Obviously one cannot detail every day’s lunch. Today, I give the following as a quotidian example:
Celery, pear and Cashel blue cheese soup
*****
Beer battered cod fillet with accompaniments
Baked individual provencale vegetable, chickpea and tofu hot pot
Chipped potatoes and garden peas
Or
Cold Buffet Selection
Or
Guinea fowl supreme
Vegetable and polenta tart
*****
Baked glazed coffee mocha creme brulee with a blueberry compote
Or
Fresh fruit and cheeses.
I have since been to Valencia, Denver, Minneapolis St. Paul, Minnesota, Osceola Iowa, Milwaukee Wisconsin, Mishicot Wisconsin, NYC, and Belfast. Tonight the menu was:
Bacon and eggs with colcannon *
*****
Roast Squab (Baby Pigeon) with chard and figs
Forestiere potatoes and glazed carrots
*****
Pedro Ximenez Jelly with acacia honey granita, baked quince and creme catalan.
*****
Canape Ivanhoe **
*****
Chateau Beauregard- Ducourt 2005
Bordeaux rouge
*****
Tropical Fruit and Nuts
*****
Cheese Platter
*****
Coffee and truffles
*****
Crozes Hermitage
Domaine de Thalabert 1996
*****
Oestricher Lenchen Riesling Spatlese
Peter Jakob Kuhn 2002
*****
Sandeman 1963
* Vegetarian option of smoked tomato tart was partaken instead
** (smoked mackerel on an onion croquette)
I have since last writing, been with the Little Zionist (The Blonde) to Scotland (in the snow with the pup), and to Murren Switzerland, (eating Chinese food overlooking the spectacular mountains of the Swiss Alps). I have also been to Berlin (as a guest of the German Foreign Ministry to discuss the nexus between security and development, served strudels and pie and puddings by the bucket load every day for free), Krakow, Warsaw, and Prague by sleeper train (staying in five star hotels such as the Sheraton Warsaw Concierge Level, and Andels Hotel in Prague), and also visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau death camps with my parents. I also went on a Costa Victoria boat I found, with the Little Zionist, Greanna, Nictoria, parents, and Rob’n'Alice-from-Newcastle. I flew with the little zionist on BA to Rome and went straight by train to Civitavechia where we stayed in Hotel Traiano. We met everyone else the next day and popped off to Catania, Sicily (gothic, brooding, volcanic), Tunis (I bought a sweet honey syrup coated fried bread in a dirty market, which was a triumph), Gabes (Gateway to Sahara and camel trip with the little zionist taking a coke from a desert Arab only to throw it on the sand and force me to pay for what she thought was a free desert mirage), Tripoli, Libya (lots of pictures of Ghadaffi, old Souks, African former slaves and refugees, and a dinner of Libyan chicken with cous cous while the Mohomadans were unable to eat owing to Ramadan), and La Valletta, Malta (searing heat and beautiful bay from where I bought crisps, fizzy pop, and three dairy fruit and nut chocolates). On the boat much free pizza was eaten, and ice water with lemon.
Yesterday I was invited to a special Benefactors’ lunch buffet at the College of St. John the Evangelist. Here is the menu for that meal which was partaken:
Sushi
***
Vegetarian sausage rolls
***
Cape gooseberry and smoked duck on tortilla crisps
***
Spicy Prawn bouchees*
***
Plum cherry tomato and buffalo mozzarella on sticks
***
Chicken tikka on mini poppadums
***
Stilton and paprika straws
***
Salmon and lemon fish cakes
***
Apricot, bacon and sausage on sticks*
***
Polenta crostini with blue cheese and balsamic vinegar
***
Ogen melon wrapped in air cured ham*
***
Chicken teriyake on sticks
Glazed orange tart
***
Fruit Kebabs (these were also had on several occasions aboard the excellent Costa Victoria at the midnight buffet from whence I went on my way rejoicing)
***
Eclairs
***
Scones
***
Fruit cake
***
Fresh fruit
***
Coffee and tea.
*Denotes inability to nosh given Hebrew laws of Kashrut
NB- The May Bumps 2007 Report will follow soon. Much drama as always, that has taken four months to sink in.
LENT BUMPS 2007 REPORT
Much has happened in the last months, including my Lent Bumps triumphs. Here is an account of the four days which were filled with much intrigue, bravery, and excitement.
DAY 1
Starting behind St. Edmunds 1st VIII on what was, for most of the crew, their first Bumps, was a daunting prospect. Our fears were misplaced, however, as we learned at our starting position that St. Edmunds had been disqualified for that day’s racing for attempting to put a CULRC university rower in what did look like a suspiciously ’stacked’ boat. Expecting a long and hard row to get Eddies, it was quite a shock for the crew to learn we would have to row little more than a few strokes to secure a technical bump. After we had barely finished what was a solid and promising start sequence, the order to pull in was given and so ended our first day’s ‘racing.’ Whilst we were all elated about the bump, we did feel a little cheated out of a day’s rowing and valuable experience.
