Sorry, but I’ve finally had it with the nonsense being espoused by Mr Make America Great Again.

He said he initially found as credible, the ridiculous statement released by the Saudi authorities regarding the disappearance of Jamal Khashoggi? (and oh yes it appears now that Mr Khashoggi is indeed dead after all. Just a small point, but thanks for letting us know, especially of course his fiancee, who had been waiting outside rather a long time)

But what Donald? Anyone with half a brain cell could see what they were initially saying was not credible. And you inanely say ‘Yes’.  If this was anywhere near credible then it would make the Russian story of two bruisers having a cathedral time in Salisbury look half reasonable. But no, it’s all thinly veiled, drastically poor and desperate cover up stuff. Like the Macy window sill facade that is you.

But this sort of atrocity has got to be addressed and immediately. You stupid half-souled, pigeon livered oaf.

We all know that the only reason that you find their story credible is that they are investing 461 billion into American ‘things’. Yes your words. And of course I am wondering just how much is being invested in Donald’s things? That’s what’s credible here and the only thing that is credible here.

This amoral muppet show across the pond has got to end. And soon.

Our Brexit bash is bad enough. Poor Theresa. She was thrown one of the biggest hospital passes in the history of UK politics. I expect it will have to end now by going back to the country and making a great mockery of the constitutional political process into the bargain. But it would be most British that way and I suppose a whole lot better than having a rotten imbecile like Donald calling the shots.

My golf is erratic as ever I’m afraid. I drove the par 4 twelfth on the Old for the third time in a row in the final medal of the year, but again failed to hit the 18th green from 50 yards (for the third time in a row), this time hitting a tremendous thin through the back. I guess I’m not a gallery player.

Had a wee punt on Man Utd as they were 18 to 5 against Chelsea which was just a ridiculous price. However, on hearing they were 2-1 up with ten minutes to go, when I was on the 11th tee of the Old, I wished I’d taken my phone out on the course, to lay the bet. And of course sods bloody law the Blues score in the 7th minute of extra time. That’s kind of been the gambling story of my summer I’m afraid.

My caddying ended on Saturday with a no show and on a sour note.

The guys had paid their green fees but decided not to turn up. I asked the boss if I would be able to get a nominal fee from the Fairmont for my spoiled trip and day. (I was supposed to go to Edinburgh on Friday). He looked pained and said that the clients hadn’t paid anything up front for the caddies. I accepted this but intimated that a fair gesture may be to contra a bit from the green fees paid (over £200) to the soul caddie who had pitched up. He looked shaken and said that money had been separately paid for the green fees. I said yes true but they didn’t play? And maybe giving the caddie who did turn up twenty quid would be right and proper.

But no.

It appears that all caddying authorities stink around here then. The St Andrews Links Trust extort a fiver each day, from every caddie, to fund the ‘administration’ of their caddie program (as if the huge green fee income isn’t enough, but I suppose the top bods have their bonus’s to consider. It is a charity after all)

And they acted like a pathetic and ugly totalitarian dictatorship in requesting to see all my writing before I sent it for publication.

What a bloody cheek and affront to my liberty as a writer. It’s Scotland not Saudi Arabia, boys.

Hang caddying.

 

A Churchill one of course, not the Rotten Tomato actor chappy.

I came to this conclusion after hearing his bravado Brexit bashing, save the nation speech, from the back benches yesterday. He’s done all the heroic stance bit thing of resigning from the Cabinet and slumming it out in the wings of the House, which I expect is the nearest he’ll ever get to trench warfare as our man from Woodstock did.

Next, he’ll be swanning off to Marrakesh with palette, cravat and brushes. Fobbing us off with some artistic and latent sensibility pretenses. God, I can even see that fat cigar looming.

Sorry, but I’m not a Boris fan man. His remarkable verbal laxity as Foreign Secretary made him about as politic a choice for PM as putting Mr Trump on the UN Security Council. It would just be absurd and calamitous, probably endangering world peace, either by a backfiring Boris prank or by Donald failing to get on the right side of a double negative instruction with his veto. However, I do still believe our deluded man thinks he’s up for the job and this is worrying. Indeed with respect to both men.

In terms of moral fibre, if Sir Winston Spencer- Churchill was say Bran Flakes then these guys are surely Sugar Puffs.

On an entirely different note, I see they are well into building the new Music School in St Andrews, which will lie adjacent to the Bute Medical building. Now I do hope they will name it the Thea Musgrave building because she is Scottish and sounds quite a great and grand dame ( I heard her on Desert Island discs last week). Now the point of naming it after her, albeit she’s a major composer, is that she was once a medical student. However a lapsed one, as her love of music overcame her desire to dissect frogs (her words). She would spend most of her time in the Music School which was also next door to her medical school (Edinburgh I think?).

