Anyone who has ever done any investing will almost certainly have got it wrong at some point. I doubt though, if many have made such a bad decision as Ronald Wayne did in 1976. That was the year of the glorious summer, when Britain baked for three months without a drop of rain. Ronald proved to be a rather less able sharpshooter than his illustrious namesake John. In case the name rings no bells, Ronald was the third partner in a new start-up in April of that year called the Apple Computer Company. Two friends, Steve Wozniak and Steve Jobs founded the company along with Mr Wayne, who had a ten per cent share. He elected to sell his stake a mere twelve days into the nascent operation for a few hundred dollars. He should just have retreated to a remote desert island for a decade of two, drunk coconut milk and learnt to whittle silhouettes of partly eaten apples that could have decorated the entrance to company HQ in years to come. Had he done so, his stake in Apple would now be worth in the region of $100bn. I wonder how often he thinks about that!

I have been attempting all sorts of ruses to make a fast buck for years, largely without success, although there have been a few glorious moments. Probably the most exciting, but ultimately frustrating was during the last US Presidential election. A financial newsletter I subscribed to was convinced that Trump would win and advised it’s readers to short the Mexican Peso against the US Dollar, based on The Donald’s plans to exclude Mexicans from US Territory with the aid of a Great Wall that Hadrian and many a Chinese emperor would be jealous of. I was in South Africa on the night of the election and set my alarm for 5am with a view to doing some profitable trading. I had been spreadbetting on the Dow Jones Index for awhile and so focussed my attention on the Dow, the pound/dollar exchange rate and the FTSE Index. I had two screens going and so much was happening at that stage I needed more screens and more hands. It was rapidly becoming apparent that Trump was going to do it and the Futures markets were going mental. You could literally sit there and watch your account going up by thousands of pounds every second. After a couple of hours I was up £160,000, but instead of resting on my laurels (I was aiming to make £300,000 and clear my overdraft in one go!), I kept betting and gradually saw my profit diminish as things went horribly wrong. A couple of weeks later, I remembered about the Peso. It’s quite an obscure currency exchange and not an easy one to find on the platform I use. Stupidly……I hadn’t sussed it out before the event and at 5 in the morning I was too dosey and things were just happening too fast to find it. When I looked back on it, I realised that the Peso had dropped over 20,000 points against the dollar in a matter of a couple of hours . Typically, I was betting about £10 a point then, although I might have started a bit lower. I would undoubtedly have upped the ante as it became apparent what was happening. I could potentially have made at least £500,000 that night and with luck it might have been double that. I probably think about that as often as Ronald Wayne recalls his “Sell” order on that fateful day in April 1976.

There’s a very good chance that there will be similar opportunities in the next Presidential election in November, assuming that Joe Biden hasn’t been whisked off to a sanatorium and Trump hasn’t found himself on the wrong end of an assassin’s bullet. With the completely bonkers state of American politics, not to mention wider society, it’s amazing that somebody hasn’t at least tried it already. For the record, I wish neither man any ill will, there are enough people in America fulfilling that role.

Meanwhile the markets continue to baffle and bemuse. How long will it be before the massively inflated tech bubble finally bursts? The result of that Presidential election could have a huge impact….especially if it’s President Biden in the White House.

As John Wayne might have said. “thess Injuns in them thar hills”.

My 147th blog; it’s a maximum! For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of snooker, a maximum break is 147, when you clear the table in one go by potting all fifteen reds, each followed by the black and then all the colours. It somehow seems more than a coincidence that I have been talking today with a friend about colours that you see in your mind’s eye, the colours of the chakras. To some this will sound complete gobbledegook, but through various yoga trainers and others experienced in the mystic arts I have become increasingly aware of this intriguing area of the universe and now “see” an array of colours quite frequently whilst meditating and during yoga sessions.

We have seven chakras that start just above your groin with the Root Chakra, whose colour is Red, rising up to the Sacral Chakra, just below your navel, which is represented by Orange, then there’s the Yellow Solar Plexus Chakra, the Green Heart Chakra, the Blue Throat Chakra, the Indigo Third Eye Chakra and the Violet Crown Chakra. Most of those are represented on the snooker table. I have yet to unearth the significance of that! One that’s missing is orange, which is a fantastic colour, although it is composed in equal parts of red and yellow, both of which are on the green baize. To quote from chakra-anatomy.com (well worth a look if you’re interested)……

“Buddhists call this “hara”, the centre of being through which we connect with the deepest voice of the self, the deepest stillness and wisdom. This is where we find bliss. Orange energy is very sensual. Living a life guided by orange color transforms even the most mundane daily experiences into pleasurable experiences. That is not to say that orange is purely hedonistic. Orange is also associated with the gentle and positive nurturing of ourselves which moves us on our path of growth and development.”

