Sadly 'Twas Not To Be A Silent Night

 

It’s that time of the year again when Catherine and I head off to Santa Monica. We set off on our annual adventure for two reasons mainly: 1) to avoid the bad weather and 2) to enjoy a feast of movies lining up for Oscar to give them a nod, if not a nomination.

So far I’ve enjoyed The Irishman; It’s a Beautiful Morning in the Neighbourhood; The Marriage (which without it’s embarrassing dragging-you-out-of-the-fantasy, OTT Karaoke, moment, would have been an Oscar contender); Maiden; Queen and Slim; Parasite; After Parkland; Where’s My Roy Cohn; Dark Water and Knives Out.

It’s too early to tell yet if The Two Popes will walk away with all of the Oscars – it’s most certainly, at the very least, a masterclass in film-making and acting.

However I feel I should reserve my final opinion until after I see Clint Eastwood’s latest, Richard Jewell, which will be his 38^th film as a director, most of which could/would/should have been contenders, as in fact quite a few were. Plus, there will be the usual rush of Christmas Day Blockbusters. Christmas Day seems to be the final day to release a film the studios feel worthy of Oscar consideration. It’s always a bad sign when a much talked about project is announced as having a Jan or Feb release. That’s usually a sign that the final product has turned out to be… well maybe the best way to put it would be to say that it’s not all that the studio and/or director hoped it would be.

I wonder what BMG/Sony Classics feel about a recent co-production of theirs? It was entitled David Crosby: Remember My Name. Cros, as he’s known backstage, was one fifth of the Byrds; one quarter of CSN& Y; one third of Crosby, Stills & Nash; one half of Crosby & Nash and now, that he is touring under his own name, is down to just the one.  I represented CSN and C&N for many a year.

The film was released last Friday 6^th December. It’s playing in one cinema in Los Angeles – the funky and friendly Lamelle in Santa Monica. The cinema is fine, I love it, but to put it on at 9.55 p.m. for its single nightly screening, it’s well… well let’s put it this way, at least they didn’t release it on the following Friday. (Friday the 13^th!)

Anyway I arrived at the Lamelle early to ensure my seat. I was expecting the screening to be sold out.  As it turned out I was so early I was able to watch an earlier screening of the Wolf Hour and still have time for a cup of tea between features. But I really needn’t have worried about getting there early.

I WAS THE ONLY PERSON IN THE CINEMA FOR THE 9.55 SCREENING OF DAVID CROSBY: REMEMBER MY NAME.

The cinema was embarrassing empty. Monty Python’s dead parrot hadn’t even bothered to turn up.

So what about the film, PC?

Okay… well I felt it looked great, beautifully shot. I thought he was painfully honest; maybe too honest if I too, can be too honest.

“Why are you still working?” the interviewer asked after discovering Cros has had three heart attacks, is a diabetic, has several stints in his heart and just about to embark on a six week tour. “I need money to put food on the table and pay the mortgage,” Cros replied.

Okay he’s honest but I can hear a loud but rolling down the nearby Route 66?

But… for all of that I didn’t feel he came across as a nice man. 

I didn’t see the point in not showing the other side of the man.

Crosby although usually very cutting is also, really a very funny man. “What’s the main difference between CSN and CSN&Y?” he was once asked. He thought for a few moments before replying, “Oh about $650,000 a night.”   

In my book David Crosby is one of the benchmark artists of our era. If Only I Could Remember My Name, his first solo album, is an amazing piece of work. It’s a breakthrough album of an artist pushing the boundaries of making music while, at the same time, delivering a masterpiece that is revolutionary yet still manages to be so pleasing to the ear. Like all classic albums If Only I Could Remember My Name continues to sound stunning. It’s mentioned in the documentary, but kinda like only in passing. It would be like doing a documentary about Van Morrison and not making a fuss over Astral Weeks.

Crosby’s soulful harmony work with Graham Nash took what the Everly Bros were doing and still managed to up the ante. Crosby & Nash were the go-to harmony guys for everyone making music on the LA/Laurel Canyon scene in the 1970s and 80s as proven by the number of album-sleeve-credits they have to their names.

David Crosby may be, by his own omission, his own worst enemy, but why focus on one aspect of his life at the expense of the great music he made over the decades? Does doing so make this a better film? I certainly didn’t think so.

