Falling in Love with Brighton… Again. 

Having just spent two months living in my old ‘hood, I have returned to sunny Brighton with a renewed affection for the joint.

As I walked around the recreation ground in Hove with my pooch this morning, I could see the English Channel peering over the trees and hedges on the north side of Old Shoreham Road, the windmills out to sea were turning at their usual leisurely pace and further east, the British Airways i360 was just starting its first flight of the day. 

There’s always been something about Brighton and Hove that draws me back to its shores every time. This morning it dawned on me. 

I left the family home in Weybridge, Surrey some thirty years ago and in that time have lived around Guildford and Epsom and fortunate enough to have spent the last ten years flitting between the UK and the French Alps. 

Living in the Alps gives you a daily dose of environmental appreciation. The views are always spectacular and there isn’t a moment in any hour of any day when you don’t find yourself staring in disbelief at the sheer magnitude and beauty of the all encompassing scenery. 

I was recuperating from a major shoulder operation with my folks in Weybridge and even managed (one handed) to scrawl a thousand words for the Parish Magazine my father works on, all about how the town has changed since my misspent youth. 

Weybridge is, as the name might suggest built around the River Wey and therefore, naturally has a bridge. Said waterway joins the River Thames and subsequently its numerous islands and canals make a very pretty little town. As everything has in over a quarter of a century, the town has changed but apart from losing over half its old pubs and now having more cars than people, it’s still a gorgeous old town.

It was only this morning as I walked around the Hove Recreation Ground that I realised what it was about the Alps and Brighton that has always been missing in Weybridge. 

A good view.

As I revelled in this morning’s auburn light appreciating the expanse of the world’s busiest shipping lane, it dawned on me how much I love seeing nature being nature. Whether it be the contrast of where the land meets the sea or the ever-changing majesty of the mountains, you just can’t get that earthly connection in south west London. 

I love the fact you can watch the sun come up over Newhaven and follow it all day as it drifts from the east before finally dipping into the sea over Worthing Pier. I haven’t ever even known which way north was in Weybridge! Even as I walked around the town for the past two months I rarely had any idea what celestial direction I was heading in. 

You don’t have that problem here in Brighton. You’ll rarely meet anyone in Brighton who has no idea which way south is. I realise the south coast isn’t exactly perpendicular to the south pole but roughly speaking if you stand on the beach and look at the left hand windmill you’re not far off. 

I even went for run last evening up the Downs and again revelled in the evening sun dipping out to sea lighting up the sky before saying good night. There’s a drama to it you don’t get everywhere in the UK. 

I don’t care what anyone says, we DO have a micro climate here in Brighton and to savour the sun rising and falling, especially into the sea at both ends of the day is one of the most captivating and enlightening sights a man can have. 

It's one of the main reasons I love coming back to Brighton. 

It’s my home now and I shan’t be leaving anytime soon. 

CK

Chapter II 

First week on tour 

My relatively cheap last-minute easyJet flight to Faro landed right on cue and I managed to get a bus to the golf course to meet my new boss. At 11am that Wednesday morning I hauled Johanna Westerberg’s weighty tour bag on to my shoulder and all of a sudden I felt like a professional tour caddy. 

We walked down to the range and then the vision hit me again; dozens of beautiful ladies striking golf balls into the mid-morning deep blue Algarve sky. The sun was coming up over the fir trees behind and with my sunglasses donned I watched/gawped in awe. In true Hollywood fashion, I asked the guy next to me to pinch me in case I was dreaming.

Johanna interrupted my drooling and asked me to go and buy a yardage booklet. Wiping my chin I went to the pro shop and bought a standard issue Strokesaver and returned to her with a sense of achievement. My satisfaction was short-lived as I was told that I’d bought the wrong book and that a guy would be lurking around the clubhouse selling a customised book designed purely for the event that week. 

Feeling rather foolish I returned to the clubhouse to locate said vendor and then spent my time on the range looking at this fascinating guide. Unlike the Strokesavers you buy from your local professional, these books are pretty complex. There is a yardage from almost every known and recognisable point of each hole. None of which made sense to me as I stood there watching Johanna biffing ball after ball into the dark blue sky. 

I was a complete novice and stood out like a sore thumb. I had no idea what I was doing and my imposter syndrome was rife. As a single-figure golfer and a regular caddy at Wentworth and Sunningdale, I thought I knew all there was to know about golf but out here on tour where every shot mattered, my inexperience was obvious. 