DAY 2
We were optimistic about our chances of catching Girton II on the second day but a little worried by a somewhat piqued – and now legal - Eddies chasing our stern. The start was a little more frantic after bow pair mistook the remark “that’s it bow pair” for the instruction “bow pair” to take another stroke to position us two seconds before the start gun. We recovered well, however, and even managed to put some distance between Eddies and us. Girton II (who would eventually win blades) bumped Trinity FaT IV just after first post corner leaving the over bump on Clare II for us. After four mins, we had pulled away four lengths from St. Ed’s cheat boat chasing us, and were on for an overbump on Clare. Then our bow man got the hugest crab ever, started screaming, and the oar went under the boat, wedged, and the boat came to a standstill, only for us to watch Ed’s cruising along from behind to catch us after ten seconds, like some awful nightmare in slow motion
DAY 3
Disappointed by the previous day, we were keen to regain our position. Despite a solid row on our part, Eddies were able to bump FaT IV quickly and Girton in front of them also bumped out. Undeterred, we pushed on for the double over-bump on Caius III and managed to put over two lengths between Magdalene II and us, holding them off comfortably. After a strong and determined row we managed to take over four lengths off Caius but we ran out of river before we could row them down. This was a brave and warrior-like performance, however. Magdalene II had been arrogantly proclaiming their hopes for blades. They were, indeed, a strong boat who had bumped twice previously and moved up into our division. They had boasted at a dinner the night before that we would be mincemeat in their hands. Thus, the row over, denying them all the way, and making them cry, was more satisfying than a bump. We had stolen their blades from them because we were a better, fitter, and more gutsy crew.
DAY 4
Resolved to win a bump on the final day, we put in a good start and managed to close the distance on FaT IV to three-quarters of a length quite quickly. Gaining on them on first post reach, we rowed them down and WON THE BUMP -BANG- on grassy corner after a convincing performance on our part. We thus went up overall during Lent Bumps 2007. I covered myself in victorious greenery, and went on my way rejoicing.
Today I went on a double outing, fuelled by some dry Fruit Loops and the Blonde’s half eaten cheese sandwich. We have power. We have good catches. Our draw-through needs work, however, as the hand heights are not in unison. There is a nice mix in the boat, including, in a strange twist of fate, a Romanian-German Hebrew at stroke. Two 6:30am outings a week do take their toll, though. Sometimes I need my special little heater to defrost afterwards. I am usually unable even to get back into my house, as my hands are too numb to pick the keys out of my pocket to be operated with any dexterity. We performed in a winter head competition a few weeks back, and beat several Second boats in our division. What will become of us chasing an unfairly placed St. Edmund’s boat stacked with Germans and North Americans, is anybody’s guess. At least seven out of eight of us are Englishmen, thus giving us a moral victory already. Next week is the Robinson Head competition: A side-by-side affair that requires guts and nerve. Watch this space…
The Blonde and I have entertained recently. We offered, among other things:
Halal milk bottle sweets.
American ‘natural’ Cheetos (only for The Blonde).
Lychee puddings (only for Ru).
Jelly Beans.
Yeo’s chrysanthemum juice with vodka.
White wine left over from Cambridge Limmud 2006.
Publix root beer with rum.
Tamarind juice with rum.
Marks and Spencer’s Alpho mango cocktail mixer with water and vodka. (mainly water).
We also popped off to Bilbao, by ferry. We forgot to bring money on board, and our cards did not work in any area other than the canteen, which was only open for a couple of hours. The journey lasted 36 hours, after an enjoyable stay in a Linton Travel Tavern in Portsmouth, which had actual keys on the doors. I bought a large boat, with a sail, on the ferry, like a Yok would build as a hobby. For this, rather than for any food, the card worked. We stayed at the Five Star Sheraton Bilbao, which has windows that one closes with a button. We went to the Guggenheim museum, glanced in the atrium, and went on our way, to Salamanca, rejoicing.
After the five hour train journey from Bilbao to Salamanca, we stayed in an ex-convent, which had a free minibar, where we partook of coke and Fanta Limon/ Naranja *in bottles*. It was misty in Salamanca, and it was very emotional to be back after seven years away. We went to the supermarket, and bought, among other things, red shoes, red jumpers, and a small green plastic motorbike for me. In Salamanca we had burgers, Filets o’ Fish at McDonalds, and lots of white asparagus, which came alongside egg and cheese toasties in the Plaza Mayor. I also had lots of pudding. I decided to fly British Airways back to England, rather than easy jet, because of my class.
As soon as we got back, we fought, hit, punched and screamed for five days at the Cambridge University Press booksale, where supposedly damaged new books were added to a big table every few hours, every day, straight from the presses. The Blonde tricked me into giving her a Cambridge Spinoza book, by displaying the Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare before my eyes, despite the fact that several copies of this book would become available in the following days. Each soft cover new book was only priced at TWO POUNDS! Just TWO POUNDS! I bought many treatises, but I include below only the Cambridge Companions I purchased, which are my favourites.