The film also shows the final performance of CSN. They appeared at the White House on December 26^th, 2015, to preform Silent Night for the Obamas and their friends. Their performance is so excruciating out of tune that even the president and some of his guests are witnessed (on camera and in turn on the screen during this film) grimacing in apparent pain. What is the point in showing that?

As I mentioned I worked with Crosby Stills and Nash as their agent and also as promoter for a good few years. I have had the pleasure of witnessing at least a hundred of their concerts all over the world and please believe me these boys do not know how to sing out of tune. While I was watching the Remember My Name film clip of the White House performance I tried to focus in on Graham’s voice, he seemed fine. I then focused on Crosby’s voice, he seemed fine. I didn’t have time to pay the same attention to Stephen Stills and I couldn’t hear his voice as clearly. On the walk back along the beach from the cinema I thought about the Silent Night performance quite a bit.   

Now as you know I do love a good conspiracy theory. I still believe that the president who pulled the trigger on JFK is still on the run, hiding out somewhere… sorry… sorry… let’s backtrack there a wee bit. Did I actually say the president who pulled the trigger… of course I meant to say the person who pulled the trigger, as in the person who pulled the trigger is still on the run?  I’ve obviously been reading too many Phillip L. Nelson books for my own good.

 

But let’s get back to CSN’s dubious harmonies. What if someone in one of the best harmony groups the world has ever known didn’t want to be there in the White House singing Silent Night? Or, what if one of them was so annoyed by one of his colleagues, he just didn’t want to be singing with him? I mean David’s falling out with Graham (and with Neil Young) are so well (not to mention embarrassingly) documented all over the internet.

I’m just saying… but my main point being: why include the clip in the David Crosby documentary in the first place?

Surely at the very least we’re entitled to a more balanced view of the man and his musical heritage?

Happy Holidays.

Until the next time…

Cheers

pc

 

Even Golfers Get The Blues

So here’s the thing: I’m not a big golf fan. I’ve never played golf. I do enjoy watching it on television though. I will admit that I did once enjoy a glorious day in LA with two artist-managers on a golf course. But my enjoyment was entirely down to the fact that they let me drive them around the course in a golf-buggy. I should also admit here that I’ve never driven a car in my life, so that’s why it was such a buzz. Maybe I should have forewarned them that I am a big Formula One fan. Either I scared the Bejesus out of them or they were actually crap golfers. I have to say they did talk a great game and knew exactly where they were going wrong. So fair play to them.

But, let’s get back to my reason for being in Portrush. I’m a big fan of Rory McIlroy. It’s partly to do with the fact that a) he’s world class in his chosen arena and b) he is an Ulsterman. For the exact same reasons I’d also include in that list: George Best; Alex Higgins; Seamus Heaney and Van Morrison.

One of my fictional detectives, McCusker, was originally from Portrush. He was a social golfer, so social he lost his first wife and all his property over the game. McCusker is also a big fan of Rory, Alec and George. Musically speaking he’d be more of a fan of Rory Gallagher, Planxty and Christy Moore. I’m currently working on the third McCusker Mystery, Hi Love, You Just Dropped Your Glove. In the course of this mystery, McCusker is based in Portrush and I’ve been visiting “The Port” - as I used to do most of the summers of my youth with my family - to do some catch-up research. When I was there last summer for a few days, working out locations and trying to discover the locals’ favourite haunts rather that the tourist trail, I heard all about the town being rebuilt (pretty much) for this year’s Open Golf Tournament when the game would return to Portrush for the first time in 68 years.

I decided I would return this summer myself and visit the Open as McCusker might have done. Which was all well and good, but instead of booking accommodation last year, I left it to spring of this year by which time not only were all the hotels quadruple their normal price, and you have to book for a min of four nights, but they were already all booked out and when I asked a few of them if I could go on their waiting list, I’d hear them laugh as they set the phone down.

What was available though was Glamping; glamorous camping, luxury under the canvas. It was also affordable. But those two facts should have been clues; Big clues.

On Thursday morning (18^th July 2019) at crack of dawn I caught the Red Eye to George Best Airport, Belfast, stopped off for a visit with my dad in Magherafelt and then, late in the afternoon I travelled on up to Portrush. I arrived at the Glamping site in the wind and rain at five o’clock. The entrance to the site was ankle deep in muck and the grass on the way to the tent was calf-long and soaking wet. The tent was very primitive. Very unglamorous dare I say, even very un-luxurious. The father and son owners however were extremely nice and helpful. I left my case in the tent and caught the shuttle down to the outskirts of Portrush. I had planned to stay in my tent for an hour or two to settle in before heading down to the Port, but to put it purely and simply, there was absolutely nowhere to sit in the tent and the bed was an air bed and quite impossible to sit on. I was later to discover it was even more uncomfortable to sleep on, but more about that at lights out.