Golf to me was playing what my friends and I have always described as either casual/pub golf or ready golf. If you’re ready – hit it, that sort of thing. We don't get too hung up about whose honour it might be or measuring who's furthest from the hole etc. Unless of course, we're playing in a tense match when psychology/gamesmanship takes over somewhat. 

I also stood out sartorially. I was wearing a pair of cargo shorts and a white t-shirt. Trainer socks, grubby trainers and an old baseball cap. I looked like I was going for sunny day's army training camp session. Looking at the other caddies around me I was a little too casual. They all had pristine polo shirts tucked in to tailored shorts with clean, pulled-up ankle socks and brand new trainers. Some of them were clearly sponsored; top to toe in Nike, Under Armour or Adidas, I was green with envy. 

  

Was I was feeling  little scruffy and Johanna warmed up, she asked me if I had walked the course. I replied, “What for?”. She raised an eyebrow and turned away. She suggested that before we embark on a practice round it’s customary for the caddy to have walked the course with the yardage book and taken some notes. 

Seemed a little over the top to me. And anyway we didn't have time now.

I was still on cloud nine and not really any closer to understanding what I, as the caddy of potentially one of Sweden’s best golfers was supposed to do other than carry the bag. So with precious minutes until our tee time, I was left with no choice other than to wing it – usual style.

Half an hour later we wandered to the first tee and after a brief discussion to determine a line with her hapless caddy, Johanna duly launched her Callaway HX Tour ball straight down the throat of the target I had made up on the spot. 

  

In the nick of time, it dawned on me what the dots and/or numbers in the book corresponded to when we happened to land right next to a red spray-painted dot in the middle of the first fairway. Looking at her yardage book, Johanna said, “Ok, we have 180 metres to the front and the pin is 15 on… What do you think, Chris?”

Mesmerised by her beautiful blue eyes all I could do was gulp.

I'd never had to figure out how far a metre was in golfing terms either. In the UK we use yards. When I play I rarely even look at the 150-yard marker. I suppose I am a 'feel' player. I can look at the flag and determine what club I think will get me there. Strokesaver yardage books were only ever to tell me roughly in which direction to hit it off the tee and if there were any water hazards or bunkers I ought to be aware of. 

Scrambling through my pea-brain, my first instinct was to just to whack a 5-wood down there and see what happened - that’s how I play - but I had a feeling Johanna was after a more reliable strategy. She suggested she play a 5-iron down the middle thus laying up short of the large bunker wrapping itself around the front of the green ahead. “Yeah, ok.” was my helpful advice.

Johanna opted for security and laid up nicely clipping a 6-iron in the end to leave a favoured yardage to the flag. This play, I would never have thought of doing. In my game, the ethos is always to get it as close to the green from whatever distance away - even if it meant smashing down on a driver off the deck - to leave an up and down for a potential birdie. Playing the percentages has never been an option. I didn't even know it was an option. 

Johanna’s third shot needed no advice from me. She'd left her ideal yardage and chucked a lob wedge that spun delicately next to the pin and she confidently rolled the birdie in - a solid start. 

I struggled a bit with the yardage book, which tested my mental arithmetic for the first time in years. When the ball was seven paces in front of the red dot on the fairway, I would often add seven metres to the distance rather than taking it off. Johanna’s tolerance level towards me was incredible. It was only halfway through the third round when once again I made the same mistake that she got ever so slightly irritated with my inability to grasp the principle of relatively simple math. 

She biffed it around the hilly and typically Portuguese links with consummate ease in our practice round and at the end gave me a fairly sincere hug and told me we had a 9.10 tee time tomorrow morning and that she’d see me on the range at 8am.

I clicked my heels back to the clubhouse, grabbed my suitcase and thought it best to look for somewhere to stay. 

After much ado on the internet, I found myself a little studio not far from the course and settled in quite nicely in a rather lavish setting. I knocked up some pasta, had a couple of beers by the pool in the setting sun and patted myself on the back. 

I could get used to this.

                                                   -------------------------

  

The following day we teed it up in the glorious Portuguese sun with Joanne Mills and her caddy Craig. Watching Craig was a real eye-opener for me. He hadn’t been caddying long but was a single-figure golfer and had already notched up a win with Jo at last year’s Wales Open. He was regarded as one of the good guys out here. 