The Cambridge Companion to Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Cambridge Companion to Margaret Atwood
The Cambridge Companion to Durkheim
The Cambridge Companion to the African American Novel
The Cambridge Companion to Dosteoevskii
The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare’s History Plays
The Cambridge Companion to Pushkin
The Cambridge Companion to Friedrich Schliermacher
The Cambridge Companion to Modern Latin American Culture
The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature
The Cambridge Companion to Early Modern Philosophy
The Cambridge Companion to Postcolonial Literary Studies
The Cambridge Companion to the Modern Italian Novel
The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare
The Cambridge Companion to Philip Roth
The Cambridge Companion to Chaucer
The Cambridge Companion to Feminist Literary Theory
The Cambridge Companion to Nabokov
The Cambridge Companion to Harriet Beecher Stowe
The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare’s Poetry
I also bought at full price (around sixteen pounds each):
The Cambridge Companion to Reformation Theology
The Cambridge Companion to Jonathan Edwards
The Cambridge Companion to Jesus
The Blonde also tricked me/ snuck in front of me/ snuck into the sale when I was not there, and purchased, among others:
The Cambridge Companion to Kafka
The Cambridge Companion to Proust
The Cambridge Companion to Jewish American Literature.*
I also popped off to The Cinnamon Club, in Westminster, for a familial dinner, as a surprise guest-of-honour.
I ate the following:
Indian-Tomato amuse-bouche
***
Carpaccio of cured organic salmon with onion seeds, horseradish ‘raitia’
Selected Naan breads
***
Roast saddle of ‘Oisin’ red deer with pickling spices
***
Tamarind glazed caramel banana tarte with Indian spiced Ice Cream.
***
A selection of mineral waters.
*She read the latter mockingly on the train journey from Salamanca to Bilbao, as she had bought it before I knew the sale existed, while I was in Hutchinson Island, Florida, USA, where I got some 85 degree sun for a week in a Vistana Beach resort.
I have just spent five very enjoyable days on Cambridge Limmud 2006, with The Blonde. The streets were completely empty, and we befriended the Porters in the College of St. John the Evangelist, who were grateful for the company on these last few festive days. Below I have attached the timetable for the Limmud, but before that, I must update on some selected foodways for the five days.
Sizzling Venison in Hong Kong sauce, Blackbean chicken, seaweed, egg-fried rice, and kosher spring rolls, at the Ugly Duckling Chinese Restaurant on Christmas Day. Yes: Venison in a chinese restaurant!
Chicken, spicy fries, coleslaw, corn, and Nandos House Salad, at Nandos.
Chinese breadfruit, melon, and mango seaweed jellies, bought from the Ghetto on Mill Road.
Pizza with spinach, fried onions, olives, and fried egg on top, at Ask Pizza, on boxing day.
10 packets of Wotsits, and one packet of Brannigans roast beef and mustard crisps.
Sainsburies Sweet Pancakes with custard and banana from M&S.
Kinder surprises, and various chocolates.
McDonalds strawberry milkshake and large fries.
Mozzarella, avocado, onion, tomato, balsamic vinegar, and buttered Cholla bread.
A brown cow.
***
Cambridge Limmud 2006 Timetable
Saturday December 23rd
Early evening
Supervision
Marks & Spencer shopping for essentials, including Sprite
Dinner and washing
10.10pm
Down With Love, BBC2
Comedy set in the Big Apple *
11:50pm
Neighbors, cruise videos, and slumber *
Chocolates
Sunday December 24th
Morning
Hymns and Carols
Shopping for delicacies
Queuing for King’s Carols*
Afternoon
Quiet reading and chapter writing, with score from Hamlet:The Movie
5:45pm
Carols from Kings, either on BBC2, or Live
7:15pm
Ergo work in the gymnasium of the College of St. John the Evangelist*
8:00pm
Dinner
9:30pm
Scrabble*
Keeping The Faith
A film on DVD starring Edward Norton and a Jew*
Neighbors* and Olympic Games Bid city videos
Edgar-Allen-Po Oral Reading of The Raven
Monday December 25th
Late morning
Ergo in the gymnasium of the College of St. John the Evangelist
Afternoon
Lunch in town, preferably Chinese
3.30pm
Quiet reading and chapter writing
4.55pm
Duma the Cheetah, BBC 2
Documentary taking an intimate look into the life of the big cat *
5:30pm
Quiet reading and chapter writing
7:30pm
Dinner
9:30pm
The Vicar of Dibley Xmas Special, BBC 1
Alice thinks she is the last living descendant of Christ*
12:50am
Two Girls and a Guy, BBC 2
Two women and a guy stand outside a New York apartment building*
Tuesday December 26th
Late morning
Ergo in the gymnasium of the College of St. John the Evangelist
Afternoon
Lunch on Mill Road*
3:30pm
Quiet reading and chapter writing
6:00pm
Neighbors and the like
7:20pm
Dinner
9:00pm
After Thomas, ITV 1
An uplifting true story about a dog and an autistic little boy
11:15pm
Match of the Day, BBC1
Wednesday December 27th
Music and lying down
* Denotes that this activity may have been partially done, or not done at all, when push came to shove.