I was going into Portrush so all was good.

Every time I go to Portrush I get very excited. There is just something magical about the Port. There always has been from when I was a kid and it still hasn’t worn off. This time was no exception. In a break between the showers I passed the hive of activity that was the Royal Golf Club. I continued on into the town along the East Strand beach, past what used to be the entrance to the Arcadia Ballroom where I’d spent manys a happy night listening to the likes of Billy Brown and The Freshmen. The Freshmen were one of the few great showbands - so great in fact that the dancers used to stop dancing and just listen to the band. No mean feat nailing all those feet to the floor. Now all remains of the once glorious ballroom is the entrance-hall section, which before it was the entrance hall to a ballroom used to be the ladies changing rooms for their outside pool.

I was, as they say locally, famished, so I stopped off at the 55 Degrees North restaurant to get a quick bite. The food hit the spot and the waitresses were, as usual, extremely friendly. Now I was properly equipped to head off for a dander around the town. Portrush, thanks to Rory McIlroy’s efforts in helping secure The Open’s visit, had enjoyed a complete facelift - a long overdue facelift. I stopped off at a wee antique store. The owner told me that the council had paid for every shop owner (who wanted) to have the front of the store done up.

To be honest I had quite expected the town to be heaving. This was not the case. The streets were relatively empty. All the people who were visiting for the golf were still up at the Royal Golf Club. The Club had a strict no-pass out rule that the local business people were up in arms about. “How can we make money if none of these people are allowed to come out and do a wee bit of shopping?”       

The owner of the antique store, like a lot of the traders I spoke to, felt that even with their own numbers down this weekend, the actual benefit of The Open was going to be more of long term project.

Anyway, in an effort to lift their spirits I did a wee bit of shopping myself, then made my way across town to Barry’s Amusements, which over-looked the West Strand and the picturesque harbour. Barry’s Amusements Arcade is the most exciting place in Northern Ireland… or so I once thought.

It was empty!

I mean it wasn’t actually empty as in absolutely without punters. There were (literally) a few people. I’m talking thirty patrons at the very most. I’ve been visiting Barry’s since the early 60s and I have never seen so few people in there in my life. I couldn’t believe it.

“Where is everyone?” I asked the man in the information booth. Well that’s what an information booth is for, isn’t it?

“I’ve worked here for over eleven years and I’ve never seen it this empty,” he replied.

“But what about the golf influx?”

‘They’re all stuck up at the Royal and once they leave the Royal there are no pass-outs, so they can’t return to the course for the remainder of the day. The ones who are coming out are more used to the likes of Disneyworld, so Barry’s isn’t really high on their bucket list.”

I offered my condolences and said hopefully it’ll be better over the weekend. He said he hoped so but doubted it.

“Is there a chance it’ll have to close,” I asked, fearing if they can’t pull a crowd from the influx they might be in danger.

‘Heaven’s no, not at all. This is just one weekend, every other weekend Easter to September, we’re absolutely heaving in here.”

I walked further along the beach in the direction of the harbour, all the time shocked by the lack of people, while at the same time scouting out locations and characters for my McCusker Mystery. I came across the town’s new super duper big wheel. It was merrily spinning away. On closer examination I realised it was devoid of people, aka customers. It was as empty as it would have been on the streets of Bodie, Califonia.

There were absolutely no people in the big wheel’s buckets - or whatever it is they call those pods that humans sit in.

A man licking a 99 infused ice-cream cone saw me staring up at the wheel in amazement.

“Why do you think they have it spinning with no people in it?” he asked.

“As an advertisement to potential customers,” I offered hopefully.

“Nope,” he replied, “if you go further down to the green there you’ll see that the BBC TV One Show is broadcasting on location tonight, and if they have the wheel spinning in the background then people out there in TV land will think Portrush is thriving and want to visit here. It’s all part of a cover-up”

Oh I do love a good conspiracy theory.

