggle through to maturity without seeing the 19th repeat of “the one in which a bloke whines annoyingly while his flatmate gets the wrong end of the stick again and a couple of unhealthily thin women flick their hair“).
The quality of the golf was, at times, quite incredible, and America thoroughly deserved to win, even though we could have done without some of their rather ungentlemanly behaviour. Lee Westwood complained that somebody said something especially unpleasant about his mother (though we haven’t learned exactly what), I got very bored of the crowd booing loudly in support of the rather buffoonish Boo Weekley, and Anthony Kim really shouldn’t have done the fist pumping thing when the halved hole he’d just won was courtesy of a generously conceded putt. But we’ll forgive them.
Nick Faldo’s coming in for a fair bit of stick after the defeat, people saying that he shouldn’t have saved his star players for so late in the day – although since two of them lost anyway, one could argue that “we” were doomed from the start. My own main criticism of Faldo is that he should have removed his sunglasses from time to time – even at the end, when dispensing consoling hugs for his own team and congratulatory handshakes for the opposition, he remained inscrutable behind the shades, like some sort of international man of mystery, which I thought was rather rude.
And talking of rudeness, I was delighted to see Ronaldo the Arrogant get booked for wagging his finger at the referee in yesterday’s game against Chelsea. He really does deserve a slap sometimes.
Not wanting to be responsible for another City disaster (my failure to raise the Lucky Flag being one of the reasons for our midweek defeat against Birmingham), I got the flag up good and early yesterday. And we cruised to a comfortable win, so I think that proves it works. Doesn’t it?
A rather tense first half yielded few chances, and City looked rather lacklustre. But at half time, Sir Gary put something in the boys’ tea, and before we knew it we were 3-0 up. Much to the relief of the crowd, new boy Nicky Maynard was responsible for both of the first two goals, winning a penalty with a flamboyant dive (which, away from home and with a different referee, might have been rewarded with a yellow card instead of a penalty), and slotting away a cool second from a well-worked move. Happy Days are here again, and the pleasure of watching one’s team defend a comfortable lead (for once) cannot be underestimated.
A pleasant game of golf in the morning (albeit one littered with disastrous shots), and an evening spent watching the Ryder Cup (featuring an incredible array of outstanding shots) completed a thoroughly enjoyable day. The weather this weekend has been stunning – almost too hot at times, but I’ll be lynched if I grumble – and this morning I helped Stephen erect his new shed, which turned out to be a most pleasant thing to do. It was one of those jobs which, on a bad day, could have been a nightmare (bits missing, parts not fitting together, hammers striking thumbs, etc.) but which, on this occasion, was plain-sailing, and very satisfying. I think there’s something very special about sheds. And there was also something very special indeed about the warm flapjack that Helen produced to encourage the workers. Trust me, there’s flapjack, there’s good flapjack, and there’s Helen’s flapjack. Yes siree.
Stephen and I are pretty hardy when it comes to playing golf in crappy conditions. Once we’ve made the effort to get to the club, sorted out domestic arrangements, and got all excited about the thrills and spills ahead, we’re not easily put off by a bit of rain, fog, or even snow. Many’s the time we’ve been the only people on the course, observed with a mixture of pity and incredulity by friends from the warmth of the bar, and even I have to admit that winter golf can keep its charms well hidden at times. The rain seeps through your uncomfortable waterproofs, the wind blows your ball off the tee peg just as you start your downswing, the greens are waterlogged so you have to putt on temporaries, by the 15th your hands are so cold that you can’t feel the club anyway, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you struggle down the 18th to see the welcoming lights of the clubhouse against the darkening sky.
But the only real problem with all of this is that this particular round of “winter golf” wasn’t in the winter at all. It was yesterday, August 13th! Aaaarrrgghhh – what’s going on?!
What a wonderful time we had at the Open. It surpassed my expectations by a long way – a really well organised event in a magnificent setting (Royal Birkdale, north of Liverpool, a course which (of course) I’d love to play, but which I probably never will, thanks to the £180 price tag…). The icing on the cake was the success of Chris Wood, the young amateur from Long Ashton, who put together a remarkably consistent performance to win the silver medal for the top amateur, and 5th pace overall. Incredible stuff.
