Graffiti

When I was about 15years old I went out one evening with one of my oldest friends for a wander around the 'hood - as you do. We didn’t have a lot planned – only so much you can do on a Friday night when you’re a skint pubescent – so we ended up meeting up with a friend of his who was really into graffiti. Cool. 

Ahem…

So out we went to scrawl something insignificant on some motorway pillar or whatever. At the time I was pretty fascinated by it all. We watched ‘Johnny’ ‘paint’ something or other on this pillar underneath the motorway and by the end, I was expected to regard his artwork (that’s what they like to call it) as sheer genius.

I was so taken aback at this mindless vandalism that the street significance of this vague form of art passed me by. So much so that I asked the ‘artist’ himself why he didn’t sign his name at the bottom…? Apparently, he had ‘drawn’ a tag which was a signature albeit a vague and irrelevant one to me.

So that was my introduction to the world of graffiti and after that, I realised that it wasn't for me. In fact, since then I have regarded every piece of graffiti I have ever had the misfortune to see as not only vandalism but also a rather unsightly mess.

There are legendary bits of graffiti near me and the ‘artists’ who scrawled them in a haze of magic mushrooms or even strong cider back in the early 80s still pat themselves on the back every time they drive by their work

LED ZEP HASH is certainly one whose presence has been on the railway bridge above the Peugeot garage for as long as I can remember.

My dislike for graffiti was brought to a head one evening when after a few beers at the local we walked out and saw for the umpteenth time a pathetic scrawl in red spray paint saying the immortal words JESUS LOVES YOU.

I had walked past this piece of religious encouragement for as long as I could remember but after a particularly heavy chat one night about religion, we deduced that the boys and I were in fact born-again atheists and it had to go.

We weren't sure how to counteract this ‘in your face’ religious slant but after minimal consideration, we popped back to my place, grabbed a can of Hammerite and in the blink of an eye changed their beloved slogan into something slightly more sinister. Now reading JESUS LOVES YOUR MONEY we walked away contented that we’d swung the balance back to neutral.

The following morning, however, I happened to walk past the station wall to see that our counter-activity had been sabotaged. Returned back to its original state, the Christian slogan had been restored in all its glory leaving no evidence of our work at all. 

Perhaps it was the work of God...?

We weren't having that. 

We’d done our time discussing at length our religious views and having reached our conclusion were highly irritated that those who had gone down the same path and reached their conclusion were able to air their choice and we weren't.

So we hatched a plan. At 2am one Saturday evening after a veritable skin-full we decided to pop into a fellow accomplice’s dad’s garage and get some tools to seek our revenge. Armed with the necessary equipment we assembled at 2.30am on either side of the 100m long bridge. With two more accomplices keeping guard at each end we waited for the all-clear and, clad in balaclavas we went to work.

Within a couple of minutes, we were done, back in the car and miles away before the paint was dry. In response to three 12-inch high words scrawled in red paint on an old wooden fence, our contribution to this religious conversation was: 

JESUS DIED FOR HIS OWN SINS - NOT MINE!

Pretty heavy eh?

We managed, to our credit to work well together without a spelling mistake or a word out of place and walked away pleased with our message. We'd writen this message in 8-foot-high lettering (I forget the exact font) and done with 9" rollers in pure brilliant white deluxe emulsion.  

It was sure to rock the very affluent area's residents. Front page of the Surrey Herald?!! 

I cycled past at 10am the following morning to check out our handiwork but it was long gone. Not a trace.

In seven and a half hours someone had spotted our slander, managed to contact the authorities and within their power they had managed to find someone not only with a sandblaster but who was prepared to use it at 6am Sunday morning. Fair play.

Our notoriety was short-lived.

Maybe it was a sign. My original hatred for the so-called ‘art form’ had been contradicted by my crime. My infamy was short-lived – four and a half hours in fact – and I was a little gutted that the impact I had been hoping for whilst I lay in my bed at 3am that morning was kept to a minimum.

Perhaps this is the reason why I have not only changed my view but have found myself loathing graffiti more and more. The older I get I realise that although the message I was hoping to convey was powerful and brash there are better and more effective ways to get it across.

I went to Rome recently and had a lovely time. We saw the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican and all the ancient pillars I could handle. It was awe-inspiring. To think that some of these pillars could date back a thousand years before the ‘Son of God’ was even a twinkle in his dad’s eye was just mind-blowing.

But why oh why do the delinquent youths of Roma have to sprinkle their mindless multi-coloured piss-in-a-can over it all? It’s such a shame.

Giorgio! Giovanni! Guiseppe! I can only assume had been scrawled over every ancient monolith and it frankly ruined my entire experience of one of the world's greatest ancient cities.

And it begs the question, “What’s the point?”

If you followed me around the Underground of London whilst I wrote with an indelible pen DAVE everywhere, you would wonder what had gotten into me, wouldn’t you?

For some reason, this behaviour appears to be considered ‘quite cool’ within the street kid fraternity. I blame the parents. But even with this failsafe logic I still can’t see the attraction. You hop on the train anywhere in the world and for miles and miles some aberrant youth has considered it a worthy Saturday afternoon spent to write his ‘TAG” in large silver spray paint every 25 yards along the track. GARY or WINSTON or whatever is strewn in the identically illegible typeface – you know the one – down the entire stretch of the Waterloo to Portsmouth line.