I see a lot of orange, which is very exciting, as well as great washes of green representing the Heart Chakra. “Green is the colour of growth, life, and balance. Through balance you find this centre from which you can love, form healthy and nourishing relationships, and give and receive love.”

I used to play a lot of snooker when I was in the Royal Air Force as every Officers’ Mess had a table. Having not played for ages, I shall approach my next game with greater insight!

On a totally unrelated subject, an unexpected conversation yesterday with a stranger led to an interesting philosophical question. “Can men and women be platonic friends”? Between couples I’m sure they can be, but one on one? I have managed to stay friends with quite a lot of ex-girlfriends but there was always love involved first, or at least a strong physical attraction. I have thought about this quite a lot and I’m not sure I really know the answer. There are plenty of instances where one partner has had to compromise because their love (or lust!) is unrequited and remaining friends is important enough to overcome that, but friendship in the way two men or two women are friends? I think it probably is possible but quite rare.

Probably even rarer than a maximum.

Watching the 10’clock news on BBC TV this year has been an illuminating experience. In particular watching all the reports from America; Donald Trump as President and Leader of the Free World making yet another egregious and ignorant comment. White policemen murdering an unarmed black man. Horrific wildfires engulfing vast tracts of Oregon and California, destroying property and people. Donald Trump pontificating. White policemen shooting a handcuffed black man in the back, multiple times. Donald Trump. All truly shocking events. But without doubt the most disturbing, even terringfying report was from Louisville last week where armed Militia were openly parading on the streets in protest at the Black Lives Matter demonstrations. These militia were not like Dad’s Army; farmers and others with straw in their hair, wielding pichforks and shotguns. These were scary rednecks in full military camouflage kit, with helmets, night vision devices and radios, dripping with an array of arms, including automatic high velocity rifles. You could argue that such things are essential for shopping in Walmart, but on the whole I am inclined to think not. Not far away another group of black “soldiers”, similarly attired and armed were drilling in an overt display of disciplined hostility. Talk about a powder keg waiting for the blue touch paper to be lit. The police, probably wisely, were maintaining a distance more than socially necessary. These are legal groups, exercising their legal right to bear arms. Perhaps the scariest thing of all is that an awful lot of Americans think this is totally acceptable and part of their inalienable rights. To me it appears like a deranged society primed for meltdown. Apparently throughout history most empires have lasted for about one hundred years. The US of A’s might be lucky to last that long.

A former colleague of mine now lives in Deer Valley in Utah. He is a huge Trump fan, believing that America is a much better place thanks to The Donald. He has more weapons in his house than he can recall. He never answers the door without a gun in his hand, he always has a pistol in the car and his wife carries one in her handbag. He wouldn’t think of leaving the house without a weapon of some description. He thinks this is perfectly normal. He is an intelligent man.

Looking out on my attractive garden, many flowers still in bloom and the grass begging to be mown as the unseasonably hot sun beats down from a cloudless sky, all seems tranquil and happy. But bubbling beneath the surface Covid is playing havoc with learning as more and more sniffles cause frenzies of coronaitis, and in the wider world pessimism is seemingly rapidly replacing optimism.

How can this be when we have the eternally positive Winston Bojo at the helm? Perhaps substance really is more important than image…..

The Rule of 6. The Spanish Inquisition? A docudrama on the Chinese Communist Party? No, it’s Bojo’s latest catchy one-liner to encapsulate all the Covid restrictions and make it easier for the great unwashed to understand what we can and can’t do. Previously only two households could get together under one roof. Now six individuals from six different families can party their little heads off, thereby quadrupling the chances of cross infection. I am neither a mathematician nor a statistician (thank God), so my arithmetic might be a little out but the principle is correct. Of course that’s only if you are in England. In Wales, where previously you didn’t have to wear a face mask, unlike the rest of the Disunited Kingdom, you do now have to don the burka on Monday, Wednesday and Friday if you live in an odd numbered house and on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday if your accommodation boasts an even number. This will now be legally enforceable and fines will be dished out; but not by the Covid Stewards who are being recruited to police this, because they won’t have any status in law. Also, if you have a legitimate health issue that makes wearing a mask uncomfortable, you don’t have to. But who knows whether you are an asthmatic or a back-slider? If you live in Scotland, the Rule of 6 doesn’t apply because whatever Nicola Sturgeon says goes. Unless you are one of the twenty thousand people who live on the Shetland Islands and are pushing for independence from Scotland. You will probably do exactly as you please. As the Islands are closer to Norway than Scotland you’re probably better off being Norwegian anyway.