Off to the Open on Friday! (That’s golf, of course. And, it’s “THE Open”, not “The British Open”. That’s because it’s the original and most important, as opposed to “The US Open” , or any of the lesser tournaments. No offence.) Stephen and I are heading up to Liverpool on Friday, and plan to spend the weekend watching the world’s golfing heavyweights slug it out for the famous claret jug. Sadly Tiger Woods won’t be there, due to his dicky knee, but it’ll be nice for somebody else to have a chance for once.
My own glittering golfing career hit a bit of a stumbling block the other evening with a defeat in the Autumn Cup, a club knockout in which I had been doing rather well. I would like to have won, of course, but losing was made more tolerable by the fact that we had a great game, played in the most sporting and enjoyable way possible. After I wasted a couple of chances to win it during the final few holes, we were all square after 18, so had to start all over again, setting off down the first for a second time, in the drizzle and fading light. It was finally decided on the third extra hole, with a fine putt from my opponent after mine had finished just short. “Never up, never in” was never more true.
Ah well, c’est la vie. And it really isn’t all about winning. Good behaviour, honesty and courtesy are probably bigger factors in golf than in any other sport… and I often wish that footballers, many of whom are also keen golfers in their spare time, could take some of golf’s good bits back to their workplace.
A lovely day today, warm and sunny – even Barton Hill managed to look nice. The golf course would have looked nicer, of course, but the green fees have to be paid somehow, so I was at work. Stephen and I actually had a very nice game last night in lovely conditions. It was the season’s first match in the club knock-outs, and, sure enough, we were knocked out, as usual. On this occasion it was by Andrew and Stewart, who played exceptionally well to demolish us, 5 and 3 (which means they were 5 holes up with 3 to play). So, several years into my golfing career, I have yet to win a competitive knock-out match. Just as well I’m not thinking of turning pro just yet, or else the family may go hungry.
And talking of the family’s hunger… having held out for many years, I’m under increasing pressure to buy a microwave cooker. I regard microwaves as the work of the devil, but people seem to think they are just marvellous – “Dad, just think, we’d be able to have microwave chips, and defrost things, like milk“. Well excuse me, but, quite apart from never feeling the need to freeze milk, let alone defrost it, my experience of things “cooked” in a microwave is that they are always disappointing and often inedible. So, over my dead body will we have a microwave. Trouble is, I think the boys would rather have a microwave than a father, so patricide could be in the offing. If I’m found floating face down in the harbour, this blog should be used in evidence against them.
On a lighter note, we have an all-”English” Champions’ League final, with Chelsea facing Man United in Moscow in a few weeks. I never thought I’d say so, but I think I want United to win, Chelsea having replaced them as the team I want most to see fail. Apparently all 45,000 English supporters going to the final will have to get Russian visas – a nice little earner for the Russians, and bound to be a bureaucratic nightmare for supporters of United and Chelsea (apart, of course, from Roman Abramovich). May I suggest that, in future, any country in “Europe” that demands money from other Europeans to cross its border should not be allowed to host such a high profile sporting event? That said, if it was Bristol City in the final instead of Chelsea, I’d be there like a shot, and I’d be tempted to use the service promoted in an email I received today, offering a variety of charter flights to Moscow for the occasion – one of them, a 10-seater “Challenger 604″ jet, would cost only £70,000 for the day. “Note that the charge is for the whole plane, not per seat, but may be subject to surcharges for de-icing“, says the small print. Take your own de-icing spray, only £1.99 at Halfords.
Anyway, back in the world of real football, City have the final game of the season on Sunday, against Preston North End. There’s still lots to play for in our league, with 5 clubs at the bottom trying to avoid relegation, and many permutations at the top as well, whereas for us it’s simply a case of whether we’ll finish 4th, 5th or 6th, which will in turn determine when we play our playoff games, and against whom. I’ve already bought our playoff tickets, and it’s very odd to spend £28 on a ticket which says “Opponents – tbc, Date – tbc, Time – tbc”.
Well, it was a grand day out. The only minor problem was the score, but, in all fairness, we didn’t deserve much better. The first half was an unbelievably inept display by City, and the second, whilst much improved, was not the stuff of champions, or even runners-up.
So that’s about it, as far as our push for automatic promotion goes. We still have a mathematical chance of finishing in the top 2, so all is not lost, but we also have a mathematical chance of finishing 8th (and therefore not even in the playoffs) – I think that most City fans, like me, would settle for somewhere in between, with a sigh of relief.