I wandered on chatting to people as I made my way over to the crowd gathered for BBC TV One Show recording. People are so friendly and easy to talk to in Portrush. Not just that, but there are so many brilliant characters on your doorstep, which is one of the reasons I’m bringing McCusker back to Portrush for this mystery. I eaves-dropped on one of the judges from Strictly Come Dancing going on about Ballroom Dancing in Ulster in the 1960s “It was huge”, he declared. I think he might just have got the wrong end of the stick there. What happened was that yes people did use to dance in ballrooms, such as the Arcadia Ballroom, in Ulster, in the 1960s but, believe you me, it was not Ballroom Dancing, as we know it today, they were attempting. Their main step was not the quickstep, but more likely the shimmy-step, where you would try to subtly sidle closer to a girl and risk all by asking, “Do you come here often?”

Eventually I reluctantly left the town centre and caught a taxi back out to the Glamping site. The driver was moaning about how the entire town’s road system has been laid out by the people who designed the track layout for Barry’s Ghost Train. The end result, he claimed, five minute journeys were now easily taking up to an hour. He kept going on about how badly everything had been messed up; having said that, we did reach the tent site pretty quickly.  

Once again I tried to sit on my air bed and once more I nearly fell off again. It was ten-thirty, too early for bed so I wandered out of my tent and over to a communal area covered with a large canvas canopy. The sides of the Henley Regatta type of sun-shelter, if they’d ever existed, had been removed so you could see the amazing soulful views over and beyond Portrush. In this area, which was empty of fellow glampers, the site organisers had kindly supplied bales of hay to sit on. By lamp light I wrote up my notes for Hi Love You, Just Dropped Your Glove. Eventually, task completed, the cold air drove me back to my tent. When I was back in my tent I realised it was colder in the tent than it was outside. It was also dark and dank. I found that attempting to sleep on an airbed was comparable to trying to sleep on a tightrope. You move an inch either-way and you risked falling off altogether. Not that I’ve ever slept on a tightrope but I think next time I’m offered an airbed I just might opt for the sleeping-on-a-tightrope option. It couldn’t be any more difficult.

On Friday morning, even the news that the electricity was off and there were no warm/hot showers available didn’t dampen my mood. For starters I was so cold I figured that even a cold shower would warm me up a little bit and I’d still breakfast to look forward to. But then I hear you say: surely if there was no electricity there would be no power for kettles and coffee-makers and toasters etc., etc. And of course you’d be right. Oh well I was heading down to the Royal Golf Club and there would be everything I could dream off down there.

Ah… but the guy who was trying to fix the power was also the guy who drove the shuttle van, so that was going to be delayed for a wee bit. He was really a very nice guy and you just couldn’t get mad with him, it wasn’t his fault.

Eventually, just before eight o’clock, the shuttle van dropped a few of us off and, quite literally, a couple of minutes after that I was inside the Royal Golf Course in Portrush, surely the speediest and easiest entrance to a mass-audience, event I have ever experienced.

There was a strange air of calm about the site. Maybe an aftershock might be a better way to describe it. Everyone seemed to be in a zombie like state and whispering about Rory’s massive meltdown on the course on the previous day (Thursday). It appears he just couldn’t get into the rhythm of his round. Everything that could go wrong went wrong and the short, least depressing, version of the story is that he was a massive seven over par going into Friday’s round. Could his massive dip in his game be put down to the pressure of being the local hero? All I can offer by way of explanation is: if it took genius to be as brilliant as he had been in the past – and he still holds the course record for the Royal Portrush; he went around in 61 when he was just 16 years old – then when you’re not in the best of form, or suffering from Rory’s Blues, or even nerves, the complete opposite can happen. When he’s on his game he does tend to make a round of golf look deceptively easy. Well that’s McCusker’s theory on the matter - and he discusses it in great detail with his partner D.I. Lily O’Carroll in A Day In The Life of Louis Bloom (the 2^nd McCusker Mystery published by Dufour Editions).  Whenever Rory is allowed to keep to himself and focus entirely on his game, McCusker muses, he always delivers. However, also according to McCusker, when he’s distracted with lots of media requests and is cornered into predicting how on form he is and how brilliant he’s going to be, he mostly has a bad day at the office, or in his case, on the golf course. 

Tiger Woods - who would have enjoyed top billing in Rory’s absence - at 6 over par had also experienced a disastrous first round. Now we were faced with neither Tiger nor Rory making the cut by the end of Friday’s play. The cut is where all players who manage at least 1 over par are safe and go into the 3^rd and 4^th rounds (played on Saturday and Sunday). Everyone from 2 over par and above got to go home, leaving 70 golfers for the final two days.