Now on a complete tangent altogether. I had an uncanny and interesting time last week and the main theme seemed to be a French one (not frogs)

On Monday I was walking back from town and I spotted this lady in the car park, who I thought was the French lady that I play cricket with (yes cricket), but it turned out not to be. Anyway, I swear that I walked fifty yards, turned the corner and there she was walking towards me.

Next on Tuesday, I heard Georgia Mann-Smith play some lovely Charles Trenet (I think) on Radio 3 breakfast and it reminded me of that lovely poetic ‘En September …’ lyric which I shared with Georgia, who responded and enthused about the romantic nature of the French language. Which it manifestly is. Besides, which other nation could make a culinary dish out of a frog and make it sound nice.

And then, on Tuesday evening, I was in Marks and came face to face with Margaret Anne-Hutton, who I haven’t seen or spoken to in 38 years since we were first year students at St Andrews. She is now Professor of French nonetheless..

She asked what I was doing and I couldn’t quite tell her that I’d probably just secured a job in the coffee kiosk down at the Bus Station.

Now I think the French have a good expression for this sort of thing.

Ooh la la.

 

 

 

 

I am really bowled over by this. It’s one of the few real compliments I’ve had in four years of writing. Notwithstanding the lovely, and individual men, that are Adam Forsyth and Ben Usher-Smith, who last year told me they loved my writing. And as far as I recall my caddie master, Matt, once did enthuse about it. But that’s about it.

So to have BBC presenter Georgia Mann-Smith pay me this compliment is most refreshing, because a lot of people treat it with, let’s say, tremendous indifference.  I think they see it as a kind of a slightly sort of odd, quirky, queer thing. A bit like wearing a bow tie or walking down Leith Walk wearing a pink shirt.

My desire to impress the chief Sunday Times Sports journalist, David Walsh, fell entirely flat. I got in touch last year and spent 4 days caddying for him at the Dunhill. Afterwords I sent him my published HK Golf article about my experience with him at the Dunhill, and he never said one word about it. I actually thought it was a fairly good piece, with a rather nice photo of us too. But heho.

Mind you, David never even responded to my email to caddie for him this year, so perhaps he’s just that kind of unresponsive sort of guy.

But writing for me is mostly fun and rewarding, although I don’t make a buck out of it. In fact it has damn well cost me a whole lot of money in foregone earnings. I was effectively sacked from working at the Old Course by the ‘charity’ that is the Links Trust for publishing an article in Asia, about the Royal and Ancient. My writing was seemingly in danger of ‘bringing the reputation of caddies into disrepute’ and a I got a final warning letter. My friend rightly pointed out if it was in fact possible to bring the reputation of caddies into disrepute and indeed Vince has a somewhat valid point.

So thank you Georgia, it is so nice to receive such a positive endorsement, and especially from a rather lovely sounding and intelligent woman.

I never got a bag at the Dunhill this year which is not totally surprising as I’m a pretty compromised caddie, out of favour with the Links Trust, who can’t read a putt or use a yardage book.

Moreover, my man from last year, David Walsh the Sunday Times journalist, never responded. Think he was still reeling from the fact that he put a splendidly hit 7 iron safety shot, on the 10th at Carnoustie, into the drink (or more correctly, I put him into the drink). Ok, it wasn’t the best call from me, but you could have responded to my email David. I have very thin skin.

I actually saw him on the practice area at the weekend, said hello and I must say he did look a tad sheepish ( I know when David is nervous as he goes ‘yeh,yeh,yeh,yeh’ in rapid succession), asked who I was caddying for and was not able to hide the fact that he and I knew he’d asked a pretty rhetorical question.

I did, however, meet good old sound Charles who owns HK Golf in the Dunvegan, and we had a mighty chat. He is a wonderful raconteur and extremely good company.

I wrote my Ryder Cup article, hit the practice area several times, got a job for the winter, admired the building work in our wee Murrayfield venture, went to buy furniture in Pittenweem, had the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had, met lovely Ben for coffee in Edinburgh, got a couple of nice emails from American golf buddies, listened to the Shipping Forecast and wished I hadn’t, read some Tolstoy and heard some wonderful Vaughan Williams, dropped into Dundee Police Station, went to Sofology and DFS, had too much coke, considered moving to Edinburgh, landed an eleven to oner in the 7.15 at Wolverhampton, finally found the Bridge Club in St Andrews and noted that it was ladies only, talked to a few random strangers and wept over the nomination of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court and the  gender specific nature of the St Andrews Bridge scene.

That means there are four ladies-only clubs here.

I feel a storm coming.