This chaotic situation has hit our shores this week, with daughter Tiggy going down with a really nasty sniffle, that at one point saw her temperature soar to 37 degrees. This life threatening condition raised all sorts of alarm bells and she has been forced into isolation until the results of her test are known. The rest of her year group bubble are also in isolation. It’s quite right and proper that the school takes these precautions, but this is only the second case since schools returned. What happens when all the seasonal cold bugs and flu hit? “Testing” is the answer proclaim BoJo and Matt Hancockup. Great, only when I tried to organise a test (either at home or in the Outer Hebrides) there were none available. “Please try later”. One person on the radio this morning had tried sixty times and counting. Under the Rule of 2 (Bojo and DomCum) Schools are apparently a priority and so they should be. But unless this changes quickly and dramatically our places of learning are going to end up as steaming piles of horse manure. Please forgive the vernacular but the incompetency of Captain Cockup and Field Marshal Lord Johnson of BoJo Land causes one’s blood to boil; or at least get pretty hot.

I must apologise to my loyal reader for the dearth of written material this week. I could offer all sorts of excuses but the truth is I’ve been distracted writing my first novel, The Drifter. It’s a toss up whether or not this gets completed before the Grim Reaper calls…..whenever that may be. I was also away for a couple of days staying with old friends, one of whom is a ham radio operator, amongst many other varied and unusual talents. It was intriguing to see someone still using morse code. He can write and receive at thirty five words per minute which strikes me as being quite impressive. Personally I get my dots and dashes in a terrible muddle. We did, however, record a short podcast with the potential for commercial gain.

One other family thrill to report this week. Son Oliver, who used to be an exceptional swimmer but nowadays can’t be bothered, was forced into the pool to compete in the Inter House competition. Wearing rugby shorts (why?), he won his two races of backstroke and breaststroke, against some boys who compete and train regularly. Cudos for him you would think, but not enough to encourage a return to the pool. Video games won’t wait!

We call our old Citroen Picassa ‘The Tardis’, because it’s much roomier inside than it appears from the outside. Sadly it doesn’t facilitate time travel and I’ve yet to meet Dr Who. If you had the chance, would you go forward or backwards in time? I think I’ve unearthed the way to go backwards. We adhere to the Gregorian calendar in the West but by the simple ruse of changing to the Julian calendar, (not mine but the one introduced by Julius Caesar) it’s suddenly thirteen days earlier. Today would therefore be 22nd August. All those horrible mistakes I made at the end of August could be easily rectified. I can’t see a flaw in my argument?

A friend recently sent me a long list of how phrases came to be. For instance “mind your P’s and Q’s” originates from the Middle Ages when pub landlords would shout at unruly customers “mind your pints and quarts and settle down”. (Perhaps they shouldn’t have been serving quarts!). The same author suggests that Golf, until quite recently a very male dominated sport, stood for “Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden”. After thirty years involvement in professional golf, I never knew that!

Golf, like so many sports, has really suffered under Covid. The European Tour is in trouble. Five years ago big changes in personnel were made under the new Canadian Chief Executive, Keith Pelley. A number of old stalwarts were given their cards and over seventy new recruits were added to the payroll, dramatically increasing the Tour’s outgoings. At the time the finances were pretty healthy. Former Ryder Cup player and later a Director on the Tour Board, Ken Brown had long urged the Tour to hold more in reserve for a rainy day, which they had achieved. Under Pelley, the reserves were rapidly spent, despite a handsome sponsorship deal with Rolex, a contract he regularly claimed to be a “game changer”. Pelley had a background in broadcast media and so he made significant changes to bring the TV coverage under the aegis of The Tour, rather than being run by IMG. He appointed a fellow Canadian, Stu Nichol, who’d been involved with PGA Tour Productions in America, as the Director of Television, with instructions to enliven the coverage. Americans firmly believe that their coverage of sport is the unrivalled best. Most people around the world disagree. Changes have been made, some undoubtedly for the better, but the lingering feeling is of an organisation that is intent on propaganda and one that will brook no criticism. Please remember that when you are watching golf on television.