So what does it achieve? I’ll tell you what it achieves – nothing. Nothing but tens of millions of pounds of tax-payer’s money to remove this diatribe from the walls of your ‘hood. 

At least my message had a sentiment!

What worries me most is that although the current government acknowledges this art form as a major financial, social and political issue the governing body of the 2012 London Olympics has taken upon itself in its wisdom to condone this behaviour in such a way as to actually celebrate the work of these criminals by using their work as its official slogan for the event itself. Look it up – it’s terrible.

How many graffiti artists will now use the 2012 London Olympic slogan as an excuse to celebrate their ‘work’?

Carte blanche you say?

Think about it.

CK

Is it really all ‘their’ fault?

I live several yards away from a very busy and popular shopping centre and almost every day I walk up there to see people piling out of shops armed beyond their capability with so many bags it's astounding.

Where do these people get ‘their money’ from?

I can’t believe every shopper out there is spending money they have saved and saved over the last few months in order to treat themselves to a new coat and boots for the winter.

That would be the old days surely? The days when money actually meant something you had. Something you’d worked for and the rewards were so much more satisfying.

The days when financial institutions didn’t just send you a credit card with an available credit limit of £4000 for your spending pleasure.

That’s what happened to me in 2004. Without even applying for it, a shiny new ‘Platinum‘ credit card with 0% interest for a whole year made its way into my house and into my wallet and before I knew it the thing was maxed out and my head was spinning.

Thankfully, I had notched up a healthy £4k debt in record time and was now considered prime fodder for any financial institution to prey on. Credit card offers were thrown at me often weighing down the shoulders of my local postman. These cards would come through my door offering me all manner of tantalising options to make my life a simpler, more efficient - happier place. 

I soon had three more cards with even more available credit on board and I was cleverly going to transfer the existing debt thus extending my ‘free’ interest period for a further year. Genius. Even the 5% transfer fee seemed a good deal so on I went. I thought I had pulled a fast one on these people but within 3 years I was the proud owner of six credit cards with a grand total of £12,000 outstanding between them.

Then the clever bit starts… when you call up asking for an extension of the promotional rate of 0%, alas they can’t offer that rate any longer as you inadvertently missed a payment on one of the many cards a year or so ago so the best they can do offer is 35% APR.

So here I am with over £12,000 worth of debt and not a great deal to show for it either and it’s all someone else’s fault… isn’t it?

People of the United Kingdom, we are being fobbed off on a daily basis with the story that the country is in its current state of financial turmoil because of poor old Gordon Brown. Is it really his fault?

I am not the only person out there who can share this sorry tale of personal financial woe and I’m sure there are worse tales that make my story pale into insignificance. But isn’t it time we started to make ourselves accountable for our own financial problems?

Perhaps that particular credit card company shouldn’t have ‘given’ me a card without actually applying for it but was it them who signed their name when I fancied a new pair of trainers? Or them who fancied a diving trip to Egypt when I knew my bank account was already in its overdraft?

No. I’m not blaming the credit card companies. This is all my fault and I guess that’s what makes it hard to swallow. If I could point the finger at someone and say “Oi, you! This is all your fault – sort it!” then I would but even Nicky Campbell can’t get me out of this one.

I feel it’s time for the people of the United Kingdom and beyond to hold themselves responsible and accountable for their own finances and stop trying to point the finger at someone else.

Confessions of a Part-Time Caddy

Twice a year I call up Wentworth Golf Club and put my name down to caddy in the Pro-Ams. The Wednesday before either the PGA Championships in May or the World Matchplay in October, Europe’s Premier Club puts on a cracking day out for all who participate.

It’s always a jolly affair and gives you a chance, not only to see how it’s done by the best players in the world but the honour of being able to interact with them on the way around.

In the past, I have been out with Peter O’Malley, Eduardo Romero and Padraig Harrington – all of whom were extremely personable, informative and good fun. O’Malley hasn’t missed a fairway since ’81 which made for an easy afternoon for us caddies, Eduardo is so laid back it’s a wonder he can be bothered to hit the ball at all and Paddy, amongst other tips, gave us all a really useful chipping lesson – a trait I have adopted myself and since passed on with much gratitude from my peers.

I must, at this point admit that when you accept a job as a caddy at the Pro-Am you aren’t actually caddying for the competing Professional himself but for one of three or four select members of a team who have entered the day through a ballot and ultimately represent a company or esteemed group of individuals fortunate enough to find themselves playing 18holes with the World’s top golfers.

In 2008 I called up a few weeks before the HSBC World Matchplay and asked the concierge (the modern way of saying ‘caddy-master’ these days - apparently) and asked if my good friend, Tim and I could go out with Paul Casey. He’s a local lad to my hometown of Weybridge and went to college with Tim. 