This Sabbath evening I attended the black-tie dinner for Peterhouse Boat Club, after today’s Fairbairns Regatta, which my Men’s IV has been training for the entire term. But before I detail the menu for this evening, I must of course give an account of the events on the water.
After some porridge and honey, I made my way to the boathouse in dank drizzle. We did some warm up ergos, and eventually boated. Unusually, this race starts outside the boathouses, and goes downsteam towards the lock, for a gruelling ten to fourteen minute rowing time trial. It is indeed the longest race in the calendar. Our aim was to maintain the surprisingly small gap between our boat and the Peterhouse First Men’s IV, and hold off the Queens II boat that was to start 30 seconds after us, and gain on the Churchill II boat we were to be chasing. As we were marshalling, I passed the following adage down the boat, which I have learned from my study of Matthew Pinsent.
“We have not trained in order to give ourselves the chance of winning.
We have trained in order to eliminate the chance of losing”.
I was reminded of this in a video I sent round to the chaps the night before. It is of the Athens 2004 Men’s Coxless Four race. The twist in the video is that I chose the one commentated by the hubristic Canadians, who thought throughout the race that they would nail the elderly British. This, of course, was not to be.
Just after I recited this refrain, I heard a shout “Blade, Blade”, coming from The Blonde, on the Bridge by LMBC boathouse. I nodded my head, allowed a quick smile, and then got back to business. The former Governor of Hong Kong and his wife, the college master and mistress, also joined us on the bank for a while, and gave us their best wishes.
After a rather fraughtly coxed start, in which we struggled to straighten ourselves before the gun went off, we began the lethal standing start that we have been working on. We have gone up to a rating of 37 over the week, without losing too much technique or power. Before we knew it, we were flying along, albeit without 100% control. Nonetheless, we ploughed on, and Queens II, who by now had started after their interval, were nowhere to be seen. Then we heard Coach calling that we were gaining on the Churchill II boat that we were chasing after a 30 second interval. Legs became pistons, and we did some pushes for ten. I would have liked the cox to have called pushes off landmarks, such as bridges and posts, but such is life. We continued to plough along, and by now we were very much into the aerobic part of the piece. More people shouted from the bank, and things started to become a bit hazy. We soon entered the second six minutes of the race, and pushed again for ten down the reach. Timing was off in places, but we kept on going at a good rating, and attempted to maintain the pressure through the water. The last three minutes were mental more than physical, as I had to convince myself to push even when my legs and back said no. The last minute contained within it a bow side corner, which was not a fun proposition when I had just emptied the tank for home. It necessitated my side pulling harder to rotate the boat round the corner onto the finishing straight by The Plough. We crossed the line, I was bright purple, and almost in a crumpled heap. I think we had all given it our all. We had closed to within 30 metres of the Churchill boat, after starting off at around 200 metres apart. So we knew we had done quite well. But how well? We saw the First Men’s IV on the side of the river having finished their piece, and we were handed some silver foil, which I turned into a superman cape, in honour of my bow side corner.
We rowed back to the boathouse, where I had some brownies and champagne. I then cycled into town, to meet The Blonde, at Tatties. I drank a large iced strawberry milkshake and we shared a tuna-mayonnaise baguette. We were both perturbed that the milkshakes were served in large paper coca cola cups, rather than in glasses. After looking at maps in Heffers, I made my way to get changed for dinner.
It was at this point that I learned of the race results.
We were the fasted Second IV in the regatta, and had come overall 8th in the division. We had beaten two first IVs, including Robinson and Jesus. Our time was 13:14 seconds. Peterhouse’s First IV came overall 6th in the division. Considering the training we had done, I was really rather chuffed with all of this. But we can do more next term. Oh yes, we can do much more.
As such, I went on my way, in black tie, to Temple, rejoicing.
After prayers of gratitude and so forth, I made my way to Peterhouse for the dinner.
As promised, here is the menu, detailing all that I ate and drank, in full.
Peterhouse Boat Club Fairbairns Dinner
Champagne reception
***
Tomato and sweet red pepper soup
***
Casillero Diablo Chardonnay Concha y Toro, Chile 2005
***
Oregano and Garlic marinated fillets of lamb with Claret jus
Panache of vegetables
Braised marjoram beetroot
Turned road potatoes
***
Vina Paraiso Malbec (Luigi Bosca), Argentina 2003
***
Plum and rhubarb Charlotte with whipped cream
***
A selection of English and Continental cheeses, served with biscuits and red grapes
***
Smith Woodhouse LBV Port 1994
***
Coffee and mints
This sabbath evening I attended a black tie dinner for Members of the Foundation of The College of St. John The Evangelist.
I have transcribed the menu below, with detailed descriptions of what I personally ate and drank.
Grand Prebois Marsanne- Viognierm Vin de Pays des Portes, 2005
***
Beetroot Bavarois with Smoked Eel and Mache Salad.
