
There is something of the unreal about Le Golf National in Paris. The course is host to the 2018 Ryder Cup, annual French Open and now the unfolding epic of the Wryter Cup.
This week it was time for the golfer in us all to step up as my great and worthy Press Golfing Society teammates battled it out against our mighty French APG rivals. Read More

Seve wasn’t the only golfer to blast his way round uncharted territory in search of a historic win.
What began as a bold experiment in 1991 to foster good relations between the French and British media has developed into the backbone of two societies. The annual epic golf battle of the Wryter Cup is the journalist’s equivalent of the Ryder Cup between the Press Golfing Society (PGS) and Association de la Presse et du Golf (APG). Read More

The spirit of Seve conjured up the 39th Ryder Cup. A fighter to the end, he once said: “Thinking doesn’t cost much so if you have a chance to think, think positive.” And that’s just what Captain Ole’s troops did producing pure theatre, glorious unpredictability and the greatest comeback in sporting history.
For the Americans, Sunday’s defeat was unpalatable. The crowds were raucous, hostile and heavy on the European bashing. But by dusk the full-throated boos and inescapable morons yelling ‘get in da treeeees’ had given way to chants of “Ole, Ole, Ole” echoing across the course. Read More

Most lady golfers will relate. You walk into a pro shop in search of golfing happiness and end up sleepwalking your way through the never-ending isles, rows and shelves of shoes, clothes and clubs … for men.
Finally, weary from the journey, you reach the ladies section, a cubbyhole if you will. Stocked to the rafters with two pairs of nasty daisy-embroidered shoes, a handful of lycra hugging size zero tops, a ghastly rainbow pastel peak and that is it. The proverbial Emperor had a more stimulating wardrobe.
Well the battle is over, especially if you live in the south east of England. Tucked away in the heart of the Kent countryside is West Malling Golf Club and home to Duncan Lambert’s golf shop.
Two thousand square feet of golfing heaven. One of the best-stocked pro shops I’ve discovered carrying all the major brands and with a excellent reputation for custom club fittings. I should know having spent ninety fascinating minutes getting measured up to within an inch of my life during the recent purchase of my new Callaway Razr X irons.
Stocked by the Lady Golf Store, this little shop of delights has an impressive selection of irons, drivers, fairway woods, rescue clubs and putters all available to try before you buy. Their extensive clothing in funky colours and designs from Lyle & Scott, Green Lamb, Glenmuir, Galvin Green and Nike range from 8 to 18 in size ensuring style and importantly, comfort.
A final word of praise for the vast choice of ladies golf shoes. As someone who spends a ridiculous amount of time crisscrossing the hallowed green fairways, I’m well versed in the painful consequences of ill-fitting impulsive purchases. Trust me, Duncan Lambert’s ladies golf shoes are guaranteed to have even that lover of fine footwear Imelda Marcos grasping for her Mastercard. And not an embroidered daisy in sight.

The call came in 9.43am. “They’ve arrived,” said the man with a gravel voice. And indeed they had. The packaging left little to the imagination. No bells, buckles or bows. Just 100% recyclable cardboard wrapped securely with industrial strength masking tape. My fingers tingled with excitable anticipation as I tore gently at the tape to little effect. It took kitchen scissors, three subtle moves and less than sixty seconds for the packaging to resemble birthday wrapping in tatters. And there they were … my shiny new golf irons, Callaway Razr X. Guaranteed distance, forgiveness and feel with tighter shots, shorter putts and lower scores …how can this possibly go wrong? Reach for the stars, that’s what I say.

You’re flying back from your summer hols, that last leg of a tedious long-haul flight, bored, restless and generally yearning for solid ground beneath your feet. Suddenly the clouds part and you catch a first glimpse of Blighty. It’s only been two weeks, but how you’ve missed it …
You strain your eyes through the fingerprint-smeared window. Hello, is that London in the distance? Yes, I believe it is. A warm feeling of familiarly sweeps over you identify homely landmarks …Canary Wharf, the O2, Greenwich …
… the Gerkin, Tower Bridge, Bojo’s crib …
… Waterloo Bridge, London Eye, Centre Point …
… Her Maj’s Buckingham Palace …
… Hyde Park …
And it’s wheels down … welcome to Heathrow.
Yes, I’m home.

Sunday nights don’t come much better than this … an extravaganza of flames in London’s Olympic Stadium bringing down the curtain on a month of thrilling competition. From my seat up in the Gods with 80,000 grateful fans, a positively mind-blowing experience watching Coldplay and Rihanna rocking to a sensational summer of sport alongside Mad Max characters and a colourful parade of nations. What a fitting end to an extraordinary Games, a combination of the surreal and the spectacular. Great Britain passed with distinction.