Standing on the first tee, we were announced by the starter as ‘the 9:10’ group and that we could commence play when ready. At this point I recall Craig saying the simplest words. “Play well, girls.” I thought this was a simple but lovely thing to say. I’ve been saying it ever since. 

I learned several simple caddying lessons over the first two days one of which was when I staggered ahead in the sweltering 35-degree summer heat to the drinks cooler to drown myself in cold water. Craig wandered over and, tapping me on the shoulder muttered that perhaps Johanna would like a drink before me. This little lesson introduced me to the principle that whatever I was feeling should always be secondary to that of my player - a valuable lesson for all caddies on whichever tour. 

Halfway through round two, Johanna was playing rather well. We were five under par for the tournament and going in the right direction. She had birdied three of the first seven holes and was marching up the leaderboard nicely. We stood on the par three 8^th tee with 145 metres to the pin and discussed that perhaps a 6-iron straight at the flag would be the requisite club. It was at that point I detected a little insecurity in her mannerisms as she warmed up to the task at hand and I couldn’t figure out why. We’d hit the same club three holes before with a yard less and she’d parked it up six feet away. Even birdied it. Only when I looked up and saw Spielberg and his team flocking around the back of the tee and the green ahead that I too felt her anxiety. 

When you’re playing well, news travels fast. Apparently. The camera crew had heard Johanna was on a charge and wanted to capture every shot. It was almost as if I’d turned to her and said, “You’re having the round of your life aren’t you?!!” She was all of a sudden aware of the round in progress and the scale of it had hit her. She had changed from the cool, calm, in-control player to someone conscious of her performance and surroundings. 

Something was going to go wrong. 

She eventually hit the 6-iron and as it spun through the blue sky it looked spot on. Straight at the pin it flew and then disappeared. She looked aghast at me as if I’d hit the ball and asked me where it went. I cowardly said, “Dunno.” ducked my head and picked up the bag. 

We got to the green and lo and behold the ball was lodged on an upslope behind the green with an almost impossible lie. She then turned to me and asked what on earth we were doing aiming for the back pin when there were acres of green in front to put it. I didn’t really have an answer but inside I know when you’re playing well, you go for everything don’t you? Clearly not. 

The cameras were all over her now and she took quite a long time figuring out how to execute her first test of the week. An eternity later - for her - she duffed it three feet leaving the ball still within the sticky clutches of the hillside. She was fuming now. Rightly so. Her efforts over the front nine were coming apart and not only did she know it but the cameras were picking it all up. Even the blueing Swedish language.  

With our playing partners safely on the green and not knowing where to look, Johanna played it again and, credit to her short game nearly holed it. The ball wandered agonisingly past the hole even dipping in to glance at the bottom of the cup. Playing from the back of the green the dance floor dips from back to front and the ball kept rolling and rolling away down towards the front of the green. Johanna hurled the lob wedge at me and snatched the putter out of the bag marching heavy-footed across the putting surface towards the ball. She marked it and then threw the ball at me to clean it. In a manner the New York Yankees would be proud of I caught it without causing too much fuss albeit with a little wince. 

I let her read the putt this time as I didn’t want to be responsible for any further calamity and she rolled a decent effort towards the hole. Not a million miles away but sadly not in. She tapped in for a double bogey and solemnly walked towards the edge of the green. 

Johanna is a lady and a professional. Many players would have hurled the putter at the bag and stormed off towards the next tee but Johanna calmly put the head cover back on, placed the putter back in the bag and watched her playing partners finish the hole, congratulating them both for their pars before walking towards the ninth. 

She asked me again why we didn’t play a seven iron to the middle of the green. I assumed this was a rhetorical question and stayed schtum. Cowardly I know but it seemed like the best thing to do. 

With numerous other calamities littering the week’s efforts with frequent yardage mistakes from her moist behind-the-lugs caddy, we did, miraculously have quite a good result. Considering only half of Team Westerberg had a clue what they were doing, we finished 11^th overall with an 11-under-par total. She even shot a load of birdies and eagled the 18^th in the final round to complete the week. 

I had a great time off the course too making myself at home in my little studio flat a few miles from the course reading books and enjoying the sun on the balcony. The adjoining pool was a delight and the local brew hardly broke the bank at 30 cents a bottle. 

 “Work” surely couldn’t get any better than this.

My boss played her cards fairly close to her chest and didn’t let on at all whether our week together was a one-off or if she cared for my services on a more regular, even permanent basis. When she dropped me off at the complex again on the Sunday afternoon after the completion of the event, she drove off saying she’d call or text me later as they were in a bit of a hurry to catch their plane. 

