The Boat Race
Created | Updated Jun 21, 2003
So there I was, Friday night bored stupid. So I decided to watch the local news. I take great delight in watching the trials and tribulations of Londoners, as I don't actually have to live there. However, this particular evening, who should be on, but ROB CURLING! (That never seems to get the response I expect. Hmm.) He was on the news, to tell us all about the Boat Race.
Now, for those not accustomed to Great English Sporting Events, the annual rowing race between Oxford and Cambridge Universities can be somewhat surprising. Two, admittedly well known, universities race each other up the Thames, while, inexplicably, thousands of supporters line the riverbanks and many more watch it on national television. While I lived in Glasgow, I never watched it, preferring to indulge in more ethnic activities, like being hung-over.
So, anyway, as I now live but an hour from Waterloo (Waterloo, How does it feel, now you've won the war?) Station I felt intrigued. I was also encouraged by the promise that 'there might even be a little sunshine' and that the BBC website listed twelve pubs to watch the race from. I thus contacted young Buddha and arranged to meet under the statue of the Angel ('I thought it was Jesus. I only called it an Angel last time because I forgot') in Trafalgar Square.
So, the following morning, I boarded a train into the Metropolis (Maria!) and headed for our rendezvous, via Forbidden Planet. Incidentally, Europe's Largest Sex Shop is just round the corner from Forbidden Planet. I only mention this, as I'm sure one of you will find this interesting. Arriving at Trafalgar Square, I discovered that the statue of Jesus/Angel had turned into a tree, growing out of a large book. I ignored this, however, purchased an ice cream and settled down on the edge of the fountain to read my copy of the top gentleman's periodical, The Chap. This particular issue includes articles on cosmetics to achieve that consumptive look and how to educate the vulgar, using 64 bon mots, 4 lighters and a cut throat razor.
Eventually, Buddha arrived, with the ever-charming Mairi and we set about our journey. This journey got off to a slow start as we stood behind a group of French people, being confused by a bank machine. Probably because it was a Bank of Scotland one, and they wanted English money.
The District and Piccadilly lines later we arrived at Hamersmith Not-even-slightly-underground station. Disembarking, we followed the crowds to Hammersmith bridge, where it started to rain. Thus we retired to the pub. Interestingly, all beer was served in plastic glasses. Presumably they were worried all the Oxbridge toffs in their blazers and ties might start throwing their Pimm's about.
From the pub, we went into town for a spot of lunch and then back to the riverside, finding a quiet spot with a good view, due to getting lost in the streets of Fulham. We gazed intently up and down the river, before deciding that we still had two hours to go, and it was raining, so we went to a different pub. This one was keeping all its plastic glasses to one side; perhaps they are more difficult to clean off from the photograph of Patrick MacNee.
Back to the river, with an hour to go, and the edge of the river was packed. Luckily they were all sitting on the edge of the river wall, in front of the railings, which we lent upon. There then followed three quarters of an hour of watching the tide come in as the rain got heavier. It was at this point that we noticed the little beach, just along from us, starting to fill up with spectators. They were to be the most interesting part of the day.
Now, the Boat Race occurs over a distance of four miles, from Putney Bridge to Mortlake Bridge, with Hammersmith being about a third to half way along, on the end of a large curve. Thus you can see about a third of the race. So, at twenty to four, a by now very wet crowd, began to buzz. The reserve race had begun. We could tell due to the camera flashes visible further down the river.
Sadly, it took at least five minutes of squinting, before finally realising that one boat had dark blue oars and one had light blue. I was just about to enquire as to which was which, when one of the spectators, four along, exploded, screaming out the name of a rower. As none of us understood what he was shouting, I doubt his friend on the boat noticed. The general clamour increased as the boats drew level with our position, finally being topped off with a cry of 'Come on you blues' from just behind. There was a mild ripple of amusement (this was an English Society Event after all) before the crowd settled into dissecting what they had just seen, the boats now passing round the corner. 'Well, that was exciting', thinks I, 'Only twenty minutes until the main event'. At which point the rain lashed down. My, it was fun.
The time until the next race was spent listening to a five-year-old continuously ask his dad if he could go home. From listening to his dad as well, it turns out this was all a ploy to put his son off rowing and Oxbridge for life. What a clever man. Meanwhile, the spectators on the beach had returned to the edge of the water, having been forced back by the wake of the first race and it's safety boats. They were then hassled by a Police Boat who pointed out 'If you don't move back when the next race comes, you will get very wet.' This seemed to have little effect on those who had been standing in the rain for the last two hours.
Eventually, wet, cold, and with one hand frozen to someone else's souvenir programme, I watched as the 2000 Oxford v. Cambridge Boat Race began. Once again we watched as the camera flashes slowly moved up the opposite bank, before the two boats and their entourage of camera boats, police boats and random hanging about boats slowly came into focus and laboured their way up the river. Slowly the noise built, this time peaking with a cry of 'Come on Oxbridge' (the amusement factor this time was somewhat lower, probably due to the onset of hypothermia) when it was realised that Oxford might actually, just, be leading. Then the boats rounded the corner and everyone turned tail and disappeared down numerous side streets.
We followed the crowds out in front of a pub, where we waited for a result. Even though a large group of students were watching the race through a pub window, it became obvious that they hadn't a clue who had won, so we headed back into the centre of town, for a warm pub and, as it turned out, a nice pint of Tormented Turnip.