As you may be aware I’m on the hunt for a new set of irons. And while the search is in er, full swing, it is proving a somewhat challenging task. On the plus side, am taking full advantage of all generous offers from golfing chums keen to promote their gear guaranteed to produce higher, longer and straighter results. The latest offering courtesy of Molly Mcilgorm (aged 4 ¾).

So the big question is … with so much choice out there, where does one even begin the process of purchasing a new set of irons?
It struck me during a recent round of golf, my cherished Titleist irons are nearing 13 years old. And whilst they still produce rare moments of brilliance, the time has finally come, albeit reluctantly, to put them out to pasture and splash out on a shiny new set.
I guess it’s like clinging to your Rolodex until the moment you get a smartphone and then wondering how you ever lived without it.
Callaway, Nike, Mizuno, Taylormade, tour preferred, hybrid, forged, graphite, stainless steel, regular or firm flex … the list goes on. How do I know what is right for me? Is the answer in custom fitting, radar technology and shot analysis?
Put simply, I’m a 8 handicap golfer based in South East London in search of men’s irons that will make me hit higher, longer and straighter.
Any suggestions welcome please.

Dear Membership Secretary,
RE: APPLICATION FOR MEMBERSHIP TO AUGUSTA NATIONAL GOLF CLUB
Like the rest of the female swinging population you can imagine my delight on learning that after 80 years of exclusion, gals are finally welcome on golf’s most hallowed turf.
Admittedly, it’s only two of America’s finest afforded membership thus far, but I get that some exclusive clubs are in no rush to embrace the 21st century.
It occurred to me on hearing this ‘joyous’ news, particularly at a time when women represent the fastest growing segment in golf, that I should make a personal bid for the third green ladies jacket.
It’s not that I’m hitching my wagon to Condoleezza’s horse you’ll understand, but with a strong nerve, delicate manner and regular folk spirit, I would suggest that I too am qualified for membership at Augusta National.
Now I don’t know much about Darla Moore, but if the delightful Condi’s focus on democracy in the Middle East was anything to go by, I bet she’s also a smoking gun around the greens.
I may not possess the nuclear capabilities of her CV or the velvet-gloved diplomacy required of a ‘Warrior Princess’, but make no mistake, I am unflappable in the face of a Salman Rushdie*.
Admittedly my CV bears the stain of Murdoch and bank balance the strain of annual subs, but put me head to head on the first tee with Hootie or any of those relics from the old boys’ network and watch for cracks in the grass ceiling.
In conclusion, have you ever been somewhere so mind-blowingly beautiful that you’d happily chuck it all in just to be able to say: “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at my golf club … Augusta National.”
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours in anticipation,
Hayley x
* Putt that is impossible to read.

Team Zimbabwe touch down at Gatwick today in anticipation of “the greatest show on earth” in twelve days time. Led by swimming sensation Kirsty Coventry as she spearheads the nation’s Olympics medal hunt with a small contingent of seven fine athletes including marathon runners, rowers and a triathlete.
But as the excitement mounts, a misguided crackdown to protect sponsors’ exclusive rights has sparked a feverous debate and the branding police are taking no prisoners.
I’ve compiled a handy crib sheet of common mistakes Team Kirsty and our Zim ensemble of flag flying supporters should avoid. The ‘I’ll be with you just now’ excuse will not leave the starting blocks on this occasion. First off, get your cameras at the ready during those “There may be delays on the Jubilee line” moments, as it’s the last time you’ll need them.
On entering the magnificent Olympic village athletes may not tweet photos of themselves with products that aren’t official sponsors. You may not upload any videos for family and fans back home taken inside Olympic venues. You may however tweet what you eat, just as long as your updates don’t get anywhere near the organisation’s intellectual property rights.
If McDonald’s is not to your taste, tough luck. Firing up the braai trackside with piri-piri ‘jongwe’ and mouth-watering ‘boeres’ may be deemed more than a tad culturally insensitive to sponsors. Brazen security guards will be under orders to confiscate restricted items in breach of Olympic rules.
Breaking big-brother rules will be a criminal offence. This is to protect the interests of official sponsors who have paid upwards of £60 million to determine what we should eat and whether it should be served up with chips. These rules are in addition to the rigid media and digital restrictions on using the Olympic logo and various associated words that imply endorsement or affiliation.
It is also worth noting, athletes may not marry while on British soil during the Games. However, LOCOG is providing 150,000 condoms in the Olympic village. A word to the wise for any Bata “takkie” wearing Olympian, the advertising police have the right to use “reasonable force” to remove potential unauthorised advertising. Violators can be arrested and fined up to £20,000.
It doesn’t stop with athletes either. Fans should be aware, you are not permitted to bring floppy hats, vuvuzelas, strobe lights or gawd forbid, bottled water into the sports grounds.
Some might say these stringent restrictions are the work of a heartless Medusa that has shunted London 2012 off to the icy depths of smiling corporate fascism. The Olympic flame that reaches the tax haven of Jersey today was initially a way of glorifying Hitler’s regime. You don’t say!
But the boo-hurrah ratio is firmly in favour of those who see the Olympics as a once in a lifetime opportunity over those who protest it is a monumental waste of taxpayer’s money. Whatever your view, I’ll be skipping in tune to the beat down Olympic Street.
And a final word to my fellow Zimbabweans as I wish you every success for a victorious Olympics. You may all be ‘faster, higher, stronger’ than me, but I am buoyant. And available if required.