With about five hours to kill before I even had to consider heading for the airport, I dug into my bag and found about €4.20 that, thanks mainly to the 30c a bottle beer ‘UP!’ got me remarkably drunk whilst I sat around the pool soaking up the Portuguese summer sun.   

Having not heard from Johanna at all I found myself a little morose at the prospect of having come all this way, done. a good job, got myself all excited about a possible career as her faithful caddy and then not so much as a thank you.

As the ‘UP!’ beer flowed through my veins I began to feel unsurprisingly ‘DOWN!’ thinking it had all had been a complete waste of time.  Had I really flown all the way to Faro at the cost of £200, spent a further £200 accommodating myself and another £100 feeding and watering myself only to be completely used? All the while she'd taken home a decent wedge for her fine efforts. 

As the ‘DOWN!’ element of the ‘UP!’ beer took hold I started to feel rather depressed. Being new to the whole caddying lark, I wondered whether this was normal practice; meet someone for five minutes at a golf club, trust his word that he’s a good caddy, ask him on tour, play three good rounds and drive off leaving him £500 the wrong way up while she banked a few grand? 

At this point, I was wallowing in my own self-pity and just when I was considering taking a swim that would not require a towel, my mobile buzzed and a message read, “Chris, we had a great week together and hope to enjoy many more with you as my full-time caddy. Speak in the week, regards J x”

At that moment a song came on my iPod that forever symbolised good news and happiness. A song that whatever mood you’re in will lift your spirits high and propel you into a positive mood; Elbow’s One Day Like This. I must have listened to that tune fifty times that afternoon in the Algarve sun.

I had been given the go-ahead to begin a new career as a caddy on the Ladies European Tour and I was like a dog with a new bone.

I could travel, get involved with the tournament inside the ropes and hang out with dozens of beautiful women who also played amazing golf!

A few days later my bank account was credited with money for doing what I love. A dream come true. I couldn't wait to get home and plan my next adventure on the Ladies European Tour…

CK

Introduction

If I read this putt right, we make the cut at The Open. 

I’d done my research the night before and had learned that never had a female Dutch golfer made the cut at The Open before so I knew what it would mean to my player. 

I'd always dreamt it'd be me striding ahead with the adulation of the crowd as the soundtrack to my first Open victory but here I was on a dark Friday night trying to get my player to her first-ever third round. 

It was a buzz to be inside the ropes at the British Open and I wanted to make sure this dream continued for both of us. So at 9:45pm on Friday night under the warm din of light oozing from the clubhouse windows of Royal Lytham and St. Annes, Christel Boeljon asked me to have a look at a putt for her. 

Christel is as consistent a player I’d ever worked for and rarely needed help reading a putt or deciding on a club from her hapless looper. The importance of this putt was clear on her face. The Dutch Golf Federation representatives were standing behind the ropes by the exit of the green as they’d done for the previous 35 holes and her parents and brother were stood next to them eagerly squinting through the dark to see if she could make a small piece of Dutch history. 

Her drive down the par four 18th was perfect. I’d chosen an auburn light on the 100-year-old clubhouse as a line - think it was an upstairs toilet actually - and she’d swung her Taylor Made SuperQuad as well as she’d done all day. As the ball fell back to earth it bisected the frosted glass of the gents to perfection. 

The second shot was going to be trickier as we couldn't actually see the pin. It was the last day of July so the days were long but having spent nearly six hours playing 17 and a half holes behind the rest of the world’s finest and slowest lady golfers, it wasn't just no time to be playing golf but we shouldn't have had to squint through the dark to secure weekend playing privileges at the biggest event on the ladies' calendar.  

We had 147 metres to the pin, not a breath of wind and the 18th at Lytham is as flat as a pancake. A decent 6iron would see us pin high, I was sure. Through the din, I momentarily glimpsed the motionless flagstick and lined it up with another window to give Christel an easy target to focus on. She went through her usual routine and caught the Taylor Made ball as sweet as a nut. 

I could barely make out the flag. Let alone the flight of the ball. The lights of the clubhouse were the only source of light we had on this, now chilly summer’s night. She’d managed to park up her approach pin high, as instructed and to about 20 feet which, as far as I could ascertain in the gloom broke a touch from right to left. There wasn't a big break but half a cup right were my rather flaky words of authority to Christel.