We turned up bright and early and to our joy were paired up with Casey. They hadn’t seen each other since college and Tim strategically left it until the 7^th hole before reintroducing himself with a gripe at the Pro’s poor putting. It was a ‘better-ball’ scoring system and Casey missed a 3-footer to put the team under par for the first time that day. Tim then cynically pointed out that any muppet could get those in and how could he have possibly missed. I don’t think Casey is used to banter on the course and looked up in disgust only to find my friend’s Cheshire cat grin and winking eye. A hearty handshake from the man with the European Tour’s largest forearms ensued and the ice was broken.

From then on we had a cracking afternoon. Casey was in fine humour and fine form. Reminiscing with Tim seemed to relax Paul no end and receiving humorous banter for mediocre shots from the rest of us only spurred him on to produce some absolute magic. 

The corporate guys we were caddying for were dreadful, which made for an extremely jovial affair and towards the end, we were taking bets as to how many shots over their respective handicaps they were going to take to get the ball in the hole rather than congratulating them for doing it in so few.

Casey’s caddy, Craig is a great guy with a typically Scottish, wicked and dry sense of humour and also one of the best caddies on tour. Even though the Pro-Ams are ultimately a PR exercise for the event sponsor and player, Craig was still pacing out obvious yardages whilst assuring his employer he had the right club in his hand and the light-hearted duo conducted themselves with dignity and professionalism throughout the day.

Paul Casey went on to win a million pounds that week. I don’t want to take any credit but he did mention, when interviewed, that he felt very relaxed all week and really enjoyed himself… you do the math.

A couple of years ago I had the privilege of a day out with Sweden’s Johan Edfors in the BMW PGA Championships on the West Course at Wentworth. This time it was a more star-studded affair with the South African cricket ‘legend,’ Barry Richards (I invert the commas purely because the tight so and so was a little frugal when it came to tipping his caddy), Setanta Sport’s Shane O’Donoghue and bringing up the rear, Jimmy Tarbuck. As you can imagine, it was a terrifically entertaining day out with Tarbuck’s wisecracks and our mutual admiration for Edfors’ length off the tee keeping us all laughing all afternoon.

Last year’s Pro-Am for the HSBC World Matchplay was by far the best I have participated in and it should never really have happened; I had left it to the very last minute and called up the concierge after a few too many light ales the night before in Weybridge – little of which I remember – at 7.30am to ask if the Pro-Am required any caddies. I was greeted with a resounding, “No – got plenty of caddies, mate.” I contemplated returning to bed but the weather was lovely and I thought, on the off chance some kid doesn’t show up, I’ll squeeze in there.

So I pulled up to Europe’s Premier Club around 9am, went straight to the concierge office and joined the lengthy queue. Caddying is a strange hobby/career and attracts all sorts of people. It pays quite well for 5 hours work and requires no contract and no time or date restrictions and subsequently attracts all manner of differing people from very differing backgrounds – not all of whom have a clue about golf or caddying but seem to have made a career out of the profession all the same.

The queue dispersed and eventually I reached the front. I looked at the list and noted most of the names and places had been taken and feared I may have wasted my time. After an awkward delay, I was handed a caddy bib and a name on a Wentworth complimentary slip - standard procedure. I was thankful to get a job for the day but when the Head Concierge said, “You’re out with Monty, Henman and the CEO of HSBC, Giles Morgan.” I knew I was in for a good day.

Having caddied at Wentworth for many years now you start to recognise the officials, scorers and greens staff every time. I caught up with a few I’d been out with before, had a chat and a coffee and waited for the teams to turn up.

It’s always a shotgun start at the Pro-Ams as the sheer volume of players couldn’t possibly go off from the first tee in one day. All 24 teams with one competing pro and four amateurs are escorted to their respective starting blocks in various Toyotas - HSBC’s partners - whilst us mere caddies have to walk. Thankfully for me, only one hole back.

As a keen, if not slightly obsessive follower of the game I knew that Colin Montgomerie had drawn the surrogate local boy, Ernie Els in the first round of the matchplay tournament the following day but I didn’t know Monty was in the team behind the big South African and both starting from the same tee - this was going to be interesting.

Ernie has lived on the Wentworth Estate for many years now and, having won the World Matchplay six times, naturally, is an honorary member of the club. He lives just off the 16^th fairway and has contributed considerably to the design of the new course introducing an influx of bunkers and additional length the West Course has received in the last few years and was clearly favourite for the match-up.

In fact a few years ago whilst playing the West Course, Ernie wandered out of his garden gate and armed with a driver in one hand and half a dozen balls in the other asked if he could borrow a tee. I naturally obliged the big South African and watched him clout them a million miles the wrong way up the 15^th fairway.

The shotgun was due to fire at noon and at ten to, Ernie ambled up the 18^th fairway as only he can and pulled out one of Callaway’s new square-headed drivers. His practice swing was, as ever, inspiringly effortless whilst also creating some sound-breaking club head speed. As he waited for his cue, Monty rocked up to a hearty welcome from us all, and the two Goliaths of European Golf shook hands with obvious mutual respect.

Ernie was due to depart the 18^th tee first and after the sound of a flare in the direction of the clubhouse, duly pounded his drive miles away out of sight. He looked around for a sign of trepidation from Monty but you don’t win The European Tour Order of Merit eight times without knowing how to deal with your opponents. The 'Big Easy' was met with a sharp intake of breath and, “Ooh, just slipped in the bunker, Ernie…” and a wry grin of course.