Who would the local crowd then get to support? We’ll have more about that later as well. In the meantime I had a date with my breakfast in one of the Hospitality Pavilions, the majority of which were on the right hand side of the first green. That’s as you face up the green and away from the tee.

According to one of the greeters in the hospitality suite, it took 4 months to build the Pavilions and the rest of the plant in order for The Royal to host The Open. He guessed it would take around the same time to remove. The Suite I was in didn’t really have any atmosphere. Maybe it was a case of the room being so spread out, it made the ceiling appear lower. The numerous TVs relaying the current action out on the links were very small. The volume of the TVs was painfully low. To truly enjoy golf on TV there are two basic requirements. You need to have a nice comfortable chair and to be able to hear the commentators. The seats looked like they’d been hired from a school canteen, or, put another way, they were hard and uncomfortable. Failing ideal viewing of the TV, I always find it best to just turn the darn set off. But the TVs needed to be on because there were already players out on the golf course. The first trio, Tom Lenman (US) Joaquin Nieman (Chile) & Miguel Angel Jimenez (Spain) had teed off at 06.35 that morning.

The overall feeling from our group of people was of everyone was waiting for something.

Perhaps they were waiting for the bars to open (at 11.30 due to Ulster Licensing laws) or awaiting a legendary Ulster Fry served up to kick start our day.

In the hospitality suite, the friendly staff’s two most popular questions of the day were: 1) Where did you travel from this morning? And 2) Who do you fancy to win this?  

With their first question, the words fitted together so well and the delivery was so word-perfect you had the feeling the question must have been listed in a tournament directive. On the other hand the second question was a very clever way of avoiding the elephant in the room: Rory’s Blues.

In these circumstances I’ve learned it’s always good to have a name at the ready. I have to admit I still fancied Rory playing a blistering round and getting back in the race. Nonetheless, I felt it was prudent to examine the options and have a few names up my sleeve. Tiger, in my eyes, still couldn’t be ruled out. Tommy Fleetwood (England) seemed to be an easy name to remember, he seemed like a very nice chap, had played a brilliant round on Thursday and didn’t he nearly win something major recently? Oh yes, I remember now, he nearly won the US Open last year but Tiger Woods pipped him to the post. Tony Finau (USA) was a distinctive name and he had made a decent start earlier that morning.  Justin Rose (England) perhaps? Shane Lowry had played a brilliant round on the Thursday. On camera he was always smiling and looking like he was really enjoying playing a round of golf and he was just one off the lead. At times - when he took his hat off – he looked like he could have been Wayne Rooney’s brother.  JB Holmes (USA), the leader from round 1, looked like he knew what he was doing and was very enjoyable to watch but Tommy from Carolina (at my table) assured me he wouldn’t last the course. I decided I needed to hedge my bets and came to the conclusion it was just too early to decide. I had a quick day-dream of Rory starting off his round with a series of holes-in-one (a physical impossibility) and getting back in contention. I shared this with Tommy from Carolina who didn’t take it as the joke I had intended but seemed to spend a few seconds going through the scenario in his mind. Then I noticed what he was actually doing was checking where the closest exit was.

A few minutes later at 10.09 Tiger Woods arrived at the 1^st tee on this the second day of the tournament to loud applause. His compatriots for the day’s play were Mathew Wallace (England) and Patrick Reed (USA). I decided that as the weather was holding and the rain was meant to come at 2.00 o’clock in the afternoon, I’d nip out and walk the round with Tiger. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t being rude, or even familiar. He doesn’t even know me, let alone that I exist. What I meant was I would walk with the crowd who followed Tiger & Co from tee to tee.

The first thing I discovered was how solidly some of these guys are built. That doesn’t come across on TV.

A completely opposite view was offered from a wife to her husband walking directly behind me.

“They’re not big are they, they’re all wee men.”

Wallop!

“Great strike,” a fan cried out and the rest burst into applause.

On one of the big screens around the course, we could see Rose teeing off; he was 6 under par from yesterday. That means he was then 12 shots ahead of Tiger on the leader board. This also meant he was 13 shots ahead of Rory.

That’s one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen shots ahead of Rory. Or, as they’d say in Donegal, “That’s a massive mountain to climb.” 

And the trio of golfers, Woods, Wallace & Reed headed off down the fairway.