Although we didn’t have the time, or, frankly, the inclination to explore Stoke, my impression was that it’s one of those places that keeps its charms extremely well hidden. And although the natives seemed friendly enough, we were struck by how strangely miserable most of them looked after the game – when we win at Ashton Gate we go away chatting and cheerful, but maybe a downbeat appearance is part and parcel with living in Stoke, even at a moment of triumph.
Anyway, here’s a nice picture of me and my pals watching the game – don’t we look happy regardless? I think we’re celebrating one of the City players timing a pass properly… which means it must have been near the end of the game. (I’m near the bottom left, sporting the scarf and rather dapper flat cap.)
Ah well, if City’s sporting exploits at the weekend were nothing to write home about, at least the weekend started with a terrific game of golf on Friday. It ended with me sinking a putt on the final hole to halve the match for my team. In my mind it was at least 25 feet – but then these putts, like the angler’s fish, always grow somewhat in the telling. Let’s just say it was a putt that I would expect to get only once in about 25 attempts, and what was especially nice is that Stephen and Dave, our opponents, seemed almost as excited by it going in as I was.
Well, I’m glad I lit the lucky candle this time, otherwise we’d have lost again. As it was, the candle saved us a point as we scrabbled to a draw which was sadly devoid of decent chances for City. Some would say that Wolves deserved to win, and I’d agree that Basso had to make a couple of excellent saves, and that they had a good shout for a penalty near the end, but I think a draw was probably about right. Our Man of the Match was deemed to be Steve Brooker, who certainly looked determined and energetic, but it’s a rather sad reflection on our recent form that the MotM award goes to a striker who not only failed to score, but failed even to force their keeper to make a save.
We got very excited to hear that both Stoke and Hull were losing at half time, but that couldn’t last. Stoke won and Hull drew, which, combined with West Brom’s draw with Watford later in the day, banished City to a precarious third place. Frankly, if we hold on to that we’ll have done well. BUT we’re off to Stoke on Saturday, where a win for (our) City MAY put the cat among the pigeons.
Elsewhere on the sporting scene, I thoroughly enjoyed watching the Masters, but it wasn’t a classic. Trevor Immelman won it, quite easily in the end, with Tiger Woods not really firing on all cylinders, and the English challenge from Casey, Poulter and Rose amounting to not very much at all. But it is great to watch, and I love the way it comes around every year to herald the start of a glorious summer of golf.
I’ve spent the past few days playing golf in Cornwall, at Trevose, near Padstow. Having been there a couple of times before, I knew what to expect, but Trevose is one of those rare places that is consistently even more beautiful than one’s memory of it. The golf course overlooks Constantine Bay, and the cocktail of sea air, golf, and an unexpected amount of sunshine, mixed in with spectacular views and good company, is just the ticket. The course, which is hosting the English amateur championship next month, was immaculate, and the club house provided good food (and the occasional glass of beer…), served by really nice people. The whole experience just made me feel very lucky.
And talking of luck, City continue to extend their overdraft at the Luck Bank. Watford and Stoke began the week with games in hand over us, which, if won, would have pushed us down to 4th place. Watford, who only had to beat lowly Barnsley to overtake us, were convincingly beaten 3-0, and Stoke were beaten at home. So automatic promotion is still in our grasp, and the final push must begin this afternoon with a win against Wolves, who are themselves well in the frame. Yes folks, it’s another must-win 6-pointer. Not sure I can cope…
City were well beaten by QPR, 3-0. Gary Johnson, never one to beat about the bush, said “It was a very poor performance. We started off poorly and got progressively worse. We were second best and that is why we got beaten.” Just as well you can’t be worse than second in a game of football, as we’d probably have been a distant third if Nailsea Under 15s had been playing too. Adebola, our new striker, hit the post, but otherwise it seems to have been a pretty abysmal effort. Ah well, worse things happen, but a remarkable thing about our league position is that, depite still being 3rd, we have a negative goal difference of minus 1. I’m no stato, but I’d be interested to know when a club was last 3rd in the Championship having conceded more goals than they’d scored – maybe we have the dubious distinction of being the first!