She went through her pre-shot routine as always and with a last word of encouragement telling her to trust her stroke, she pulled the trigger and sent the ball rolling…  

  

Becoming A Caddy

When I tell people I’m a professional caddy the reaction is predominantly that of bemusement and utter confusion. When people tell me they’re an accountant, hairdresser or plumber, I don’t screw up my face and stare in perplexity, so what is it about being a caddy that stumps people so much?

Well, I suppose it’s not your run of the mill profession is it? When asked as a kid what it was that you wanted to be when you grew up, I can guarantee being a professional caddy wasn't the first thing that sprung to mind.

It usually takes a while for them to comprehend that me, a caddy is actually what I do for a living and once I’ve ironed out their furrowed brow and given them time to compute, they inevitably ask me how I got into such a vocation. 

It all happened rather by accident. I used to go to Wentworth Golf Club in Surrey for the Pro-Ams and caddy for some no hoper whose boss had invited anyone who thought they could play golf to the annual high-rolling, hob-nobbing shindig. My players were usually clad top to toe in Pringle as that is what Ronnie Corbett used to wear in A Round with Alliss back in '81. 

I’ve been lucky enough to be drawn with Ernie Els, Colin Montgomerie, Johan Edfors, Padraig Harrington to name but a few Pros. At the same time I have also enjoyed the company of the usual local amateur suspects - Jimmy Tarbuck, Bruce Forsythe, Terry Wogan and more recently the latest breed of amateur celebs: Tim Henman, Michael Vaughan, Gary Neville and Jamie Redknapp. I thoroughly enjoyed my time treading the woodlands of Virginia Water with these stars and it’s a lovely way to spend a day inside the ropes the day before a big tournament. 

I just happened to finish the day around the West Course at Wentworth and went to collect some money from the caddie master, when he asked me to return on the Monday when the Ladies European Tour were due to play in a 36-hole corporate day. Checking my not-so-busy diary, I immediately popped my name down for it.

Rocking up at the crack of dawn Monday morning I was witness to a vision of golfing nirvana at every turn. Lining the driving range from one end to the other were bronzed beauties striking golf balls with power and precision. 

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. 

Knowing I had some time to kill, I casually wandered behind the range to check out the talent. Eyeing a couple of players from afar I sidled up behind them to admire their form – honestly – and true enough their swings were fantastic.

I was assigned to a delightful Swedish girl called Maria Boden for the day - the very same blond girl I had been admiring not half an hour previously in fact. With the pleasantries and photographs snapped, the starter clicked his little red button and the residents of Surrey’s finest estate popped their Bentleys and Ferraris into park and waited for our players to knock one down the first. 

It’s a pretty daunting tee shot it has to be said; the majestic castle-esque clubhouse sits behind with its wealthy and famous members peering out from the professional shop; a bronze statue of Bernhard Gallagher peers down on you from the left; the raised tee drops away down to the road and the first sign of a fairway is 150yards away over dense gorse. Couple this fear with half a million quids worth of motors idling either side and most people will do well to get one away. Completely unfazed, Maria drove her Callaway HXTour straight down the middle whilst our illustrious playing partners knocked their’s straight in to the cabbage. 

Before long I asked Maria about her career on the Ladies European Tour (LET) and eventually the question of where her own caddy might be arose. She went on to tell me that only the top few girls actually earn enough to afford a caddy. I was staggered. I couldn’t believe that a golfer of this talent wasn’t earning enough to afford a caddy. 

Bemused and impressed, I carried her battered old stand bag with some fairly old clubs within around two of the three courses at Wentworth and walking up the last it seemed only right to ask if she’d like me to caddy for her on tour. Sadly she wasn’t one of the fortunate few who was regularly finishing in the top five at the time, so she declined gracefully.  

Whilst standing in the caddy office idly gossiping about the day’s play to the various other caddies, I was approached by Maria once more and introduced to her friend, Johanna Westerberg, She was equally as beautiful with striking pale blue eyes and long quintessentially blond hair in a perfect plait falling down her athletic figure. After a very brief chat where she primarily asked me, curiously, about my drinking habits, she asked me if I’d like to accompany her on Wednesday to the Ladies Open of Portugal. 

Another very brief check of my diary and I agreed to see her there. 

With flights and accommodation booked I headed out on the Wednesday afternoon to Faro to start my new career.

Tiger 2016

Tiger 2016

No man has ever done for one sport what Tiger Woods has done for Golf. Fact. 