(I did not have the eel portion)
***
Chateau Thieuley Cuvee Courselle, Bordeaux Blanc 2004
***
Roast Chicken Halibut with Mustard and Tomato Crust
***
Chateau Fourcas-Dupre, Listrac 1996
***
Venison Fillet with Red Wine and Chocolate Sauce
***
Ginger Parfait, Green Tea Jelly and Coconut
***
Warre 1970
***
Scotch Woodcock and Scrambled Egg
***
Cornas Vieilles Vignes, Alain Voge 1996
***
Coffee, Nuts, Tropical Fruits, Belgian chocolates
***
Graacher Dompropst Riesling Auslese, Max Ferdinand.
I then cycled at blitz pace to the station, where I caught the train for London, and went on my way for Crazy Dave’s Stag Weekend, including Football, Ballet, Curry, and The Cinnamon Club, rejoicing.
I am a piece of English scum.
So said an irate elderly gentleman in Borders on Friday. I was leafing through a copy of The Tablet, a Catholic magazine devoted to religion in public life, when he poked me and started screaming that I was not allowing his access to the magazine rack. I was doing no such thing, and calmly asked him whether this was a very nice way of carrying out social interaction. He went plum purple, started screaming, and said the following:
“YOU PIECE OF ENGLISH SCUM”
“I HAVE BEEN DEALING WITH PIECES OF ENGLISH SCUM LIKE YOU MY WHOLE LIFE”
By this point, I was so utterly serene; so utterly chuffed, that I just stood there beaming. This man, by the sound of it very English, but probably with Celtic ancestry that gave him a chip on his shoulder, had called me ENGLISH, which I AM. YES!
I was wearing a red poppy. This may have prompted his response to my wishing him a jolly weekend: He turned on his heal, and shouted out, with a hiss after each word:
“GO BACK TO DUNKIRK”.
By now I was more than serene. I had been retroactively placed into England’s finest hour. I was now on a ship to Dunkirk, rescuing our Island Story, thanks to his perplexing insults.
So I stood there, put my copy of The Tablet down, turned on my heal, and went on my way rejoicing.
The Europhile, ever more pathological in his wish to dissolve Albion, responded thusly to me:
“You are not English. No such nationality exists. You are British and European. Look at your passport.”
I responded:
“English first.
British second.
Israeli third.
American fourth.
African fifth.
Never European- the continent of gleeful gas-chambers and unproductive economies.”
The Europhile responded:
“Blah, blah, blah…Same old mantra: ‘European economies are stagnant, Britain’s is dynamic’, blah, blah. Have you consulted the Economist’s ‘World in 2007′? Let us take a look: Britain’s GDP per head is $42,500. Sweden’s is $49,000, the Netherlands’ is $45,000 (so is Finland’s and Austria’s). Belgium’s is $43,000, whilst Denmark’s and Ireland’s exceeds $50,000. Norway clocks in at a whopping $81,000. France and Germany, for all their supposed troubles, aren’t doing too badly either. Germany has a GDP p.h. of $40,000 and France’s is $41,000. If Britain is doing so well, why isn’t our economy like Norway’s? For comparison, America’s GDP p.h. is $46,000, Australia’s is $36,000, whilst Japan’s is $41,000 - all pretty similar to the European mainstream, wouldn’t you say?”
I responded:
“ “Norway clocks in at a whopping $81,000″
Tell me something:
IS NORWAY IN THE EU ???????????????????
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
This term I am training in a Senior IV with the Beanpole, Ziggy and a new ex-schoolboy rower who hails from an ultra-conservative hamlet near Henley.
I have taken to motivational speech CDs, and have been listening to ‘Freedom’s Finest Hour’ which narrates the genesis of American liberty, and is read by Ronald Reagan. I also have his and Margaret’s collected speeches on CD, as well as a Churchill compilation. I am very pleased to be reminded of how scornful he is of the Southern Irish during his period.
There is a Mexican food van which stops right outside my house, and I am able to eat chicken and avocado burritos, and cheese and salsa quesadillas, in the manner of The Horizon Court buffet, on the Caribbean Princess.
This term’s training has been up and down. The back of my feet have started lactating blood because of a number of 30 minute ergos I have done with incorrect footwear. As such, I walk around town with my Caribbean sandals on, looking left-wing, unfortunately. Yet this has at least given us stamina. On the downside, the Beanpole has been drunk and disorderly on two occasions, making us miss outings and do ergos instead. The ultra-conservative Henley-man did not turn up to a 6am early the other day, but his reason was so unintentionally funny that I must let him off. This is the remorseful message he sent our crew and coach, to explain how he became inebriated:
‘I was at corporate communion last night and I got a bit carried away.’
My Anglo-Catholic colleagues do indeed confirm that this was the case: Drunk on the blood of Christ. This is why he had a Reformation.
All of which reminds me of a quotation I remember, from something I have been reading, written at the turn of the 20th century:
‘In a college like Cambridge rowing does for those who practise it nearly everything that the rules of the authorities propose to do. It makes them lead a regular and simple life; it gets them out of bed early in the morning and send them to bed again at ten at night; it disciplines them, it keeps them healthy, for it makes temperance necessary…If I could only add that it forces a man to his books and necessarily made him a brilliant subject for examiners, I should have compiled a fairly complete list of academic virtues.’