I openly admit I have an axe to grind, in that Stu Nichol reneged on a verbal agreement that would have reduced but not terminated my employment. That was before Covid struck. At least I was given a few months notice, but it was still pretty ruthless after nearly thirty years with the Tour and compensation was there none. But the latest axe to fall takes ruthless to a new level. Scotsman Dougie Donnelly has been the main commentator and presenter for European Tour Productions for many years and previously presented golf on BBC TV. His agreement with the tour was for fifteen tournaments this year and ten next, after which he would probably retire gracefully. He’s currently working at Valderrama in Spain and will be in Portugal next week. He was told by Mr Nichol ten days ago, in a Zoom call, that Portugal would be his last tournament. That’s it. Done. You’re out. Apparently Covid has changed everything! Many of the recent recruits at the Wentworth Headquarters are also being shown their cards. The rainy day that Ken Brown was worried about has arrived and there’s a big hole in the roof. Unhappy days indeed. Of course you won’t hear any of this from the propaganda machine.

According to The Times, this date would appear to be a popular one for sportsmen and women. Amongst the great and good listed, are Tina Cook (Olympic three day event silver medallist), Serge Blanco (the best French full back of all time), Padraig Harrington (three time Major winner and Ryder Cup Captain), Sir Clive Lloyd (brilliant captain of a daunting West Indies team), Edwin Moses (400m hurdles Olympic gold medallist, twice, and world record holder…..one of the all time greats), Dwayne Peel (ten years a Welsh rugby international) Chris Rogers (Australian cricket international for seven years) and …….”Amanda Anisimova, tennis player, World No 28, 19″. Why on earth does The Thunderer elevate a little known American teenager, who has yet to achieve anything, to the ‘Birthdays today’ column alongside such sporting luminaries; not to mention the likes of Queen Raina of Jordan, Dame Liz Forgan, Martin Bell, The Archbishop of York and Richard Gere, to name but a few? Would it be revoltingly sexist and ungallant of me to suggest that it’s because they think she might be the next Anna Kournikova? Having consulted Google, she does appear to have all the necessary physical attributes……

A few months ago, Bojo and The Scientists declared a national shutdown. Unless you are an essential worker, stay home. Apart from bankrupting the Country and seriously harming the minds and bodies of the Nation’s youth, this had one unexpected side-effect. Quite a lot of people have realised that working from home isn’t all bad. However, Bojo and the Yes Men (previously known as The Cabinet) now want everyone back into their offices to save all those poor businesses in the cities that are being destroyed for lack of customers, What delicious irony! Thanks to modern technology, the Non-Essentials rather enjoy not spending anything between two and four hours a day packed like sardines on heaving commuter trains, or joining the motor infestation on our creaking highways, fighting through the masses of heaving humanity, only to sit behind a desk in an unhealthy office, when they can do pretty much the same work in calm relaxation at home, face masks not required. There must be great sympathy for the Pret à Mangers of this world, but maybe this signals a sea-change in the way we live and work?

Another impact of Covid is that angling is making quite a comeback. For long it’s been the leading participation sport in Britain, but cycling has been creeping up on the blind side. Apparently though, split canes and reels have been flying off the shelves along with flies and maggots as, particularly the younger generation, take to the river banks. There are very few sports that I haven’t tried at some point in my life. My first experience of fishing was as a nine year old when a Prep School friend took me home for the weekend. His father was a keen angler and I vividly remember standing on Lowestoft harbour wall, seemingly miles above the water, trying to cast for the first time with an enormous rod and a reel that I didn’t understand. Picture the scene; small, nervous boy dwarfed by a massive rod, launching a heavy leaded hook and bait far into the raging waters. The result was inevitable. Looking like a fly, well and truly encased in a spider’s web all attempts at rescuing the tangled line proved futile. As I recall, a knife and waste bin were required….and a large handkerchief for distressed child. I can count the number of times I have fished since on the fingers of one hand and I vividly remember each occasion. When it comes to mind-numbing tedium, it’s probably only exceeded by the golf club bore reliving his round, shot by shot. I am talking riverbank fishing here, I do understand that fly-fishing for salmon in a Highland stream or fighting marlin in the Caribbean probably do have their attractions.

Strangely, I didn’t notice any world renowned anglers celebrating their birthday today.