He single handedly turned a multi million dollar industry into a multi-billion dollar industry. An impressive feat for a black kid from Florida.

He might have damaged his popularity through is alleged antics back in 2009 but the fact still remains: Tiger Woods is still the world’s most exciting golfer to watch and to have him back playing this week in the Bahamas is not just great for him but, once again great for golf. 

There are 17 other players competing this week but I can guarantee, apart from them and their respective teams, no one really cares about anything other than how Tiger gets on.  

He has had a few “returns’ to the tour in the last 16months and has, heartbreakingly had to withdraw through injury or, dare we speculate, through mental issues. Being the world’s most recognisable sportsman was always a mantle Tiger Woods handled well but post sex scandal, divorce, injury and therefore loss of form and confidence, his ability to play the game of golf suffered and his tale of decline became ideal fodder for the lower ends of the world’s media to prey on. 

Throughout this period his fans always held the hope that the guy who inspired thousands to go and hit balls down the range on cold, wet, dank and dark February evenings to improve their game would come back better and stronger and, who knows evening pick off those five Major titles he so desperately deserves. 

So this week at the Hero World Challenge, Tiger Woods made his much anticipated return to the game that made him the first billion dollar sportsman. I suspect the world of golf saw him on the first tee and through their fingers watched him swing the driver hoping he at least hit the ball. His nerves must have been all over the place. 16months is a long time to be out of the game but with the world’s cynical media dying for him to shoot telephone numbers Tiger calmly stroked one down the middle.  

He reached the turn three under par with four birdies and a bogey. A good start. His back nine wasn't as good but he finished his first competitive 18holes in one over par. The world’s media still managed to criticise the poor guy and couldn't help using phrases like, “Too soon for Tiger?”, “Is that it for Woods?” and “Tiger’s woes continue…” in a feeble attempt to continue thwarting the guy that is the reason they have a golf correspondents’ salary at all. 

Friday turned up and it was Tiger of old. Shooting a flawless seven under 65, it was like watching him back in 2000 again. Fist pumps and hole outs and 25foot par saves is what the game has been missing for a few years now and whilst the fans out there enjoyed it the cynics’ tide turned and Tiger was, for now, back and normal service was resumed. 

Tiger looks relaxed with dozens of photos floating around of him not just sharing a smirk here and there but actually laughing his head off bearing his trademark white gnashers. He looks like he’s focussed but may have actually turned a corner in his life and decided to take the game seriously but enjoy it at the same time. Wise decision. It is a game after all. Something that ought to be fun. Something a lot of amateurs forget let alone professionals. 

There’s another day to go at the Hero World Challenge and whilst I hope he shoots another 65 he’s unlikely to catch Hideki Matsuyama who is incredibly 11 shots ahead on 19under par but anything under par will certainly give Tiger Woods the confidence he needs to sign up for the next tournament next year and, who knows we might even see him dressed in red slipping on a green jacket come April. I certainly hope so. 

Choices.

We are all victims of the choices and decisions we make in life.

Some decisions are easy to make – no-brainers with an obviously correct and righteous outcome. Some take a little more time to think about in order to ascertain exactly the right choice to make.

But what if that decision is cut right down the middle?

There isn’t a right or a wrong; a left and a right; a yin and yang?

Some decisions are like that; 50/50, half and half. 

An issue that has been with me ever since I first met an animal rights activist back in my formative adolescence – vegetarianism is one of them 

From a devout carnivore’s point of view, there is no argument for eating animals. Put quite simply, we are animals and according to Darwinism, life is about the survival of the fittest and as the human race has developed tools and methods to catch and slay our prey, it seems only natural to do so. Thus we have a fresh leg of lamb on the table every Sunday dripping in garlic and rosemary served up with new potatoes and steamed broccoli. 

Most people reading this will be salivating at the thought and why not?

What got me thinking otherwise for most of my teens and twenties was the notion that perhaps we oughtn’t eat our furry and feathered friends. 

It started off like that for me and for 12 years I went veggie - or as my sister liked to call it, I was a vegetable. 

I went the whole hog too – sorry – I didn’t eat any animal products at all. Even Polo mints were off the menu as they contained gelatine which, as we all know somehow comes from the extraction of collagen from the skin, bones and connective tissue of cows, chickens, fish and pigs primarily. 