While City were being thumped at QPR, England were being beaten at rugby by Wales down the road at Twickenham. I was visiting my dear old Mum, and we started watching the game when England were winning by a significant margin, I think it was 19-3. “The trouble with rugby“, said I to her, with the air of somebody who knows a lot more about the game than I do, “is that once a side gets ahead like this, the other side hasn’t got a hope of catching up, and it’s really boring.” Almost as I said this, Wales scored a penalty to start one of the most dramatic comebacks in sporting history – England didn’t score another point, and Wales stormed to a win, 26-19. Maybe sports punditry is not for me…
And so to golf, the only sport that I actually do, rather than pontificate about from the stands or the sofa. And, surprisingly enough, the sporting weekend was crowned with yet another hefty defeat. Dave and I were well beaten by Bill and Nigel, but the game was thoroughly enjoyable, and played in conditions which, whilst cold and windy, could have been a lot worse.
So, all in all, a pretty disappointing sporting weekend. I’m soon going to be the part-owner of a racing pigeon. The poor bird is doomed.
It’s been raining in Bristol for about 3 years, and people are taking to the streets to demand an end to it. It’s really not funny any more, especially as the proper rain of a few days ago has given way to an Irish type of driving drizzle. I’ve been eating, working and sleeping in waterproofs, and still I’ve been getting wet. We haven’t had daylight for weeks, just the horrible mid-winter Tupperware greyness. Like this…
But I shouldn’t grumble. It’s Saturday (again?! Where does the time go? Why does it seem to pass exponentially faster as I get older? I’m 50, but the last time I looked I was only 23!), so no work, Sainsbury’s has been done, the cupboards are full, the fire’s lit, and I’m warm and relatively dry. The only pimple on the face of the weekend is the fact that, as I write, City are losing by a scrappy goal at Crystal Palace. Still, it’s only half time, West Brom are losing too, and there’s plenty of football left. Nick Carle, our new Australian Chilean mid-fielder, is making a promising debut, so let’s hope for the best.
Golf this morning was abandoned after 10 holes because of the rain (did I mention the rain?), but was enjoyable nevertheless – and, funnily enough, we had the course almost to ourselves. Last night’s performance by the excellent Moonshot ska band was a real highlight – I always enjoy live music, especially when it’s done with such a sense of energy and fun.
Well, it was never going to be the weekend of summer weather that we might feel entitled to expect in the middle of July, but I can’t help feeling slightly aggrieved that it was so much worse than even a pessimistic forecast predicted. The rain started on the way down on Friday morning, and Stephen and I, the advance party with special responsibility for tent erection and golf, bravely battled gales and driving rain to set up camp on the already-waterlogged field.
Then off to Saunton Golf Club for our annual round on the fine links course. People say that Saunton would undoubtedly have hosted the Open by now, if it had better infrastructure around it, and I must say that every time I play there I’m more impressed by the course, the setting, and the challenge. That last bit (“the challenge”) means that I was crap, but by calling it a “challenge”, I can make out that it was the course, the weather, etc. that made me crap, but that I’m otherwise an excellent golfer. And, although neither of us played as well as we could, at least we had a good, close game which left us level on the 18th tee, from which point Stephen cruised to an elegant par to lift the trophy. Except there isn’t one.
And so back to the campsite, where Stephen’s caravan awning had reverted to kit form in the wind. We were eventually joined by the rest of the party, who had got lost on Exmoor while attempting to circumnavigate a traffic jam.
Saturday morning offered some respite from the weather after a wild, stormy night. In fact the afternoon was glorious, with a breezy sunny afternoon on the beach. We had great fun with the bodyboards, trying to catch the perfect wave, which made me realise that I don’t see the sea often enough. It really does have restorative powers for me, and I felt more alive than I had for months, what with bat and ball, cricket, and all the other childish, beachy stuff.
And then it was Saturday evening, which started with the customary hunt for a decent takeaway meal (fruitless, as usual), and culminated in Daniel, after too many sneaky beers at a neighbouring campsite, staggering into his tent at midnight and causing it to collapse. It seems that, having unzipped the outer flysheet, he forgot that he also had to unzip the inner tent before diving headlong onto his sleeping bag. Which didn’t stop him settling down for the night, in the rain, on top of the flattened tent… which was probably just as well, given that he awoke not long afterwards to throw up… which would have been most undignified if he’s been snuggled up behind 2 fiddly zips… which would probably have been impossible to undo in a hurry.