 

After a series of tests over the last few weeks, including neck, hand and hip xrays, a back MRI and a colonoscopy, the consultant rheumatologist reckons I have Chronic Pain Syndrome……or Fybromyalgia, or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or some other “algia”. In other words it’s one of those medical mysteries that falls into no known bracket so we give it a fancy title and discharge the patient to a life of painkillers and increasing misery. Hopefully that won’t be my fate. I am banking on The London Clinic of Nutrition to come to my expensive rescue. Having provided a stool sample six weeks ago, which has been off to labs in Germany for dissection and analysis, I now have an incredibly complete report of what’s wrong with my gut. Scientists are only gradually realising the importance of our microbiome or “second brain” as they increasingly consider it. An unhealthy, inflamed gut can lead to all sorts of surprisingly mal effects, including a number of auto-immune diseases. Balance the healthy bacteria and microbes and the results can be miraculous; apparently. I now have six weeks of taking a cocktail of natural pills and potions for four days in seven to get rid of some bad stuff, followed by an alternative regime for the other three to make sure it’s not damaging the good stuff. I’ll let you know!

All the experts I have talked to agree that stress is a major influence in disease and ill-health. Quality sleep, meditation and other relaxation techniques help but I fancy the best tonic would be six months isolated on a tropical island with copious supplies of cocktails, coffee, chocolate and scantily clad maidens whose sole purpose is to ensure your happiness. Oops, not very PC.

Have you spotted the story that scientists at Porton Down (the MOD biological and chemical research centre) have discovered that a chemical in a routine mosquito spray kills the coronavirus? I saw it in yesterday’s Daily Express but haven’t seen it anywhere else. Is it fake news? If not why isn’t it being hailed from the rooftops? It sounds a bit like the old solution to Scottish midges, where, almost by accident they discovered that Avon body lotion rendered human flesh extremely undesirable and sent the nasty little nibblers into a frantic frenzy of confusion. But if you are one of those unlucky people (I am) for whom mozzies and midges consider you lunch, tea and supper the best solution is to emigrate to Iceland.

So that’s it; six months in Iceland, six months on a remote South Sea island. The future is bright.

What are we doing?! Items of PPE, plastic masks, gloves and gowns are being found littering the countryside and perhaps worse, washing up on our shores. Initially there was a critical shortage of PPE to protect our crucial health workers. Now we seem to have plenty and the soiled and potentially contaminated used articles are being carelessly disposed off. On two fronts this defies comprehension. Firstly, the coronavirus can reportedly survive for up to seventy two hours on plastic and rubber; handle such detritus at your peril. Secondly, with all the news about the incredibly planet-harming effects of discarded plastic, how can we be so utterly stupid, ignorant, inconsiderate, and thoughtless to behave in this way?

Bojo and the Johnsonettes are now exhorting us all to send our children back to school for the sake of their mental and physical health and their future well-being. I am not saying this with the benefit of hindsight because I made this point at the time, but why on earth did we close the schools in the first place? Sweden didn’t and it appears their policy is now looking to have been very effective. As a father of young teenagers I need no persuading. These past few months have been a disaster for our children and seemingly most of their friends and fellow students too. At the risk of beating a tired drum, I can’t help thinking that our so called leaders have made a right horlicks of all this, but ultimately it’s not them who will pay the price, but our aforementioned offspring.

Britain did rule the waves when this was a land of hope and glory but it seems any patriotic celebration of our great and celebrated history is now deemed inappropriate by the BBC or Big Brother Corporation, who orchestrate the Promenade Concerts and specifically The Last Night. If a tap keeps dripping, it will eventually wear away even the hardest stone. Political Correctness and all its cousins are now so ingrained in our society I really do fear where we will be in ten or twenty years time. A Labour Councillor was talking on the radio today about how people in Birmingham are not obeying the Covid rules and he’s hopeful that the Government will now make the guidelines enforceable by the Police and Council officers. Without an Act of Parliament? Since when? Does Boris suddenly have Presidential powers to make Executive Orders? Slippery slopes indeed.

It is with much relief that I can report that the recent invasion of my innards by colonoscope has revealed nothing untoward. If you are unfamiliar with the technology, it involves inserting a six foot long flexible pipe the thickness of my forefinger through your anus and all the way along the twisting colon. A camera on the end allows the operative to take a detailed look and grab the odd biopsy for later analysis, while the victim can watch the same tv screen and admire the normally sewer-like passage that has been washed clean by an extremely strong intake of laxatives over the preceding twenty four hours. It’s actually quite riveting and for the most part painless. Every now and then, mainly when they injected air in to inflate the passageway, there was a sharp pain which generally only lasts a few seconds. To assist with the pain relief they give you a pipe to hold, which when placed in your mouth and sucked upon gives you a pleasing flow of “gas and air”, a mixture of oxygen and nitrous oxide gas that makes you light-headed and rather less aware of your surroundings. In fact I suspect it’s like a mild dose of LSD; I was almost hallucinating after a few puffs and couldn’t wait for more!