I even managed to find a dead snazzy pair of NIKE Air veggie trainers and a fabric belt to hold up my 501s that completed the full tree-hugger look. I did attempt to grow dreadlocks but my Surrey upbringing wouldn’t allow it; something in the water, daddy told me… 

So for many years, I was proud to be the awkward one at dinner parties who had to pre-order a nut roast or insist the roast potatoes were cooked in ethically sourced, animal-free oils and that the sunflower whence it came had had a pleasant life before its inevitable demise to cater for the crisp edges I like on my Maris Pipers.

For years my poor mother struggled to understand this “phase” and on numerous occasions, it would slip her mind that her difficult son was due for lunch and she’d dig out a boil-in-the-bag curry or microwave vegetarian lasagne to go with the roast dinner the rest of the family were tucking in to. 

I didn’t mind though. In my mind, I  was being righteous and sticking to my principles. I wasn’t one for ramming my ideals down the throats of my fellow carnivores (much) and didn’t scorn or tut when I saw them chewing on the flesh of a recently alive beast. I just sat at the end of the table in my oxygen tank sheltering under the shade of my halo contemplating what an amazing human I was and how awful they were.

This mantra continued for years and over that time many hours were spent discussing the rights and wrongs of vegetarianism over a slow-roasted pork belly and a Linda McCartney pasta bake. In a world where we’re all looking for a window of opportunity to be different or individual, it gave me a moment or two with the pane ajar. 

Now, I wasn’t a vegetarian for narcissistic reasons or deluded about my own megalomania, I did actually love animals and would often go round to my mother’s house solely to see our ageing Spaniel, Megan and therefore didn’t fancy eating or indeed wearing her. 

My friends had selected the same diet at a similar time but interestingly we all had chosen different extremes. I had decided that dairy products and eggs were ok. I even chose not to research too heavily into the production and possibly inhumane farming of such goods in case it meant that I would have to rule them out as well. A life of sitting under a tree with coffin-dodging fruitarians waiting for the seasons to change to allow an apple to fall into my bony hands didn’t seem like a life for me, opting instead for a life of lactose and foetal ignorance in order to satisfy my hunger. 

We all draw lines in life and this was just a small one. I had friends who ate chicken and fish but still called themselves vegetarian. Some thought leather jackets didn’t count. Others thought dairy and eggs were just as bad as the flesh itself. In the middle, there were guys who ate vegetarian cheese made from cow’s milk. Never got that one. If you're gonna eat cheese made from cow's milk, you might as well eat the stuff that’s hardened in the animal’s stomach eh?

Ten years on we were all still alive, still healthy with all necessary limbs and faculties accounted for. The myth that a low protein diet would affect natural growth seemed to pass us by and my 6’+ friends laughed the theory off. Gradually over time, however, the passion we all had for vegetarianism waned and one by one we all struggled to maintain the strict discipline required. Especially once we all started meeting girls with differing backgrounds.

One day, as a rebellious twenty-something with my long hair and Surrey accent I returned from playing golf after a particularly poor 18holes. I can’t recall the exact score or reason for such turmoil but either way, I returned to my bed-sit in Addlestone absolutely fuming. 

I was an angry golfer.  Perhaps because I felt at one point in my teenage years I had the potential to be rather good and that possibly a career in the sport had once beckoned. Cars, motorbikes, girls, drugs and booze aren’t the ideal accompaniments to a career in golf and my focus and, as a result, game had suffered somewhat. The disappointment I felt that I hadn’t pursued a love of mine in favour of smashing the state and getting trollied every day was still ripe and often returned on the back nine.

So I booted open my bedroom door around lunchtime one Saturday and contemplated a swim that wouldn't require a towel. I figured a bite to eat might help. It being 1993 there was a Safeway over the road so I picked up a few quid and stomped in to buy something to make me feel better. With anger pulsing through my veins I returned home and blended up a tin of Skipjack tuna with mayo, lemon juice, paprika, Worcestershire Sauce, Tabasco, pepper, and chopped celery and wedged it in between two chunky slices of warm, fresh granary bread. 

And so began the gentle demise of my radical vegetarian adolescence.  

A month or so later with guilt even a counsellor couldn't have shifted, I poured my heart out to the boys to which they all admitted to having fallen from the righteous wagon too in recent times. We shared tales of woe ranging from “I had a Polo mint and couldn’t sleep for a week afterwards…” to “I thought, fuck it and had a sirloin… never slept so well…” Such was the variety in commitment to our seemingly worthy but disappointingly temporary cause. 