We decided to make an early getaway on Sunday morning, and after a happy hour spent filling the car with wet tents and hungover teenagers, you can imagine how thrilled I was to find one of the car tyres flat as a pancake. And of course the spare was in the boot, beneath said wet tents and everything else. But still, after an even happier hour spent emptying the boot, changing the wheel, and refilling the car, we were able to slip and slide our way out of the campsite to start a very quiet drive home.
A bit of an “up and down” kind of weekend, really…
Well, we lost our match, but only on the final putt on the 18th green, so it could hardly have been closer. The opponents were a much-fancied pairing, each of whom have won the competition in the past, so for us to have beaten them would have been a surprise – but we would have done so if I’d putted half as well as I had the evening before. It was a great golf, played in just the right spirit, so plenty to be cheerful about!
While Roger Federer was on his way to winning Wimbledon for the 5th successive time, Lewis Hamilton was climbing onto the Formula One podium for the 9th time, albeit in “only” 3rd place. If he ever fails to finish in the top 3, he won’t know where he’s supposed to go when the race is over – “Errr Lewis, you actually have to go and sit over there this time”. And a plucky Brit, Jamie Murray (who actually calls himself Scottish, rather than British, but we won’t let that stop us claiming the victory, will we?), became the first to win a title at Wimbers for the first time in 20 years. His mind was clearly more on getting into Jankovic’s knickers than on the tennis itself – maybe that’s the secret of sporting success, to think about something else to take your mind off the task in hand. I wonder what Hamilton thinks about while he’s hurtling around Silverstone at 200 mph?
Closer to home, Daniel’s cricket team cruised to victory in a local six-a-side tournament, thrashing the posh boys of Stoke Bishop in the final. It was a really exciting format – 5 overs per side, with a different bowler for each over, and lots of slogging the ball through the gaping holes between the few fielders. It was the perfect game for Dan, and, opening the batting in the final, he scored 26 runs off 8 balls, smashing a six to win the game. He was so thrilled with the trophy that he won.
And in the evening, I played my best ever round of golf, in glorious conditions. It really is such a strange game. People talk about “the zone”, i.e. the mental and physical state in which it all feels so easy, and last night was one of those times when I just knew that drives were going to be straight, wedge shots would find the green, and putts would drop. I’d better not say what I was thinking about… And tonight I’m playing a match, i.e. a game that “matters”, and it’ll probably all go horribly wrong.
Spent a happy few hours at the weekend rigging up a system of gutters and pipes to feed the new water butt. I love fiddling about with water, and thought I’d timed it perfectly for the steady rain that they predicted for yesterday. But, unfortunately for water collectors in BS3, the rain never came. And we now seem to have entered a spell of warm dry weather, which is great for golf, but not so good for harvesting rainwater.
And talking of golf, the treasurer at my club has been caught cheating. His playing partner (not his opponent) spotted him kicking his ball out of the rough. They won the match, but after 2 days of agonising about it, the partner phoned their opponents to concede the match, then reported the misdemeanour to the club. The perpetrator has now been relieved of his responsibilities as club treasurer, and has been asked to resign his membership. All of which makes me glad to be associated with a sport that places such high value on the integrity and honesty of its participants. Trouble is, I’m also associated with football…
Not quite the dream sporting weekend that it might have been, but pretty good nevertheless. City, having gone behind to Carlisle after 5 minutes, ended up winning 3-1, so Johnson must have given them one of his “hand grenade” bollockings at half time. Forest also won, though, so promotion will have to wait for another day – one more win from the remaining 2 fixtures will do it!
My first golfing victory will also have to wait. It was close, and I recovered from 3 down after 6 holes to take it to the 18th, but sadly it wasn’t to be. A lost ball off the final tee put paid to that. But an enjoyable round nevertheless, with a nice birdie on the 6th, and probably under par overall.
There’s a real buzz around Southville about the forthcoming Arts Trail, and the Stackpool Road installation, “A Car Boot Tale”, is taking shape. It’s really nice when neighbours get together to do something fun and a bit creative. It’s just a shame that there’s so much friction at other times, usually about parking (yawn…).
