Britain Buzzing with Jubilee Fever

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.

In Barlow Bay, just pitching-wedge distance from my house, a regatta of every type of boat afloat are moored up in what will be the biggest aquatic pageant the nation has seen for 350 years.

Over the next four days 10,000 street parties will be held, industrial quantities of Pimms consumed and almost inevitably, half a dozen new verses added to God Save The Queen as the UK enjoys its patriotism and nostalgic reverie.

And on a prime bit of real estate in London Docklands, I too shall be hitching my horse to the Jubilee wagon hosting a red, white and blue neighbourly knees-up celebrating Her Maj’s Diamond Jubilee and the official launch of my PR agency Jubilee Communication.

Thank you ma’am … and stay tuned.

And finally, here’s one I took earlier … my wonderful parents aboard Gloriana, the £1m Royal rowbarge that will the lead the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant from Wandsworth to Tower Bridge on 3 June 2012.

Betrayed by a belligerent old man on the brink

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.

He had one clear objective and he stuck to it like newsprint to fingertips: distance himself from the newspaper which had caused this serious blot on his reputation.

Gone was the frail, bumbling, elderly figure we witnessed at the House of Commons. Instead we got a belligerent baron firing with both barrels. It was explosive, but as the minutes ticked by, fascination turned to disbelief and a sense of hot fury ran through my veins.

There was a time when I looked up to the man with respect – a formidable operator and someone I admired for all he had achieved. A man who had your back when the chips were down. And during my years with the newspaper, we had our fair share of those moments.

But that changed when he “panicked” and slammed the door of the News of the World shut forever – and with that the livelihoods of almost 300 devoted and loyal staff.

I make no attempt to justify the behaviour of some of my former colleagues. Their actions were illegal and immoral.

But I am proud of my years at the News of the World where I worked as Head of PR for most of my adult life. For the most part it was a brilliant paper to work for: bullish, exciting and enormously good fun.

But during the latter years, while working on the phone-hacking scandal with the editor Colin Myler, legal manager Tom Crone and News International executives, those fun-filled days were replaced with despair, panic, anxiety attacks and death threats.

I’ve only met Rupert Murdoch a handful of times. On one memorable occasion, he stormed into our editorial conference after we won a raft of industry awards, fawning all over News of the World executives: “Bloody great paper, bloody great journalists, keep it going… it’s just bloody great.”

On another occasion Rebekah Brooks took him on a tour of our newsroom and introduced him to the “Scoop Machine” after a summer of memorable exclusives. “Keep up the good work!” he grinned.

Yet, in his evidence yesterday, Mr Murdoch sought to deflect the growing crisis in his media empire by laying the blame for all his problems in the News of the World’s coffin.

Being marked as an “aberration” by your former chairman really hits a new low. And his testimony will further stigmatise former staff who have spent almost a year trying to recover their reputations and restabilise their lives. I speak as someone who has sat through almost 100 interviews in pursuit of a job after the newspaper closed, before finally setting up my own business. If you really want to know what a serious blot on your reputation is Mr Murdoch, we should chat.

I often ask myself what was my big crime in this tawdry saga that I should be so maligned by Rupert Murdoch? Twelve years of unswerving loyalty to a newspaper I adored.

Future events will prove where the blame lies. His strategy of smearing the News of the World and its staff will quickly unravel.

Hayley Barlow was head of public relations at the News of the World between 2000 and 2011. She has since founded a crisis management PR agency, Jubilee Communication. 

This article was first published in The Independent on Friday 27 April 2012.

Dick Turpin, Bobby Locke, William III & Shooters Hill Golf Club

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.

The summit provided excellent cover for Highwaymen and footpads who preyed on unsuspecting travellers. It was also here that they were hung and their bodies displayed in gibbets.  Perhaps the most notorious, and paradoxically the most romantic highwayman of all, was the ubiquitous Dick Turpin who is said to have ‘worked’ the hill and who took advantage of the dark woods for his dark deeds.

Golf was first played at Shooter’s Hill in 1903 when a 9-hole course was opened. In 1907 a full 18-hole course was designed by Willie Park and then completely remodelled in the 1930′s by Messrs Harris and Colt.

In 1939, half of the golf course was requisitioned for the establishment of an anti-aircraft battery to protect London. Part of the clubhouse became the headquarters of the Home Guard and in the latter years, a prisoner of war camp for some 1000 German and Italian prisoners. A 7-foot high wire fence surrounded the camp with the cookhouse situated by the 17th green.

Incredibly, the remaining 9-holes continued to be played even though the course sustained considerable damage from bombing. Indeed, a grass bunker on the 8^th hole today is testament to the terrifying power of the doodlebug bomb.

After the war years, the course and clubhouse facilities were restored and fully re-opened for play in 1951. The big match of that year was an exhibition played by Bobby Locke and Alf Padgham. Bobby set a course record of 65.

Shooter’s Hill Road stretches eastwards from the heath at Blackheath over the hill and follows the route of Watling Street, a Roman Road linking London with Roman settlements in north Kent. This was used as a route for horse-drawn mail-coaches linking London with Dover. Passers-by who visit the landmark water tower on the hill and the nearby woods are walking in the steps of ancient Britons, Romans, Saxons and later, William III. On the northern side of the summit lies a burial ground from possibly the Bronze Age.