Our gang of disciples acquainted themselves and departed the 18^th tee shortly after Mr. Els. I was carrying Giles Morgan’s bag – an old battered set of sticks, the brand of which, even Monty hadn’t heard of. Thankfully it was a small carry bag with a half set within and weighed next to nothing – perfect. I’ve had lead-lined tour bags before with more than the requisite 14 clubs and eight different sets of water-proofs, not to mention two umbrellas and several dozen golf balls – this was, literally, going to be a walk in the park.

When starting at the 18^th you naturally get to the 1^st tee fairly sharply and the awaiting crowds with cameras at the ready were anticipating the company I had the pleasure of being amongst. The Master of Ceremonies introduced Colin, Tim and the rest of the amateurs, which allowed me to associate their names with their roles. Every team entered either has an affiliation with the Sponsors, Club or has entered their team through a ballot. My ‘boss’ for the day was Giles Morgan, the Director of Sponsorship for HSBC International. He was going to be a busy man this weekend.

The first tee at Wentworth Golf Club is probably the most daunting you can experience on the European Tour; with the MC stopping traffic on either side of the tee – usually Astons and Ferraris that instantly recommend anything but a shank or a snap-hook - the haunting castle-like clubhouse looming behind you and the hoards of spectators watching your every move, I think the amateurs were thankful to biff one away down the fairway.

HSBC took this opportunity to photograph the teams in front of the esteemed clubhouse and, drivers in hand, the boys looked great. It was only halfway down the first fairway when Monty’s caddy approached me with an outstretched hand and a wide smile, and said, “Chris, isn’t it?” it had only just occurred to me that Paul Casey’s caddy had been snatched by Monty earlier in the year. It was nice to be remembered as we’d had a good laugh with Craig this time a year ago.

The beautiful thing about the day was how relaxed Monty was. He was laughing and joking with all of us and interacting with the spectators following the group too. Every time he hit a good drive he’d ask whether we thought Ernie, up ahead, might have seen it and every time he hit one in the trees, he’d ask, hopefully, if Ernie was looking the other way. Occasionally when we had to wait for Els to move out of the way, Colin would wait to see whether he’d hold the finish after the ball had been hit – if so, it was a good’un and not good for Monty’s match the following day. He held his audience well and had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

Monty even found time between signing autographs to give us a few tips on how to hit out of the legendary Wentworth rough and demonstrated why he was using a large grip putter (for those who care it allows both hands to rest on the grip opposing each other thus limiting wrist movement). All of which was conducted with humour, laughter and total professionalism.

Throughout the afternoon I had the opportunity to ask Monty about all manner of interesting things; I am a golf geek at heart and questions like, “Why do you use graphite shafts, Colin?” “How’s life back in Scotland?” and “How’s Craig, your new caddy coming on?” were all answered courteously and fascinated me. Caddies often get a bit of a cold shoulder at these dos but not this time - it was nice to see the former European Tour Number 1 so comfortable and chatty when talking to a mere caddy like me. In fact, all the guys treated me with respect and seemed as interested in me as I was in them.

Tim Henman is an extremely nice guy who appeared to have no inhibitions when talking to anyone and seemed to be enjoying retirement enormously. He plays off +2 and was consistently out-driving Montgomerie (and hitting far more fairways too). Giles Morgan is also a really nice guy and even though he was no doubt in high demand over the day, he gave his full attention to the proceedings never once looking at his mobile phone.

We had a lovely retired couple volunteering as marshalls and a scorer on hand with her Blackberry to keep us up to date with the scores the other teams were achieving. By the 13^th hole we were in joint 23^rd place – last. Monty then chipped in from off the green with a glorious ‘Mickelson-esque’ flop shot to hearty applause and a welcome birdie was entered on the Blackberry. We thought we were on the way back until Monty struck two out of bounds on the notorious 17^th but he just smiled, made a few wisecracks to the crowd and inimitably strode on with his head held high and dignity intact.

Tim Henman had struck two mammoth woods to the front of the green and duly birdied one of golf’s most difficult par fives, making it a great way to finish and a check at the scores revealed we had made up some ground over the final few holes finishing 14^th at 6 under par. 

The relationship between Montgomerie, Craig, Giles, his two colleagues, Henman and myself was fantastic and it seemed a shame to shake hands at the end of the 17^th.

It’s not every day you spend an afternoon with two British sporting legends and have a genuinely good time in their revered company. I was lucky enough to not only be there but get paid for the privilege.

Colin Montgomerie was the consummate professional and everyone thoroughly enjoyed his company throughout the day. If this new temperament of his can last until the final Sunday of the Ryder Cup in October I can almost guarantee his troops at Celtic Manor will bring Sam Ryder’s Cup to the right side of the Atlantic - where it should be.

Chris Keeping

I never help myself do I?

Kirsty had asked me to join her for the Australian leg of the Ladies European Tour in 2009 and with only a few days to prepare for it I think I got a little too excited a little too early...