R.C. LEHMAN, The Complete Oarsman, 1909
I have nine kids I am supervising this term, so I need the discipline.
So, today I went for a hearty brunch at Tatties with The Blonde. I had a cup of coffee (having read in Runners’ World that moderate caffeine is good for sport). I also had some Ribena, a chocolate croissant, and scrambled egg on toast. After picking up my copy of MTV’s Carmen: A Hip Hopera from The College of St. John The Evangelist, I cycled to the boathouse. Marshalling took hours, as today’s timed head piece race had many, many entries. We had an ok row down to the marshalling point, but our little novice cox (who has an amusingly laconic Derbyshire accent) did not give us a practise ‘rolling start’ As such, when we eventually began the race, our first minute or two was terrible, with my rowing at a much higher rating than the other three, who followed stroke at what I deemed to be too low a rate. As such, I called a push from my bow seat, and things began to heat up. It was windy, so we were wearing clams on our oars to give some more leverage above the wavy water. The crew who started a minute after us were nowhere to be seen, and soon, after several more pushes and a slightly increased rating (Baruch Hashem), we began to close in on the crew who had started a minute before us. This was encouraging, and seemed to show that perhaps those 30 minute ergos were worth something. Our rowing technique was still pretty horrid in places, but I am sick of being a pretty but slow boat, and so will take that with a slightly positive spin. We did some more pushes on the reach, and by the end, we got to near overlap on the boat, as we glided gasping under the bunting that marked the finish line.
We got back to the boathouse, had a debrief, and I went on my way into town, rejoicing.
I am currently sailing between Cuba and Haiti, towards Ocho Rios, Jamaica, where I will arrive in a day or so. I am using a wireless internet capacity, in an exclusive wooden library with Caribbean water lapping at the window. I flew first class to the New World, using New York City as my gateway city. I stayed in a an unsalubrious but exciting East Village house for a couple of days, and then stayed with cousin in Hell’s Kitchen, for a further couple of days. I ate pancakes in Puerto Rican breakfast cafes, sushi with Heebs in Greenwich Village, deli food with ya’akov below the gleaming Time Warner centre, and Korean deli bourbon chicken with my parents, on the way to Ground Zero. I went to a sixth form skit dressed up as a broadway hit, called Spamelot, and ate buffalo burger in a diner where Seinfeld was invented. I ate tasty chicken and rootbeer in Queens with Aunt Lindy, and ice cream in a diner near The Algonquin. Then I took a Jet Blue flight 9 days ago to Fort Lauderdale. It ran out of fuel after circling above a thunder storm, and had to tensely divert to West Palm Beach. I made them get a train down to Fort Lauderdale from there, where I stayed at a delux Marriot Beach Harbour resort for the night. In the morning I shared the beach with rather tryign New York J.A.Ps.
After meeting up with Trellises and Greanna, we cought the Caribbean Princess. After beef spare ribs, ginger beers, watermelons and pineapple by the mound, and cream cake after icecream sundae, I docked in
St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands
Here I went to Coki beach, Drake’s Seat, and the second oldest synagogue in the Western hemisphere. I draped myself in a tallit that covered my shorts and tea shirt, and stood looking out of the open windows and doors into Charlotte Amalie, the capital, below me. I stood on sand in the prayer house, which makes it unique in the world. The sand represents Conversos arriving via the inquisition onto a tropical beach, or their necessary hiding in sandy cellars from continuign New World inquisitions. A thunder storm took place as I stood wrapped in my holy robes, and when the sun cleared, I made my way back to the ship, and then took a five mile run through Charlotte Amalie. I got back and went to the buffet for Afternoon Tea, rejoicing.
The next day I arrived in
St. Martin (French West Indies)/ Sint Maarten (Netherlands Antilles)
Here I went on a bike ride through the blazing heat along the shore line and through old tropical dairy farms. I fell off my bike twice going over rocks. The French side of the island is fecund and colourful. I then went to Friar’s Bay where I swam with a free glass of icy coca cola. In the afternoon I went to Maho Beach, on the Dutch side of the island. Here I waited with pater and Trellises for landing Jets coming in from America and Europe. As we arrived by taxi we saw that we had just missed an American Airlines jet from Miami, and some Air France Airbuses. We thought this would not be our day. We waited in the blazing heat on the beautiful beach that bordered the airport runway of Princess Julianna Airport, but nothing came. Other plane nerds paced around nervously. Then, like a hawk coming in over the blue ocean, I spotted something. pater put his camera on, sitting in the sand. A noise grew louder. Trellises and I sat on the beach under its flight path. Then we felt a huge energy coming towards us. An American Airlines 767 came hurtling towards us, casting a a huge shadow on the sea’s shore. We were blasted into the sand, and Mrs Trellis tried to run away as we lay plastered to the floor. Seemingly a few metres above us, this giant jet liner hurtled towards the ground. We smelled the engine and saw it slip over us, and land 20 metres later, over the fence from the beach, in the airport. We got a taxi back, marvelling at this experience, and, with a free sample of coconut smoothie in my hand given to me in the doch, I went on my way to the ship, rejoicing.
