Golf writer. An appreciation
WITH the death at 85 of Raymond Jacobs, The Herald’s golf correspondent during five decades, Scottish newspaper journalism has lost one of its great individualists. To know Raymond was to realise he was quite unlike most of his colleagues. Unfailingly elegant, courteous and kind, he marched to a different drum from most of his contemporaries in a sometimes-rough trade.
He was not just a reporter, more an essayist. He treated golf not so much as a sport but a literary inspiration. His crafted columns rivalling those of Henry Longhurst and Peter Dobereiner, his erstwhile companions on the world golfing circuit. From the 1950s to the 1990s he covered every significant golf event and chronicled the worldwide explosion in the sport’s popularity.
With his shooting stick, R&A tie, waxed jacket and a strict absence of vulgar logos, he cut a familiar figure as he strode the fairways scrutinising the golfing stars (while maintaining a loyal devotion to the increasingly ignored amateur game).
A man of fixed views, Raymond was never afraid to criticise when he thought things were going wrong in the sport he loved, notably the loss of excellent courses rendered obsolete by advances in golfing equipment technology.
Over the yeas he probably travelled more widely than any other Herald journalist only to complain he rarely saw more than a golf course. Sometimes he escaped. In a memorable column after some sightseeing in Spain he offered a delightful account of sitting in the cheap seats (those in the burning sun) among “los punteros” at a bullfight.
In the close season he would cover football, if only because he had an odd aversion to rugby. When coaxed to report a Scotland-Wales match at Murrayfield during a miners’ strike he rather disrespectfully likened the legendary Pontypool front row to secondary pickets.
Though the ascetic Raymond appeared conservative in dress and manner, he could surprise those who thought they knew him with a rebellious streak. He held politicians in some contempt and was not slow to challenge Establishment behaviour. He enjoyed telling of how he applied for membership of the Glasgow Golf Club and was asked his religion. “None,” he replied, which was true and did the trick.
He boasted an unlikely knowledge of pop music, something he put down to starting his working day listening to Terry Wogan. Then he’d be off to Stratford for the latest Shakespeare production. On his travels around the UK he enjoyed opening the throttle on a series of scarily sporty cars – a roaring Lancia being a notable favourite. “Nice to have more than two litres,” he remarked.
Raymond never married and enjoyed his own company. When his colleagues would adjourn to the pub for a pie and a pint, Raymond could be found alone in the old Malmaison at Central Station, elegantly sampling Glasgow’s gourmet best with a glass or two of claret.
He was one of those now vanished wordsmiths whose muse was stunted by the arrival of the keyboard. He expressed himself best through his fingers, guiding a ballpoint in longhand over a reporter’s spiral notebook.
This exposed his most hilarious and heroic trait – an utter refusal to countenance the new technology that haunted his final years on The Herald. He flatly refused to be retrained. When he was cajoled into at least trying, and confronted by a computer, he would promptly vanish. After a while he would reappear and sidle into the copytakers’ room, notebook in hand, where he would dictate his story. Job done.
At his retirement all the tributes from golfing greats like Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and his friend Peter Alliss, praised his eloquence, gentlemanly bearing and famous courtesy. Colleagues remember his many kindnesses including his charitable giving sustained over a lifetime.
His final kindness was to donate his body to medical science.
MURRAY RITCHIE
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