After a quick cuppa tea with Mum and a transfer of all my stuff into one easy suitcase, Roj drove me to the airport and I met Kirsty who lumbered me with her tour bag I’ll be hauling around for the next four weeks. The reason was to save on charges which the guy at check-in wasn’t sure I would. The next guy at the bag drop wasn’t sure I’d even get the clubs in Los Angeles or ever see them again for that matter. So I had a feeling there’d be a problem. I called Kirsty however to tell her everything was fine in a guy-to-girl ‘there there’ sort of style. She bought it.

Terminal 5 is great – everything is brand new and clean and efficient and works which is wicked. Settled into seat 47a without a hitch and watched freezing Britain disappear below me. I’m always baffled as to why people prefer middle seats or the aisle. The best views of the world are from the window of a plane aren’t they? I must have done 200 photos so far just from the comfort of my seat. A visual diary from the air. Anyway after watching three films and eating two meals, we arrived in LA just like that! It was a doddle.

So I eventually got through the retina scans and fingerprint analysis and American ‘Minority Report’ style bureaucracy and checked in my bag and Kirsty’s clubs again and with five hours to kill jumped onto a bus to Santa Monica.

With Cheryl Cole - or is it Sheryl Crow’s - ‘All I wanna do’ in my head, I sauntered down the boulevard and saw the carwash and met Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy peeling the labels of his bottle of Bud and whatever and wandered down the beach.

It’s lovely there. The beach is pure white sand and about 200 meters deep. Forgetting it was January I was a bit surprised to feel the Pacific Ocean a trifle chilly and not beckoning me to dive in – so I didn't. Beautiful though.

Why can't the Americans make decent beer? I drank half a pint of dreadful beer on the pier and poured the rest into the ocean below I wandered up the main street past the street performers and bums and middle-aged women with way too much make-up on in their fancy cars and entered a really cool bar with an NFL game showing. I sat down with a local brew - equally poor - and enjoyed watching a running back get clattered so hard on the field that he had to get helicoptered out of there – pretty serious if you bear in mind how much bloody padding those guys wear.

I got chatting about this incident with a couple called Travis and Morgan - girlfriend and boyfriend but sounded to me more like a clothing chain, building firm or car manufacturer. They were cool and loved the fact I was a caddy and all that jazz. We had a few beers there and then went over the road to a Mexican joint where Travis proceeded to buy 4-shot Margaritas at $25 a go. He was awfully proud to be in the oil business so I naturally let him buy. After a couple of these, I was genuinely hallucinating and found myself ‘coming up’ on the toilet. I was proper tripping out. Mescal and the little grub in the bottom are known for their 'lively' effects and I was getting it full bore. It's strong shit and I was chugging back four shots in every pint.

He knew I had a flight to catch but the drinks kept coming. Being the polite Brit I drained them and doing the usual Brit on tour thing I garnered their contact details and promised to meet them again someday. As if. I bid them both farewell. Thinking I could just hop back on the bus, I staggered up to the main highway again and got looking for a bus stop. I was on the wrong highway.

After 15 minutes of staring blankly at the timetable and not recognising anything in front of me - no matter how many versions I was seeing - I eventually found the right highway a few blocks away but by this time it was about 9pm and my flight was boarding in 45minutes – LAX was 45minutes away and then I needed a connecting bus to the terminal. I was getting a little worried.

There wasn’t a bus due for 20 minutes so I started hitching. Would you pick up a drunken Brit staggering backwards and banging into lampposts and falling into the road? It will come as no surprise to you that I didn’t get a ride. So I started to panic thinking I would a, miss my flight, b, let Kirsty down and more importantly be tempted to meet up with Travis and co for more of the same. 

Behind New York, Los Angeles is the taxi capital of the world, certainly of the US so I started hunting. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is the States, man! Every movie ever recorded has characters walking out of a building and a mere glance in the direction of the street gets them a yellow cab screeching to a halt in half a second. Me, here, at this hour? No chance.

A bus finally pulled over and I jumped on. It was 9.15 in the pm now. I was a little anxious and to quote Hemingway ‘a little tight’. I watched the LED clock in the front like a hawk ticking at twice the usual tempo and the bus getting no nearer the sodding airport. Every American on board wanted to get off 100 yards from the last person and every drunken vagrant wanted to get picked up at the stops they didn’t. The journey out that took 45 minutes was beginning to stretch over an hour to get back and I frankly didn’t have an hour. It was now 9.45pm and the flight was boarding. I was in Venice beach – 15 miles away.

Every cab that drove by looked like it might stop at the same lights as us so I got thinking I could hop off and get in but lady luck wasn't working tonight. Eventually, we pulled up at the bus depot and I asked the driver where I could get a taxi – he very helpfully took me to the rank around the corner.

I jumped into a cab and in my best English said,

‘Departures, please’

‘Huh?’

'Ahem, Departures please.’

‘Huh?’

Jesus.

‘DEPARTURES!!!’

‘Which terminal?’

God. ‘ I dunno. It doesn’t say on my ticket!’

‘Huh?’

Christ. ‘IT DOESN”T SAY!’

‘Huh?’

‘Just get me to the airport and I’ll figure it out you useless sonofabi…’

‘Hu…’

I got nearby, threw some Yankee shrapnel through the window and ran. It was 10.15pm and the flight was due to take off in half an hour.