Alison was quite close to producing our second child when the painometer was rising into the red and she tried the gas and air route. Claiming it was doing nothing, I had a few sucks too and it did nothing for me. Having now experienced what it should be like I can only think that the Royal United Hospital Bath’s supply of Entonox had been exhausted by the previous mother. Alison resorted to something stronger!

I’ve been watching a lot of cricket recently, both Test Match and junior and there’s been a recurring theme in both. Ticker. Heart. Guts. Balls. Call it whatever you like, it basically means do you have the mental and physical courage to stand in the firing line, take the blows when necessary and come out on top? In cricket it’s generally to do with fast bowling. Very few people genuinely like facing very fast bowlers at any level, especially on a bouncy pitch when the ball is doing a bit, but that’s when the ticker comes in. Courage and fearlessness are two very different things. The player who is fearful but still stands there and takes it, is truly brave and greatly deserving of one’s admiration. I watched a fifteen year old this week who is not a great athlete or cricketer, but just loves the game and loves to be deeply involved; a real enthusiast. To reward that he was sent in to bat at Number 5, much higher than his skill merited. He was facing a quick left arm bowler on a “sticky dog” of a wicket; one that’s still damp, where the ball sticks in the pitch, slows quickly but bounces quite high. It’s really hard to time the ball well and there’s a good chance you’re going to “wear” the odd ball as cricketers say. My young friend stood there without flinching, made a few runs and survived for far longer than anyone thought he would. He was roundly applauded when he came in and his smiling face was a heart-warming picture. When congratulated he said “thanks, I didn’t expect to do that”! His team was soundly thrashed but what a memorable little cameo for him and them.

Sometimes one’s ticker and anus can be very closely associated!

I listened to Woman’s Hour on BBC Radio 4 today. Isn’t that an anachronism; not listening but the fact of the programme? Come on Man, stand up and demand our equal rights. I say “Man” because the programme title is “Woman’s Hour”. Who is the woman? Was it originally devised for Lady McMillan, or The First Lady; The Queen perhaps? Maybe it’s the Common Woman, rather like the Unknown Soldier. A mythical creature to represent everyone of the feminine gender. But then why wouldn’t it be “Women’s Hour”? I only pose the questions, with no pretence of providing answers. But I do wonder when someone in the BBC hierarchy will question why it still exists. That said, I think it’s an excellent programme which will be the worse for the imminent retirement of it’s very longstanding host Jenni Murray. She is an outstanding broadcaster who combines gravitas with a lightness of touch that not many achieve.

On a totally unrelated subject, I was staggered and disappointed to discover that Royal Eastbourne Golf Club still clings on to the old dress code that typified stuffy middle class clubs of thirty and forty years ago and more. It’s crucial that standards are maintained to a certain degree but when it comes to turning Juniors away because they’re wearing sports rather than tailored shorts, there would seem to be a danger of strangling the future life blood of the Club. I remember being treated like a complete urchin (I probably was) as a Junior at my Tennis Club in Hertfordshire, where under 18’s were the bottom of the food chain and could only play when everyone else had either expired or retired to the bar. I really thought we were a bit more enlightened now but it seems there is still room for progress. Alison (my wife, a former County player and one handicapper) and I played at Royal on Sunday, going out behind the Ladies Club Championship cohort. Alison has horror stories about how the women were treated at her old club in Bath, but it was disappointing to see that the Ladies Tees hadn’t even been mown; for the Club Championship. On one occasion at Bath Golf Club, Alison was about to drive off on the 1st tee when a ball went whistling past her from the Men’s tee. When questioned, the offending male merely said “We have priority” and marched off to find his errant ball that had disappeared into the wayward rough. Unbelievable, but true.

Perhaps there is still a need for Woman’s Hour.

My offering is shorter than usual today because I have started my pre-med programme for a colonoscopy tomorrow, which requires that nothing untoward is loitering in the colons or bowel. This means considerably more time than usual is spent admiring the back of the loo door.