“Welcome Tiger,” someone in front of me called out.

“Thank you,” Tiger replied without breaking his stride or his concentration.

Their golf balls had all reached about midway up the fairway. By the time we caught up with the location for their next round of shots, I realised we were directly across the road from Kellys where the other Rory (Gallagher) played his version of the blues with his sublime band, Taste. Fruupp (my first professionally management client) also played a few great gigs in there.

I was having great difficulty getting near the first green to see Tiger & Co concluding their work on the first hole. My mantra while scouting vantage positions for better views from then on was: always walk on that wee bit further. It didn’t let me down all day. I noticed on the big screen - viewed in the hope they would show the lads putting on the green - that on another green Jon Rahm (Spain) had a weird looking 4 inch square putter. I figured it must be like hitting the ball with a bar of chocolate - just saying this in case anyone out there sees it as a marketing opportunity; remember where you heard it first.

On the next hole, the 574 yard, par 5, 2^nd, they all enjoyed great applause as they teed off although… two of them didn’t fair very well with their shots. For this action I’d a much better view and all three golfers hunkered down in a near perfect (seemingly) synchronised move, just off the green. The trio - who very nearly formed a straight line across the fairway - eyed up the ideal path for their second shot. As Tiger Woods walked up to take his turn, I could see clearly he was genuinely in pain. You could see from the regret in his eyes that he wished he could be enjoying this moment more. He dropped his first shot of the day at this hole.

“Must have been cling-film over that hole,” an Ulster fan muttered to himself as he headed after the players to the 3^rd tee.

Overall, as was visible on the big screens, the going was getting tough and when the going is tough the balls tend to get going… into the rough. It wasn’t a great omen for Rory. On top of which, he was due to start his round at 15.10, by which time the predicted rain would have worked up a head of steam; also known as teaming.

By the time we reached the 4^th green, Woods and Co were looking like they could have done with an elevenses pit-stop for coffee and snacks. Luckily enough there was a wagon which was parked up ever so close to the green, selling such items. Professionals that the golfers were, they soldiered on, although it has to be said, a lot of their followers were happy to partake in the refreshments available.

After five holes and finding myself distracted by the action on other holes I decided my intel might be of better use elsewhere, so I peeled off the pack and headed on around the course dipping in and out of play from game to game. I also found that as the ground is rather bumpy it is much better for your ankles, in particular, to keep on the move. On top of which I found it just too sad to watch Tiger painfully trying to hide his limp. More selfishly I thought I could feel the first spits of the predicted rain. 

Tommy Fleetwood was playing well and moving up the leader board. He was great to watch if you didn’t look at his face. What I mean is, from the look on his face you got the impression he was having a disastrous round, whereas his actual play, not to mention the leader board, proved otherwise.

Some of the comments from the fans I found very amusing

“It’s like he’s got a magic wand rather than a golf club,” one guy (wearing a Motorhead T-shirt) suggested to his mates, after a particularly magnificent second shot on the 194 yard, par 3, 6^th hole. This hole was also known as Harry Colt’s (named after the course designer) and was right beside the Atlantic Ocean with spectacularly inspirational, jaw-dropping, views.

I imagined McCusker maybe being mates of the guy with the Motorhead T Shirt,  and, after witnessing a couple of subsequent bad shots suggesting, “If I was him I’d return the Magic Wand to the Harry Potter gift shop and consider using a golf club again”

“That 2^nd hole just needs to open up,” another armchair expert had offered.

“Aye to the size of a dust bin.” I imagined McCusker adding.

“He’s on great form, he’s dropping everything in, I bet you he got a ride last night.”

“He,” now meaning Tiger, “just needs to get on the range and bang a few in.”

I swear to you but I must have seen about a dozen Graeme McDowells in my travels around the course.

By the time I’d made it back towards the 18^th hole (474 yards, par 4) I happened upon another bigger, much bigger, refreshment area, which according to my site map was called the Secondary Village. I slowed to a stroll feeling like Randolph Scott happening upon the town limits of Laramie. I felt I could take my time a wee bit now as the spits of rain hadn’t actually developed into anything. There was a massive big screen out on what looked like a village green with a lot people sitting around and drinking and following the action. Overall this group of people were giving off good vibes. I noticed a top of the line pavilion with its own balcony. It was very classy. It looked very expensive to my eyes. I thought I’d dander over to it and see what the story was. It turned out that it was a Mastercard Pavilion and on close inspection the sign outside it claimed: “Open to all Mastercard Holders” Good old Mastercard, I thought. I’m a Mastercard Holder. They mean me. Not only did they get me a discount in the merchandising shop this morning, but here they were also providing some hospitality FOC (free of charge). The two ladies at reception were very friendly and they said welcome and put a band around my wrist as they asked me where I’d come from this morning. I went upstairs which was incredibly welcoming, homely even, with ultra-comfortable chairs and a floor to ceiling big screen. The crowd were very good natured and really enjoying their golf.