In my haste to get to the gate, I bowled over some nine-foot black security guard and he wasn’t happy. He also wouldn’t let go of my ear until I had admitted that I was a rude English prick. Understandably. Under any other circumstances, I would have spat in his face and called him any number of obscenities but I was quite keen to get on the flight that was now leaving in 20.

I did my best to smile, kissed his J-Lo ass and then in a change of fortune he guided me through security the quick way.

Running all the way to the big white bird I heard my name being called several times over the tannoy. The humiliation. I kept hearing 'Last call for Mr Keeping...?' as I ran like Forrest Gump down the endless corridors to the furthest gate in LAX.

The stewardess had her hand on the door handle as I shimmied past her onto the plane. I swear I heard someone say, ‘There’s being late and there’s being a twat.’ from the flight deck as I sauntered by…

Stinking of Tequila and lime juice and sweating profusely to the point of an accompanying green cloud, I received a hearty applause for my tardy arrival and proceeded to bounce, swagger and sway my way through to row 86 (the Airbus 380 is a big plane).

Climbing across a delightful Aussie couple I planted my drunken ass in the seat at the back of the world’s biggest aeroplane and breathed a sigh of relief.

Never again.  

Well, until next time anyway.

===============

I'd been looking forward to flying on the Airbus 380 since its launch a few months before but had been dreading my first long-haul flight since 1999. Take-off was seamless, effortless and thoroughly enjoyable - apparently - I knew nothing about it. I passed out as soon as I sat down.

I awoke some 10 hours later to a very dry cactus-flavoured mouth and everyone on board sleeping like babies. We were still four hours away but I couldn’t care less. The flight I had been dreading for ten years had been a nightmare to board but a pleasure to sleep through. I'd given it some careful consideration when choosing my seat because nothing irritates me more than the guy behind you using your seat as a drum kit or mobility aid. The guy behind me on the London - LA flight was playing footsie with my chair and practising his jab on it in between so I figured I ought to maybe reserve a seat without anybody like that behind me. Hence the row 86 seat. No one behind me and plenty of room to recline - nice. I also packed some earplugs and a mask but in my drunken stupor, I didn't require them.

Everyone began to wake and after a minor issue with my onboard entertainment not working I enjoyed my continental breakfast and watched ‘Dark Knight’. It went on a bit for my liking but the accolades to the late Heath Ledger’s performance are spot on.

Then we landed. 15 hours had flown by - if you’ll excuse the pun – and I grabbed the camera in time to enjoy the pilot swing his 600-tonne bird over Sydney Harbour for us all to enjoy. Back in my second home again. Lovely.

As we were disembarking the plane I heard my name called again over the tannoy - much to my continued humiliation - asking me to contact the ground staff once through customs. Oh no – had they still got the ‘ump about me boarding late?

Similar to the US, Australian immigration is a nightmare and it took me an hour to get through. Even though we had landed ahead of schedule at 7.30am, by the time I got through it was gone 9am.

Kirsty had not put my entire name including the Walkden bit on my ticket so the Aussies were a bit suspicious of me. And who can blame them? I approached the ground staff who took me away and suggested the notion that if my name had been called out, I was going to be a bagless boy one way or the other. I was. Kirsty’s clubs hadn’t made it to LA on my plane. Feeling partly responsible possibly for my actions the night before I called her and told her the news. She understood but was naturally concerned. We were teeing off in two days at the NSW Open - without clubs, it might be tricky.

Qantas promised they were on the next flight in two hours’ time. I said I’d stick around for them but Kirsty wasn’t going to let me. So we arranged a delivery to her address later in the afternoon and hopped into her car and I got dropped off in Hyde Park in central Sydney.

Knowing my way around immediately I walked straight down George Street to the harbour and saw my favourite bridge again. The imaginatively named 'Harbour Bridge' is lovely. I bought a ticket on the Manly ferry like it was yesterday. The ferry left Circular Quay and pulled out parallel to the Harbour Bridge.

The ferries haven’t changed a bit in ten years and standing at the back of the busy boat I did my best not to look left until the optimum view appeared. When I knew the right moment presented itself I looked left and there she was. The Sydney Opera House in all her polar white glory. It’s such a beautiful structure and the perfect accompaniment to the Harbour Bridge adjacent to it and the city behind - so beautiful and so good to see it all again. 

When my sister lived with us in '99 we used to go into the city as often as we could whether it be by Manly ferry or train, bus, or car and every time we saw the Sydney Opera House we'd all cry out, "There she is!" Nostalgia's not what it used to be...

Arriving 40 minutes later in Manly was a journey back in time. The place hasn’t changed a bit. The turquoise water laps up the beach on the quayside and the unique pine and fir trees line the beaches on either side of the Corso swaying in the gentle breeze. It’s unique because none of the other beaches in Sydney have this beautiful contrast between sand, sea and flora and it makes Manly a bit special to me.

After enjoying the nostalgia of it all and reminiscing about times of yore, I found myself beginning to get tired and annoyed so I knew I needed to ditch my bag and go for a shower and/or a swim.

I found the backpackers I was looking for and checked in. The perfectly tanned girl at reception was probably a size 6 but seriously top-heavy. It was going to be a good place to stay.

