Mindfulness on backburner as sluggish Fowler ruins Palmer plans
Live each day as if it was your last. That is just one of the supposed pearls of wisdom I have been offered by a book of 'mindfulness' I was given last week.
How can that be good advice? Treating every day as if it was your last? It is an absolutely ridiculous idea. I would sell my house and car, withdraw every pound I could get my hands on and spend my remaining time swimming with dolphins and whales in the nicest location I could afford to go with my family, telling them all repeatedly how much I love them.
Then, as we towelled down while watching the dolphins and whales glide off into the sunset, we would be homeless, carless and potless. "Sorry, guys," I would mumble. "That mindfulness book told me to live each day as if it was my last. We're in a bit of a pickle if this isn't the last."
Wonderful lifestyle suggestions are relentless in this bonkers book. It says: Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves. What the heck? If my tea was the axis on which the world earth revolves, it would be ruddy reckless of me to drink it, don't you think? I'd leave it well alone to do its vital job.
When waiting in a queue, focus on the contact your feet make with the floor and enjoy the feeling of being grounded and supported. Pah! Ooh, I can't wait to get in another queue, so I can get that warm, fuzzy feeling of being grounded and supported.
Go barefoot in the park and enjoy the different textures beneath your feet. Righto, will do. Are you going to provide the necessary medical assistance when I walk over some broken glass or a sharp stone? Is the texture of my flip-flops not enough?
Sit in a cafe and send love to everyone around you – remember we are all connected. Hmmm, I'm sure that would go well. If I went up to everyone in the cafe full of bruisers that I frequent, and told each of them "I love you!", then I certainly would be connected – to a few fists in my face.
I threw the book in the recycling bin after reading: See how slowly and softly you can do things today and enjoy the peace this brings. Now I was starting to get irritated. As someone in the newspaper business, who has been dealing with daily deadlines for the vast majority of his adult life, it is offensive that this author thinks slowly and softly is an option for all.
In fact, every employed man or woman would be in danger of the sack if they adopted the slowly and softly approach. If you pick up the Racing Post on Wednesday and there is empty space where the golf previews usually go, then rest assured that I was just doing a spot of slowly and softly on Tuesday, gaining bundles of peace and a piece of paper (P45).
I am trying to be a mindful punter, maintaining my position of betting only on darts and golf. I had £120 on Raymond van Barneveld to beat Gary Anderson on the draw-no-bet market at 21-10 with Coral for the Rotterdam Premier League Darts.
Barney was inspired in front of his home crowd, destroying Anderson 7-2, and I felt a bit silly for being a draw-no-bet pussycat. Most of the winnings were lost immediately by £145 on Kim Huybrechts to beat Adrian Lewis on the draw-no-bet market at 7-4 with Coral.
A small arrers yield was all I had to show for the week, with four ton perishing on the golf courtesy of £250 on Henrik Stenson for the Arnold Palmer Invitational at 12-1 with Sportingbet and £150 on Rickie Fowler at 21 on Betfair. Only one player scored better than Rickie over the weekend, but he paid the price for a sluggish start and finished 12th.
Once the golf was done and dusted, family fast asleep, I settled down to watch Being AP for the first time. I don't know whether it was the emotion of a sad Arnold Palmer Invitational that weakened me, but I blubbed like a baby when AP won the Ryanair at his final Cheltenham. I was delighted for him. It would have been harrowing if he had drawn a blank.
I finished the film in the wee small hours wondering if the BBC would ever make Being SP, a tale of my final trip to Poole Greyhound Stadium. Would I go through the ten-race card without a winner? The tension is palpable. No, it's not really, is it? No, they won't make it. Licence payers would rightly be up in arms. Time for bed, loserface.
I LOVE . . .
6D movies. They do not actually exist – basic physics tells us 3D is as far as we can go – but there is pleasure to be gleaned if you can get over the false marketing claims. I went to a '6D cinema' the other day and had a terrific lol.
3D glasses, moving seats and a bit of water or fake snow squirting at you now and then is essentially the upgrade from standard films – although I'm told that the 6D venues in Florida take things to remarkable levels.
Resist the temptation to call the proprietor a liar and a scoundrel on entering the building, and block thoughts about Sir Isaac Newton turning in his grave, then I can almost guarantee you will have a jolly time at a '6D cinema'.
I LOATHE . . .
Mothers who make a scene. I do a day a week of childcare and the most traumatic aspect of this is often witnessing mothers making scenes. I would obviously love to flop around all day, watching sport, but my daughter is more energetic and insists on getting out and about.
Last week we ventured to the 'Fun Factory', which was full to bursting with kids having fun and mothers having stress. A noisy building suddenly fell silent when one mother shouted: "Come down from there! Penelope, I'm so disappointed in you!"
Ruddy hell, give poor Penelope a break. Half an hour later, I was in the car park, and a different mother was barking: "Well done, Felicity, that was excellent listening!" Felicity had responded well to instructions to stay still in the car park. She was being lauded for her listening, although she could have had 20 sets of earmuffs on and still comfortably heard her mouthy mum enjoying the sound of her own voice.