After another few days, we landed in
Princess Cays, on the southern tip of the Bahamian island of Eleuthera.
Here, I swam with a sting ray, survived, and had a free beach barbecue of burgers, Bratworst, sald and pickles, fruit, banana cake, and brownies.
I am now heading for
Ocho Rios, Jamaica.
Then we will go to
Grand Cayman
And then
Cozumel, Mexico.
I am now off to the late night bistro.
It is summer now, and I have been up to much, including being accepted into the upper classes of England, on a trip to the Henley Regatta with the Sabra. I wore a colonial beige suit, borrowed, with a club tie. One of my rowing coaches gave me the two V.I.P stewards’ enclosure tickets, which I displayed in the sun on my button, like a true Englishman.
You may have noticed that a month has gone by, without a fourth day account for May Bumps 2006. Well the events of the final day have only now moved far enough from my mind’s eye, to enable me to recount the drama and agony of those final, brutal moments.
Day 4- May Bumps 2006
With the adage ‘lucky crews up 4, great crews up 3′, I made my way to the boathouse. We were to be chasing an Emmanuel boat who were half decent sloggers, and being chased by the relatively strong Jesus boat who we had stormed away from on day 1, but who had bumped everyone else in front of them subsequently. It was torridly hot, and I lapped up the sun. The master, two coaches, and Crazy Dave all bank-partied us, and the canon went off.
We got a very good start, with whistles after a minute or two. This continued, however, without decent overlap. The sun grinned down relentlessly, and soon we were into a long chase, past the Plough, and on through the grandstand with hundreds of people on either side, including my barking pup. Onwards we continued, past the three minute lactic acid build up, and round the corner. We began to lose site of Emmanuel.
And then an amazing thing happened on the long reach, after 6 minutes or so. Our extra training came into play, a few of us shouted, and we pushed for ten. Then we did this again to wind up the rating and, more importantly, the strength of stroke. We were on for a late bump- a rare commodity in our division. We continued catching them, to within a length, and then half a length. A bump after such a long time just before the end of the course is something I have never done, and would be magic. They were dead in the water, and we came steaming up to their stern. We had continuous whistles and the exilerating moment of knowledge that a bump was inevitable came about. I glimpsed their stern, and our canvas overtook their own one. I could feel the breath of their cox from my number three seat. I saw excited faces on the bank, and then our cox called us to hold it up and stop the boat. This was a signal that we had bumped, and were to stop our momentum so that the bumped boat was not smashed. I let go of my oar slightly and celebrated with my hand in the air. HOLD THE BOAT UP, our cox called again, and we came to a stop.
And then, like a vile mist descending, I heard confused voices, and the cox telling us to carry on rowing again. I glanced behind, and the Emmanuel cox had not conceded. While we had held it up, they carried on rowing, and there were no umpires near enough to guarantee the bump (literal contact) had taken place. Our cox claimed that she heard shouts telling her to stop from the bank. Misery filled my bones and we tried pathetically to try and catch them, having come to a near stop ourselves. We rowed over, I glared at the Emmanuel boat, and screamed at our cox. I was furious, along with the New Zealander, while others in the boat were more phlegmatic. I was too angry for phlegmatism, having been robbed of a classic, late bump.
From this day onwards I will never listen to a cox telling me to hold a boat up until I can smell the splintered wood of the opposition stern. From this day onwards, in the mind and hearts of we eight rowers, we will know that we went up 3, no matter what the Emmanuel cox can claim: the sign of a great boat.
Day 3 - May Bumps 2006
Today we were to be chasing a Downing boat who have not been doing too well, and chased by a Jesus boat who had bumped every day, and were on for blades. Well we were to DENY them, we thought, and go for the bump. The row down was in more sweltering heat, and I even started feeling a bit light headed as we marshalled in the sun. I kept drinking my water, and we rowed on down to the start, psyching out our opposition by trying to maintain a balanced stroke. A member of Peterhouse, and the blue boat, accompanied our coaches and the former Governor of Hong Kong and his wife, as the cannon went.
We had our best start so far: calm and effective. After only 4o seconds we got our first whistle. Second and continuous hoots soon came, meaning we were closing fast on Downing. Jesus were nowhere to be seen behind us, we having sped away from them. As the hoots became louder, the water became more rough, meaning we were very close- perhaps a canvas- off Downing. Yet one cannot be tempted to look round in order to see if one has made the bump. The loss of concentration in that movement could result in a crab, and a loss of the momentum that got you to that positive position in the first place. Cox called a final push, the water became tumultuous, and then a couple of our (rather scarily accident prone) rowers came off their seat. Yet this happened as we had bumped the crew already. WE BUMPED. A scary way to do it though. We easied under the railway bridge, were showered with leaves to signify the bump, and went off back home in the sun, being cheered by the boat club sponsor’s hospitality tent.