I found a seat and a drink and a bite and watched the screen to notice that my earlier tip of Tommy Fleetwood was doing very well. I’d been correct, Tommy Fleetwood was the perfect name for a golfer. The net result was that he was now only one stroke off the leader, JB.         

I wondered if anything could be made of the ping of the contact the club/putter makes with the ball, as in do the golfers know from this sound if they’ve played a good shot or bad one. If so, could that be taken even further and could someone work out some sort of logarithm or develop an app that predicts the final score from sound of the club hitting the ball over say the first three holes? If so please remember where you read about it first.

At 12.53 Shane Lowry enjoyed a mighty cheer as he teed off on the first hole. 

On seeing Shane Lowry sink yet another long putt on the giant screen on the (secondary) Village Green someone in the crowd said to his mate:  “With putts like that, if I was him I’d be carefully crossing the road tomorrow; his luck is sure to change any time soon.”

At the 18^th Hole (second round) a big cheer went up on the screen and in the room as Tommy Fleetwood holed his final shot of the day to go top of the leader board.

“Is the rain just getting that wee bit heavier?” someone offered as one by one the umbrellas started to go up. One of the Sky Sports cameras picked up on this activity and it was flashed up on the big screen. The people on the green seeing themselves (well at least their umbrellas) up on the big screen, started to open and shut their umbrella to acknowledge the attention and pretty soon we were all enjoying a special moment with hundreds of umbrellas, of various styles and a multitude of colours, fluttering like butterflies. Hopefully it looked as stunning out in TV land as it did on the Secondary Village Green.            

Shortly thereafter at 15.10 Rory McIlroy came out to the (adjacent) 1^st tee. There was an almighty roar from the crowd that was way beyond the reaction any of the other players received. Most players enjoy varying levels of cheering/applause when they ventured onto the first green; after the final shot on the 18^th green or whenever they hit a great shot. But Rory was unique in that he was applauded and cheered the entire way from the tee up the fairway and onto the green for each and every hole on his round. You could work out exactly where he was on the course from the Rory Roar following him around the Royal Golf Course.

There was such an almighty Rory Roar following his final putt on the 18^th that I’m convinced that every single person, man, woman and child on the acres of the Royal Golf Course at Portrush in Northern Ireland paused in their tracks to acknowledge his genius.

He had played a blinding round. In adverse weather conditions he shot a 65, which would prove to be the 2^nd best round of this year’s competition. If the weather had been on his side, or like it had been earlier in the day when Tiger was playing his round, then Rory most likely would have broken his own course record. But then tournament score cards do not have a column for the “if only” scores. The sad but undeniable bottom line was that Rory failed to make the cut by a single shot. He was gracious and emotional in his defeat as he thanked the crowd and wished Shane Lowry all the very best for the following two days play. 

Shane Lowry went on to win the Open at the Royal in Portrush during a wet July weekend in 2019. He was the first bearded golfer to win the open since Bob Ferguson won the third of his successive victories in 1882. Shane and his bearded caddie, Brian Martin, looked like they’d just happened on a round of golf at the Royal by accident and that they were trying not to giggle too much just in case they were found out. Shane Lowry deserved to win this year’s Open. He consistently played beautiful golf and he took maximum enjoyment from his own playing. That is such an infectious quality: the ability of great athletes, or musicians for that matter, to visibly enjoy their own work.      

JB Holmes who was in the lead the first day was still in with a shout on the Friday and Saturday. However he took a disastrous 87 shots on the final day. To put this in perspective every player had a bad day on the Sunday. But few had as poor a day as JB. Shane Lowry for instance shot a round of 72 the same day. JB finished in 70^th place. I make this point not to try and shame poor JB, who was clearly having a bad day, but to confirm that Tommy from Carolina was spot on with his prediction.

Tommy from Carolina had another prediction he shared with me.