One by one the fellowship of the veg fell apart and now, many years on we have all become experts in the culinary arts. Dinner parties have moved on a bit since the days of frying up mushrooms and peppers in butter and garlic, pouring over a jar of Ragu and tossing it in Rigatoni and red Leicester cheese. Nowadays it’s all slow-roasted belly of organic acorn-fed Gloucestershire Old Spot pig served with trendy marinated veg you’ve never heard of with gravy that has been simmering for nine months outside in the homemade clay oven.

But twenty years on from when I decided that vegetarianism wasn’t for me any more, I am veering back towards it. I recently got custody of a Griffon/Golden Retriever doggy thing and spend pretty much every waking moment with him. Chewy is cute as you like and I adore him. That, coupled with the endless videos I am sent through social media of the appalling treatment of pigs and cows and chickens in abattoirs and farms, has really affected me of late and I don’t feel right or indeed necessary to eat meat right now. I am not dismissing it as I have had many years now of enjoying eating meat in all its forms and all of its seemingly endless methods of cooking and preparation. But with the variety of meat-free food available on the market now (especially living in Brighton) there is an alternative. 

I had Christmas dinner at my sister’s last week and thoroughly enjoyed some turkey and the odd pig in blanket but now when I have the option of something else I’ll take it. I can’t see myself digging out the oxygen tank and halo again at dinner parties but age and wisdom have taught me that I have a choice. I don’t have to be all revolutionary and self-righteous about it. I can pick and choose my beliefs and draw my own line. 

I am, therefore still very much 50/50 about whether or not humans should eat meat. Morally, nutritionally or obligatorily I really don’t know.

A wise man once told me that life is all about finding our own peace of mind and perhaps this is a step along my path to finding it. 

If It's Not Broke...

A wise Yorkshire man once said, “If it’s not broke, then don’t mend it.”

So why is Tiger Woods so obsessed with ‘improving’ what was deemed back in 2000 as the finest golf swing on the planet?

During his reign as world number one he amassed 14 Major titles and nearly 100 professional victories and yet he still decided to ditch his coach Butch Harmon. Harmon ultimately created the world’s first perfect golf swing but this wasn’t good enough for the world number one so he employed the teachings of Hank Haney. A tough task it has to be said. How do you improve on perfection?

In many of Tiger’s press conferences he backed up his coaching move by stating, very diplomatically, that there was always room for improvement within the game of golf. A fair point. It took some time before we saw his game and swing reach the dizzy heights of success once again but whatever he was working on didn’t seem to be doing his body any good. Although he did notch up his 14th Major title at the 2010 US Open he did some considerable damage to his left knee in the process. Not what Monsieur Haney was perhaps expecting.

After surgery and nearly a year out Tiger’s world number one status had been taken by Martin Kaymer and during this time of extended ‘rehabilitation’ our friend found alternative ways to entertain himself whilst unable to hit golf balls. This led to scandal. divorce, public humiliation, a new caddy and another coach employed.

A lot to change.

Things happen on and off the course for most professional athletes and they all have to weather the storm. Tiger’s public fall from grace stunned those who thought he epitomised the ultimate sportsman, athlete, husband and father but he came back and carried on hoping to break Jack Nicklaus’s major haul.

The question is why change something that wasn’t broken? Just because hIs marriage fell apart why change the two things that helped him get to be the world’s most successful and recognisable sportsman? Ditching the greatest ever caddy, Steve Williams who, lest we forget stood by his boss throughout the scandal, was a bold and some would say foolish move but to try and change the ultimate golf swing seemed to be the only thing Tiger had left to call his own.

I don’t know what Tiger’s current coach Sean Foley is trying to get him to do but after yesterday’s round at The Masters you’d have to say it ain’t working. Watching Tiger slapping the drives almost into Kentucky was painful to watch but hitting the grandstand from 198yards with a four-iron downhill in an attempt to hit a high cut, clearly proves that there is a lot of work still to do with the coach and caddy.

If there is a way to find the swing that so easily brought Tiger Woods those 14 Major Titles then I hope it turns up soon. If you can’t find it this week, Eldrick then perhaps you could swallow your pride and pop into the SKY Sports commentary booth and ask Butch Harmon if he wouldn’t mind a half hour on the range. WE know that’s the solution - I hope you realise it before the frustration of poor golf takes from us the world’s most iconic sports star.

No one person has done more for one game than Tiger Woods has for golf and I think it would be a tragedy if we didn’t see him get back to the status he so rightly deserves.

CK