Enough has been written about the demise of the News of the World to fill several volumes of War and Peace many times over.
It is one year ago today a brilliant News of the World team put our beloved newspaper to bed for one last historic time after 168 years, 8674 editions, bidding a final goodbye to 7.5 million loyal readers.
The footage below gives an insight into those final moments of that dark and momentous day which terminated News of the World careers, as the doors of the newspaper were slammed shut forever.
I won’t deny I’ve had better years in my life. There are moments I question is it the News of the World I am grieving for or my own loss I am mourning. You end up with nothing until hope comes along. And it does, eventually.
As I experienced, it has been an almighty struggle for some former colleagues while others are thriving. Few have become top columnists, one editing a prominent newspaper and others reporting for rival papers. A colleague has turned to astronomy while another is selling fire extinguishers.
Only last month, a friend and colleague was turned down for voluntary work giving free advice to the elderly. The stigma attached to our lives, our past and our CVs cannot be overlooked. But where there was once despair, there is hope. Where there was once shame, there is freedom.
In January, I founded my own PR agency Jubilee Communication. The colleague who was turned away, now works in the PR industry. Jubilee Communication has doubled its workforce.
I believe the measure of our success is how we deal with our disappointment. And it is perhaps a mark of the extraordinary men and women that I was so privileged to work with for over a decade, and whose lives have changed irrevocably, that they continue to prosper through strength and resolve.
And for that I thank Rupert Murdoch for his moment of ‘panic’.

Hearty congratulations to my golfing chum Paul Trow … or Gwyneth as he’s fondly known. Paul is editor of the brilliant new glossy magazine ‘Arnold Palmer’s Guide to the 2012 Majors’.
Majors celebrate and honour what the four special championships have become. Their origins, great players past and present whose careers have been shaped by them, and the marvelous courses that provide the stages for these most theatrical of contests.

A severe snap hook is a thing of awesome power and beauty. Just ask my foresomes partner! Share your best captions below or tweet to @Golfmadchick using the hashtag #CaptionThis to send your submission. Check back to see if you’ve won a sleeve of Press Golfing Society Srixon golf balls.

Round 1 : Walton Heath Golf Club
One of the world’s most famous and prestigious heathland courses. The history of the club is exceptional. The weather was not! Our very British drought met monsoon conditions and record rainfall as I waded through heather waste deep in denial. My foursomes partner standing beside this green-side bunker spoke for us all when he said: “Time to end the hosepipe ban chaps. Please.”

The whole country has gone positively Lady Gaga for our enigmatic monarch. Strolling home from the office with my camera, one could sense a palpable building of anticipation and excitement in the air. This weekend’s bumper Jubilee festivities are a showcase of events that reflect the public mood, a national fervour that fits all tastes and budgets, if you will.
The flag-waving jollity, bunting strewn skyline and streets ablaze with colour, chart Britons shared life and common purpose as the nation comes together to celebrate 60 years of Her Majesty’s glorious reign.

I worked at the News of the World for over a decade and lost my job with almost 300 others when Rupert Murdoch closed down the newspaper at the height of the phone-hacking scandal in July 2011. Since that fateful day I have maintained my silence, but chose to speak out this week following an appearance by the News Corporation chairman at the Royal Courts of Justice. This is an opinion commentary piece I wrote for The Independent newspaper.
By Hayley Barlow
Watching Rupert Murdoch giving evidence to the Leveson Inquiry, the enormity of the past year hit me square on – for a second time. This unfolding epic is the direct result of a handful of wrongdoers whose actions have touched, damaged and, in some cases, shattered people’s lives.
But just as Mr Murdoch “felt that blast” of outrage following the Milly Dowler phone-hacking revelations last summer, I too felt it yesterday watching him give evidence to Lord Justice Leveson.

I was playing golf in southeast London last weekend with a former lady captain when conversation turned to the history of our course, Shooter’s Hill Golf Club and the local area. Dick Turpin, Hitler’s doodlebugs and Bobby Locke, in no particular order, but it turns out Shooters Hill is positively steeped in history. I was captivated and immediately consulted Google on my return home.
The name ‘Shooters Hill’ was first recorded in 1226 and reputedly takes its name from the practice of archery there during the Middle Ages. The name is also commonly linked to its reputation as a haunt for highwaymen and was infamous for its gibbets of the executed ones as referred to in 1661 in Samuel Pepys diary.