St Andrew’s Day. The Patron Saint of Scotland since 1320, his crucifixion in Patras, Greece on a cross in the shape of an “X’ responsible for our Saltire. That was way back in 70AD – 30th November – and, apparently, he was rather partial to blue! Apologies. A hugely important figure in Scotland’s history; in fact, if it hadn’t been that certain of his relics were brought to Scotland, arguably, between the 5th and 7th Century – making their way to Kilrymont as St Andrews was, then, known – the now famous town, named in his honour, would not have become a place of religious pilgrimage the world over, growing in status and wealth proportionately. Of course, famous today as the Home of Golf and that of the oldest university in Scotland, sometimes the importance of the town’s religious past can be overlooked.
Not so on the 30th November, however. In fact, in honour of the important date, the famous Royal & Ancient Clubhouse was open to the public. Worth a visit. I have been in before, in the distant past, but, as I tell my tour ‘victims’, I grew up in a golfing family in which the female variety were never encouraged to play the sacred game. Positively discouraged? No, but seemed there was an unspoken agreement. ‘The girls’ rode and occupied themselves with other suitably trivial past times while ‘the boys’ golfed. Moreover, it was commonplace for us to walk the dog past the bay window of the Big Room as they graciously waved to us whilst clutching a large gin and tonic! The chandeliers twinkling in the evening glow, one couldn’t fail to be envious; to imagine how grand it was inside … Perhaps akin to the saying that one should never meet one’s heroes, however, the day did come when I made it over the threshold. And? (Help! Writing that word – a conjunction – with a capital letter is, to me, on a par with chewing gum at a Sandhurst Passing Out Parade!) Well, predictably, my first foray into the R&A fell way short of my expectations. It presented as it was – a Gentleman’s Club – and, thus, the Big Room merely sported a collection of leather wing-backed chairs ‘arranged’ in no particular order. Granted, traditional, it was nothing if not under-stated with little heed to decor. Fast forward many years and curiosity took me back, the irony being that I hoped it had remained the same.
Nothing remains the same, though. In the past two years, the famous clubhouse has been subject to extensive renovation in a bid to accommodate the women members finally welcomed in 2014, two hundred and sixty years after The Society of St Andrews Golfers was first established – the precursor to the R&A. Thankfully, the iconic façade of the building remained untouched as they excavated deep down on either side spending a reported £19m on female changing facilities. The most prestigious golf club in the world, I’m glad to say, it still retains the smallest car park. Now, that’s what I call class! Anyway, I digress … As I wandered into the clubhouse, late in the afternoon, I was far from a lone figure. In fact, it was bustling with eager eyes keen to glimpse the grandeur within. In truth, the reception area could, now, more happily pass for that of a 5-Star hotel with its imposing white marble-topped desk; that is, despite the old cabinet housing the precious Claret Jug and its ancient predecessor, the leather belt with its grand golfer-engraved silver buckle presented to the winner of the very first Open Championship, Tom Kidd, at Prestwick in 1860. Incidentally, Tom won all of £11 for his efforts!
I couldn’t help but smile as I wandered from the Trophy Room – the original Pine Valley Plate in one of the cabinets – to the famous Big Room. Listening to the conversations around me and the obvious pride – tinged with more than a little arrogance – of the members volunteering to impart their wisdom, everywhere I looked, I saw Pop, his spirit embedded in the clubhouse which was to play such an important part in his life. The Big Room has lost much of its endearing quirkiness today, the random leather wing-backed chairs replaced by a structure of sorts; a striking new carpet underfoot. Too new. Too organised. Gone is the shabby chic of old and, with it, much of the character. Nothing stays the same, sadly, but what we lose along the way … Approached by more than one of the members, I told them why I was there, what it meant to my father and of my fond memories. Polite. Chatty. Not one of them asked my name, nor took any interest in one of their own. I came away with a closure of sorts, I suppose; grateful for the chapter which was, indirectly, mine, but a little saddened, too, by the new. I repeat, what we have lost along the way …
The release of Bandaid 40, last week, prompted similar feelings. An astonishing forty years on since the original release of the iconic Do They Know it’s Christmas?, the little ditty penned by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure and sung, under instruction, by a conglomeration of their mates who just happened to be the music greats of the time; the same unforgettable song which sparked the now historic Live Aid, collectively raising millions for the starving in Africa – from then until now! In fact, on the 13th July, 1985 alone, £40million was raised and, to date, the Bandaid Charitable Trust is credited with amassing in excess of £150million. How can/ why would anyone criticise? Rhetorical, of course. In the dying embers of woke, please God – destined to be buried where the sun doesn’t shine following the 20th January, 2025 – there are still those prepared to forego sanity in a pathetic bid to endear themselves to the embittered, ‘trendy’ far Left. Step forward Ed Sheeran, to name but one, who claims – had he been asked – he would have declined to be included on the 40th Anniversary re-make of the record. After all, the lyrics are old-fashioned and the imagery outdated, suggesting that Africa in its entirety – and its people – remain in need of saving by the West. Very noble. One question, meanwhile: are there, or are there not, millions of children dying of starvation in North Darfur, Sudan as of now? Exactly. Worth criticising that silly little outdated song, then, which has saved so many lives, and continues to do so …
As 2024 draws to a close and Christmas fast approaches once more, will 2025 be the year to put a sock in it and re-set? The year which stems the pervasive lunacy of woke and the victimhood at its core? The year to halt the debilitating rapid race to the bottom? The year to purge corruption in favour of integrity? The year which celebrates the individual and the brave? In the news today, President Biden has issued an official unconditional pardon for his son, Hunter, who faced sentencing for two criminal cases: one relating to several counts of tax fraud and the other, involving illegal drug use while in possession of a gun. Combined, the 54-year-old may never have tasted freedom again. Phew! No more. Joe has spoken, of course, reneging on the lies of his repeated stance as recently as two months ago. Interestingly, it should be noted that Biden is not the first US President to pardon a family member. Any guesses as to who the other was? Yes, that paragon of virtue, Bill Clinton! In 2001, he pardoned his younger half-brother, Roger Clinton, for a 1985 cocaine-related offence … Remember this when, following his January inauguration, President Trump naturally issues official pardons for the plethora of ‘charges’ he, himself, faces at the hands of the Democrats. Surprisingly, they stopped short at breathing!
Ah, consistency. The lack of in this egocentric world increasingly devoid of a moral compass. Hold on, though, 2025 is coming and at long last, methinks, the tide is turning.
‘I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and I believe in miracles.’
Audrey Hepburn
Me, too, Audrey. Me, too.
This is Trish, signing off.