I hopped in the lift up to my room to find a sign on the door from the management saying ‘Dear backpackers, this room is disgusting and if it is not cleaned and tidied today you will be evicted. How do you expect us to rent out the other beds when it is in this state? The management.’

They weren’t wrong. It was mingin'. I couldn’t even tell which bed was supposed to be mine for the week. It looked as though the Young Ones had moved into the one room, had one long continuous party for six months and gone out.

I'm not 18 years old anymore and knew what to do. I went straight into the ‘bathroom’ had a (cold) shower and shaved and went back downstairs to be British and complain. True to form I complied and stated my case to the girl with the ridiculous breasts and not only managed to get my $35 for the room back, not only my $10 deposit for the dirty, wet towel I was returning but a further $20 for the sheets they hadn’t given me and I hadn’t paid for! I walked out of that dump with my irate customer walk on, clean and fresh and $20 better off! I knew I was good at this travelling lark.

I spent the afternoon down the beach instead of worrying about accommodation. Those suitcases with wheels are a bit tricky to drag across the sand but he who dares and all that…

Several hours later and typically British I was burned to a crisp and wandered aimlessly around hoping to find a bed for less than $100 a night but knowing that the last crappy backpackers were knocking out single rooms at $110 I knew I’d struggle to get my own hotel room in high season for less.

I stumbled across another backpackers and at this stage was more than happy to spend $100 for a decent room to myself but after looking at the dormitory room with only one other person in it, I was sold. $30 a night too. Technically it only cost me $10 after my previous escapades so all was good.

It then occurred to me where I was. After ten years away, I was in my second home. I had lived in Manly for nearly a year in 1999 and, like everyone else who visits Australia on their student travels, I promised to return to live permanently as soon as I could.

Ten years had gone by and I couldn't believe it. All the hopes and dreams I'd had about starting a new life in Sydney had been forgotten about whilst slipping straight back into the old routine in England.

I spent a magical month in Australia with a brief scoot over to Christchurch for the NZ Open. I then hopped back on the A380 to return home to England in the depths of winter.

On the flight home, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. I had been asked to accompany my player and friend to the other side of the world and travel around my favourite country whilst doing a job I loved. I had spent time with friends and family I hadn't seen in ten years and had an amazing time without a single hiccup or costing me a bean. During the flight, I became extremely appreciative for being fit, healthy, free and able to do a trip like this.

I also felt an enormous sense of gratitude towards the aviation industry. Without the advances in technology and safety, I wouldn't have been able to enjoy a seamless month away and return safe and sound in luxury and comfort to my loved ones.

Thank you world - you made an occasionally grumpy sod very happy

CK

Q-School 2009

La Manga Qualifying School

December 2009

I first realised I’d under-researched the winter climate in southern Spain when I locked up the eight dead-bolts of my friend’s Costa Del Sol villa and turned around to see it was snowing.

As soon as I disembarked the plane the day before I started worrying how the only pair of trainers I brought with me was going to hold up for the week and being cautious to keep them as dry as possible for as long as possible, I inadvertently ran through a two-foot deep, freezing cold puddle. 

I planted the Ford Ka rental car in first and set off waiting for it to warm up enough to dry off my sodden feet on the 40-minute journey to La Manga Club.

The road out of the new complex is, as most of Spain has been for 40years, a building site and unlike in the developed world where they build the roads first to enable vehicles the faintest hope of getting to the site without falling on their side, Spain hasn’t quite figured that process out. Even though the complex is over 30 years old, the road still hasn’t been quite finished. ‘Mañana’ I suspect is the key word here.

So de-misting as I go down this obstacle course of a road back to the relative plane of the highway, It’s pretty bumpy and just as I’m trying to put on the seat belt, plug the iPod in and choose a song – all at once, naturally, I’m a man after all – I enter a huge lake of agua and the front right corner dips into a chasm and a massive bump-crash-bang-wallop shortly follows. 

It was hard to tell if I’d done any damage as the surface water was throwing the poor little Ka all over the shop but once I hit a ‘dry’ patch I realised that not only had I blown the front tyre but it was pretty much hanging off the rim.

I attempted to negotiate the weaving beast to the nearest petrol station to change the wheel under the confines of the canopy but the grinding of steel was overpowering the sound of Rage Against The Machine’s Christmas Number One, which was rather irritating. Knowing there was only one option, I pulled over and contemplated a fairly horrible forthcoming half-hour

I donned the golfing waterproofs but still concerned about my poor trainers potentially getting even wetter than an otter's pocket, I slipped on the trusty flip-flops and headed out into the dark, dank yonder.

It was atrocious. The rain was coming down so hard I had to duck as a Persian Blue and a German Shepherd nearly clocked me on the back of the head. I evaluated the damage - not much to look at really – one rusty tin wheel with a flat spot where I’d tried to continue with no rubber. The tyre was a hundred yards back in several pieces and the fresh, imitation brushed steel wheel trim had long since disappeared into the chasm below and will no doubt end up on some adolescent boy’s bedroom wall somewhere in darkest Villamartin come summertime.