“This,” he started expansively, and opening out his arms around the room and pointing out beyond and on to the golf course, “this is all going to put Portrush on the map as an international touring attraction. Everything has been wonderful and so professional, so top class and the local people so warm, funny and friendly that tourists are going to be coming here in the droves from now on.”

After Tommy from Carolina’s first successful prediction, and with my local knowledge, I certainly wouldn’t be taking a bet against him.

So see youse all next year then?

Cheers

pc

p.s. I should also mention that Departing Shadows, the eleventh Christy Kennedy Mystery, is published by the good people at Dufour Editions on Oct 22nd this year.

Paul Charles © 2019       

The Seven Hindrances To Happiness

Humans seem incapable of being happy, as in being totally happy.

There will always be something on our mind making complete contentment impossible. It might be something to do with: children; older parents; money; sex; love; career or health. Those seven topics, either directly, or indirectly, cover all the possibilities capable of causing concern. If we needed to reduce the number then we could perhaps consider listing “children” and “older parents” under the one heading of “dependants” but somehow the number seven seems more mystical than six and might even have a direct biblical connection. So, let’s stick to our seven main topics for the moment, if only to avoid an additional period of non-happiness where we worry about whether there are six or seven main topics.

It has to be admitted that there will be certain periods, of indeterminable duration, when people/they/you/me will discover the bliss of pure unadulterated happiness. These infrequent times will rarely exceed twenty-four hours, at which point one of the seven will return, usually with a bang, to remind us that happiness is not our normal state. The above brief period of happiness might have even just been thrown in to the mix, through a trick of our devious sub-conscious, just so we can be aware of what we’re missing.

When we’re younger we naively think that as we grow older and are in charge of our own lives we’re going to experience true everlasting happiness. Sadly this never turns out to be the case. All we really discover is how much we should have enjoyed the relative happiness of our childhood because those years will never ever prepare us for what will be thrown at us in our later years. Nor should they prepare us; we all need the calm before the storm

The big news, the big secret no one ever lets you in on, is that you are never ever going to arrive at the point where you will wake up one morning and discover the grass isn’t, in fact, greener elsewhere. You know, where you arrive at a point literally, physically, mentally or spiritually where nothing will concern you. A place where there will be no dog-do lurking in the shadows of the trail ahead of you. In other words when you reach a point where your own personal nirvana will have arrived.  You’d hoped it would be a place where you could relax with your true love; read books; listen to music; go the cinema (this one is the reason why a desert island would never work for me); go for long walks through stunning soulful country; reflect on just how miraculous and marvellous a creation the human body really is; and, finally: appear on Desert Island Discs describing your own personal heaven to the world.

Spoiler alert: It’s never going to happen.

Humans are incapable of being happy (all the time).

We’re not wired to be that way, and if we were I fear we’d realise it was, plain and simply, just boring? Personally I’m not sure I one hundred percent subscribe to this theory. I think this particular notion is a fail-safe which has been wired into our systems just so we don’t get too preoccupied about not being happy all the time. Maybe it even frees up more time for us to worry about the big seven issues.

Some people sadly get bogged down with the lack of everlasting happiness to the extent that they will try and rid themselves of this niggle. They will consider absolutely anything to permanently expel the sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, voices responsible for their anxiety.  

Occasionally I have to consider the extremes some humans are prepared to go to in order for them to try to reach their own particular prefab nirvana.

This is the stage I reach every time I embark on writing a new murder mystery.

The point where I start to examine what some characters would be prepared to do, in order to put everything out of their consciousness. Everything that is apart from their own misguided selfishness and preoccupation with a state of permanent happiness. Put another way, study their endeavours to reach a state where some of their worries will not “do their head in.”    

A state we all know just doesn’t exist.  

Talking of the above, I continue working on the eleventh Christy Kennedy mystery, Departing Shadows; reading the 2nd Volume of Kenneth Womack's incredible Sound Pictures: The Life of  Beatles Producer George Martin, the later years, 1966 to 2016; going to the cinema - my favourite of last year was, by a million miles was Clint Eastwood's The Mule and yet it didn't get nominated for a single Oscar (I bet the real story behind the omission would make an Oscar winning movie, well then on second thoughts, perhaps not) and, attending concerts, the recent highlights being Joan Baez at the Palladium and the multi talented Paul Carrack on brilliant form at Guildford Live.

Until the next time...

Cheers

pc