At 432 feet, Shooters Hill is the highest point in South London and offers sensational views over the Kent countryside, River Thames with a panoramic skyline of central London clearly visible.

Shooter’s Hill Golf Club has continued to thrive and many visitors are surprised to find such an attractive course only 8-miles from London Bridge.

The course is a challenging but fair test of golf with its rolling fairways and excellent greens for golfers of all abilities.

SHOOTER’S HILL GOLF CLUB LADIES FREE OPEN SOCIAL EVENT:

As the golf season kick’s off, Shooter’s Hill is offering lady golfers a new starter package from April 2012 with a free open social event at the club on Wednesday 4^th April at 12 noon and Wednesday 18^th April at 7.30pm. From complete beginners to experienced players, come see the club and meet the members. Everyone is welcome.

For more information telephone Amanda Buckland on 0208 854 6368 or visit the Shooter’s Hill Golf Club website for more information.

The Power of Positive Thinking

So there I was. Striding down the lush green fairways of a swanky Kent golf course overlooking London’s glorious skyline. My mind wondering off as I gazed into the distance at the sleek Shard of Glass towering over the capital. The 80-story skyscraper continuing its heavenly climb. From its summit the views stretch for 50 miles in every direction. An extraordinary feat of engineering and on reflection, perhaps, in part to blame for my temporary blip in concentration.

My golf partner & I were taking on a couple preppy gals from a neighbouring course in a county foresomes match. We started off positively enough until my swing developed an undeserving personality of its own. Like a fiery racehorse, the ball shot off in every direction but straight leaving my bemused partner in a series of adventurous settings.

It was my intrepid yet unfortunate effort at a Mickelson style flop shot over an insidious greenside bunker that plunged our match into a dramatic three down three to go dormie drama. A flock of wood pigeons looked on inquisitively as my golf ball lurched into the sand trap but even they could take no more and fled north for the spring. No one is exempt from fowl vilification. My mood descended into one of despair buoyed only by a burst of self-abnegation.

My partner hit a Tiger-like drive splitting the 16^th fairway with ocular precision. The ball came to rest on a fertile patch of turf a mere 70 yards from the front of the green. Dammit, now I had to reciprocate. So much for self-abnegation. There’s no denying our situation was desperate. I needed a miracle shot to keep the game alive yet in light of my recent golf performance, I was hovering dangerously close to the hopeless level.

As I walked up to the ball, I hummed an Obama type: ‘Yes I can, yes I can, yes I can’ chant. I may have also had a quiet word with the Big Man himself, ‘Hi, it’s me. If you’re watching you’ll know we’re in a bit of pickle here. In return for good behaviour any chance you might pull one out the bag please?’ And finally a stern chat with myself: ‘Get a grip and just knock it stone dead.’

The girls looked on with expressions of amusement and curiously. Twitching nervously like a beer-swilling Brit, I addressed the ball. A perfectly punched sand wedge sent the ball lofting through the air towards the pin. Had this been the Masters, a Yank would have screeched: “Get in hole” as the ball pitched a foot from the flag and rolled up beside the cup. I did not see that one coming.

With a birdie under our belts we strutted our stuff to the 17^th tee. Two down, two to go. Same problem, same process. By now Obama’s chant had taken on anthemic levels in my head as I slotted in a nasty downhill six-footer to win the hole.

Wouldn’t it be great if I said this story ended well? Alas, it was not to be. At one down with one hole to go, even God’s own intervention couldn’t avert the tragic and untimely duck hook which saw my ball disappearing into the forest of doom off the 18^th fairway. We may have lost the battle but I’m fairly sure there’s a priceless lesson to be learnt on the perils of a wondering mind and the power of positive thinking.

Either way, I took home a note.

Golf Trick Shot Champ Wows Decathlon Crowds

They promised a fun day out for the whole family and Decathlon didn’t disappoint.

Hosted by Geoff Swain, the amazing World Trick Shot Champ wowed audiences with a variety of mind-blowing golf stunts in the new look showroom.

Decathlon’s Surrey Quays superstore was transformed into a golfing mecca this week with huge discounts on a wide range of equipment and clothing plus competitions and prizes galore for all ages.

Just watch the video below and tell me the little chap at the end isn’t the next Rory McIlroy?

To celebrate Decathlon’s golf launch, there’s still time for one lucky reader to win a brand new set of Callaway Diablo Edge irons, plus an Inesis “Doggy Bag” and two-dozen TaylorMade XD golf balls for a runner-up. Just click here to enter: GolfMagic

2012: Year of the Cold War

There’s something about the start of the pro golf season that sparks new realms of excitement in me.

Notwithstanding my juvenile crush on the G-Mac, it is more a yearning to dust down my clubs and follow in the footsteps of Tiger’s comeback after a lengthy period in hibernation. Inspired by involuntary chunks of free time and watching the golfing greats lock horns under an Abu Dhabi sun, I decided it was time for a seasonal revival of my own. It’s no secret that my lifelong passion for the game is all consuming, only not during mid winter months. Unashamedly a fair-weather golfer, I generally hold out for eternal sunshine which is a staggeringly pointless exercise given my residence is well north of the equator.

But not so the case in 2012, I summoned a few valiant chums and braced myself for a transcendent experience. Resembling a modern day Mitchelin Man’s trophy wife bulked up on base layers and unsightly thermals, my mind perpetuated a tropical fantasy like some supercilious fool.