Never my favourite part of the week, Monday morning was even less enjoyable today. I got to work to find my office door in pieces, and an assortment of laptop PCs and iBooks missing. 5 grand’s worth of kit, which will probably be sold for a couple of hundred. Still, worse things happen…
Ah, that FNF (Friday Night Feeling)… and this could be a huge weekend in sport.
- On Saturday, City could beat Carlisle, while Forest and Blackpool lose, leaving City promoted with 2 games to spare.
- On Sunday, I could win my first ever golf match. (It’s not my first ever match, you understand - far from it – but it would be my first ever win…).
WATCH THIS SPACE!
Once City had struggled to an Easter Saturday draw, we de-camped to North Wales for a week at the Brynteg Holiday Park, near Llanberis. And very nice it was too. The weather was good – in fact significantly better than in Tunisia, Marseilles or Mallorca, where some friends went, only to find leaden skies, wind and rain, returning rather disgruntled.
One highlight of the week was an unplanned ascent of Snowdon, a first for me. We had intended to have a short walk part of the way up the mountain, turning back in time to share a cup of morning coffee with the in-laws back at base camp. What we hadn’t intended to do was set off up the path to Crib Goch, which is a surprisingly steep climb to a sharp ridge. There was no going back once we’d committed to it, but it was a beautiful day and we ended up having a lovely walk/climb/scramble to the summit. The extent of our provisions was a can of Diet Coke, which we saved until we were at the top – Coke never tasted better.
The view from the top of Snowdon. The Crib Goch ridge is on the left.
I’ve decided to collect “firsts” as part of my 50th birthday year, and another first last week was beating my mother-in-law at Scrabble, which, in the league of social gaffes, ranks alongside beating one’s boss at golf. But then I’ve done that as well, and I’m still in work. I’m not very good at Scrabble, and get easily bored by it, but I had a good run of high-scoring letters to give me the edge. I was also given access to a list of allowed 2-letter words, most of which are not real words at all, but have somehow found their way into a dictionary, thereby enabling you to put tiles down in all sorts of stupid places.
The Easter weekend also saw the Masters, held at Augusta National, Georgia, which must surely be the most beautiful golf course in the world. I used to enjoy the Masters long before I ever played golf, and still love it. The golf was disappointing, with none of the players finishing below par – Tiger Woods failed to win, which is also unusual these days, and the winner was the very bland Zack Johnson, who thanked Jesus Christ for helping him to win. Unusual name for a caddy, but nice of Zack to credit him.
Well, a lovely weekend, weather-wise, and in many other repects too. An early game of golf on Saturday in excellent conditions to celebrate Stephen’s decision not to resign his membership after all, the highlight of which was finally realising that I can use a driver without everything going pear-shaped. We also both managed birdies on the difficult par-5 5th (remarkable to spot one birdie there, let alone a matching pair), and ended up halving the match, with the draw feeling like a fair result. I must say, I was feeling increasingly excited and anxious during the game, not because of the golf, but because of the prospect of…
…City vs. Nottingham Forest in the afternoon, truly THE Big One. A packed house (over 19,200), sunshine, Cherry Drops – what more could a boy ask for? The game itself was great to watch, with plenty of chances, and some good, flowing football from City. A couple of goals too. Sadly only one was scored by City – Forest scored after 5 minutes to quieten the home crowd, but the equaliser half an hour later was greeted with more than the normal level of noise and delight. We really should have scored a winner, but at least the draw keeps Forest 4 points behind, with just 6 games to play. Scunthorpe (in first place) won, so it’s looking good for them.
So, like my dear late Great Aunt Gladys, Saturday boasted a fine pair of draws. (OK, works better when you say it, but it keeps me entertained.) Things were also pretty even at the Millenium Stadium on Sunday, where Bristol Rovers met Doncaster Rovers in the final of the Johnston’s Paint Trophy. All square after nearly 2 hours of play, Doncaster scored the winner with 10 minutes of extra time left. As a City supporter, I’m supposed to be overjoyed at Rovers’ defeat, but I’d quite like them to have won, if only for the sake of the few friends I have who support them.
The best football chant of the week, reported on the radio, was from Barnet fans, who amused themselves and the visiting supporters from Dover Town by singing “You’re French, and you know you are”.
And one of the mysteries of life at the moment – why does my watch stop for 30 minutes whenever I play golf?