I flipped open the boot and lifted up the carpet only to find the spare wheel was under the car and not in the warmth of the interior. I eventually found where Ford had decided to put the jack - it was on the inside but behind a wing nut that wouldn’t budge. Not one for carrying mole-grips everywhere I go, I knew I only had the strength of my rapidly numbing fingers to get this thing free. Twisting it with everything I had, it finally snapped free sending my knuckles into the sharp plastic of the rear light console splitting the blue cracked skin like a hot knife through butter. That didn’t help. Anyway, the jack was free and thankfully the men in brown coats at Ford had thought of attaching the brace to the jack itself – things were looking up.

Even Galvin Green couldn’t keep me dry and my shorts – I hadn’t envisaged Spain being this inclement, you understand - were soaking by this point and frosting up a little around the edges. 

Crouching down, I undid the wheel nuts and cranked up the front corner of the car. As I was releasing the welded-on nuts I looked down to see a rapid torrent of water flowing over my naked feet. They were so numb I couldn’t really feel them. I let out a huge belly guffaw and carried on removing the nuts and laying them on the ground only to watch them head off down the torrent like a white water raft. I ran after them as fast as you can in flip flops with numb feet and dived on them before they reached the open drain.

Peeling myself out of the gutter I was now pretty much wet through and the funny side of it all was wearing thin.

A jacked up the car enough for the wheel to spin freely and went to get the spare wheel. What a palaver. To release it I had to get the brace out I’d thrown in the freezing river and undo in quarter turns a connecting bolt under the car. This meant going down on all fours, just what I fancied. Laying my nobbly knees into the fast-flowing arctic water I let out a further chortle and, unsure whether to laugh or cry, got on with it.

It did occur to me that in the warm confines of the car (I’d left the thing running for future comfort) I had the telephone number of the breakdown company and would have gone through all of this at the touch of a button. Unfortunately, time was the key and I had to be at the club in half an hour, it was 40 minutes away and I only had three wheels…

This connecting rod was longer than one of Vijay Singh’s drivers, I swear. It turned and turned and turned and still, it wouldn’t release the wheel below. I got so cold I had to go and sit in the car for a minute with my shaking hands firmly clamping the hot air outlets on the dash.

Feeling relatively restored I took a deep breath and ventured back out there. I may be using a touch of poetic licence here but I can’t begin to tell you how horrendous it was out there.

The last time I had to endure such a horrible experience was a few years ago in Andorra...

After 15 hours driving through the beautiful French countryside with its smooth, straight roads, we hit the outer limits of our country of destination and the snow turned up. The climb into the mountains should have given us a hint of what might be coming up and perhaps the fact we were going on a snowboarding holiday but hey – we were British and on holiday – not the sharpest combination.

We found out the hard way that the 3.2-litre rear-wheel drive Jaguar XJ6 was going to be about as much good getting up the icy mountain roads as playing golf without a ball until we installed snow chains.

Neither of us had even contemplated this being a necessity so we bought them at ‘Brit on holiday rate’ from some money-grabbing French cochon who saw our wallets coming a mile away and I went about getting them on the car.

By the time we thought we’d actually need them rather than put them on ‘cause everyone else had them on – again typical British stubbornness – we were at 10,000 feet on a deserted mountain path going the wrong way. My co-pilot, Tim is good at many things but putting on snow chains at 8,000 feet in -17degrees is not one of them. As he sat in the temperate climes of the leather heated seat interior of the '94 Jag drinking Bière 33 and wailing the occasional word of encouragement out the millimetre of window he bravely opened, I was out inappropriately dressed trying to install the world’s most complicated Pyrenean motoring accessory.

It was so cold I had to run into the car every couple of minutes not only to warm my hands up on the dash vents but to change the music – the last thing I needed when being faced with the conditions I was working in was to hear a muffled Craig David talking about how much jiggy-jiggy he was having that week…

It was very dark by this stage and I was not only cold but regardless of how many beers Tim passed me out through the smallest opening of the rear door he could manage, the funny side was beginning to subside. At 10pm I finally clipped the second chain on and secured it. Climbing back into the oven again Tim asked me what the hell I’d been doing out there for the last hour and a half… friends…

So there I am turning and turning this infernal bolt and then it finally drops releasing several kilos of rubber and steel straight south onto the metatarsals of my frozen right foot. Could’ve done without that. Daring to look down I thought the whole appendage might have just snapped off – it was frozen enough to. I wouldn’t have felt it if it had.

Yanking the wheel free I ran around the front and whipped the old wheel off before grabbing the new one to put it on. To make matters worse I couldn’t line up the bolts because I’d left the engine running and whenever I let go of the hub it turned slightly – only slowly but annoying enough for me to hurl the wheel in the river and yank open the door to turn the engine off.

Silence ensued. I banged the new wheel into place, my numb hands tightened up the bolts as best they could and I hurled the tools in the boot with some gusto before driving away as fast as I could hoping to warm up the interior enough to thaw me out. I was close to frostbite I reckon. Freezing cold, shaking, shivering, wet through, black and blue and bleeding from my right foot and both knuckles.

I arrived at La Manga club some half an hour later marginally more alive only to be told the weather was so bad they cancelled the day’s play.

Triffic.

Chris Keeping