Back at the boat house, our coach said we had huge momentum on our started, and came steaming into Downing, causing them to panic as we came to bump them, and crash into the bank. He was still a bit anxious that we had our clumsiness within the boat as we won the bump. I always said we were not pretty. Again, our speed was enough to overcome these problems, and plough us mercilessly into the opposition.
We ran down to the bottom of the river again, in order to see the hospitality tent. Here we met The Sabra and her Scottish Heeb friend, who had been watching in the plough. After a few pleasantries, I went on my way to the hospitality tent, for some pimms and crisps, rejoicing.
May Bumps 2006- Day 2
Today we were to be chasing our perennial rivals, Fitz II. We are both strong and organised, and always slog it out against each stroke for stroke, where other lesser boats bump quickly after a few seconds of froth and fury. I went shopping at the Grafton Centre with The Sabra in the morning, after a greasy spoon breakfast at the History of Art scholar frequented frayed coffee house called ‘Martins’. I had egg, toast, fried tomato, baked beans (my first time ever) and mushrooms. I also had some builders’ coffee. At the Grafton Centre, I bought a shirt with England in big writing on the front, for five pounds. After a lunch of porridge and banana (I could stomach nothing else), and some preparation on The Enlightenment in America, for supervising in the evening, I made my way to the boathouse.
The row down was sweltering hot, and I over hydrated. When we stopped the boat to line up, I pissed against some trees, and eyed up some cows. We knew we would not get caught by Trinity Hall, surely? We had beaten them yesterday. The cannon went, and we got a great start. After 30 seconds, we got our first whistle on Fitz, meaning we had closed a length on this strong boat. The hoots continued, and the water started to become rough, meaning that we were close to their strokes. We got to within a third of a length on them. And then they bumped the slow boat in front of them, meaning we could not bump them. Just our luck, as ever. The same happened to Fitz yesterday.
But wait… It was not over: We could still go for the OVERBUMP on an Emmanuel College boat that was still going FOUR boats ahead of us, having not bumped or been bumped. Yet all the bumped out crews between us on the corner did not park well, and caused havoc for our boat which came steaming round the corner. We hit the bank for a few seconds, and came to a near stop. Slightly demoralised and dazed, we then got a shout from the cox to get back to full tilt, and go for the overbump.
We were six lengths behind for the overbump, and my mouth was gasping hot dry air. We pushed more. The former Governor of Hong Kong, and our bank party, came cycling along, and cheered us on, now going for the gutsiest of all endeavours. Six lengths down and another push made it 5. A further drive made it four. Several minutes of hard rowing made it 3. With the full course being eaten up we got the whistles for two lengths. More gasping. One and half lengths on an unprecedented overbump. The course ended. We had rowed over, and made up many lengths on a boat that had started far in front of us. What would have happened if had not been forced into the bank, we could only ask?
Still, it was gutsy, and a proud row. We still have not been bumped. The old saying goes: Lucky crews go up four and win blades, good crews go up three. I wonder.. I went home to watch the England game, and supervised on the Enlightenment. Then I went on my way to a burger bar, rejoicing.
Day 1 of May Bumps 2006
Today was the first day of May Bumps. Before I update in the next few days on trips to Paris with felons on a bus and ferry to watch Arsenal in the European Cup, meetings with the Prime Minister, blisteringly hot days on the water and grass, World Cup observations, and much more polemic beside, I must describe today’s waterways, in all its vital detail:
This term’s training has been odd, and at times fraught. The crew are sometimes manically energised, while at other times, they fall into a depressed, Russian stupor. They are all engineers and scientists, and thus have odd timetables with ‘lectures’ and ‘exams’. Thus, they have been unable to practise at normal times, and we have had strangely enjoyable (for the time period, at least) late evening 8.30 pm sessions, as the sun goes down, and while the heat still remains above the water and among the undergrowth. As such, my face has become bronzed, so that my ginger Jihad beard is disguised.
However, they have been unable to break through the pain barrier, and have been rowing ‘in themselves’. This has meant that we are all too afraid to give it all (cries of heat stroke emanate from behind me now and again) during training, while there are other grumbles and twitches that characterise various members of the crew, though we are as a whole very good natured. Funnily enough, although we are not brute hulks, our technique falls behind our raw power. Normally it is the otherway round, and I have had a sneaking thought all term that this may not be a bad thing.
We have rowed in a couple of regattas, and done quite well on various Sundays agains some crews. One crew who beat us significantly a couple of Sundays ago, however, was a Jesus College boat who were to be chasing us today, on the first day of May Bumps 2006. Moreover, in several races and training sessions, we have tended to die after a couple of minutes, when lactic acid is allowed to gain too much sway in our hearts; the latter should instead trick our brains into keeping the leg pistons working.
A number of messages have been sent amongs ourselves, in order to try and bang our heads together, such as:
“…I realise that it takes a certain degree of nastiness to impose such a regime but you know as well as I do that rowing is just as much about the psychology as the physiology and technique. Do we want to bump or be bumped? I certainly don’t want to be a friggin’ sandwich boat. Also, at this rate M3 are gonna be faster than us.”
and:
“Dear all,
I’m angry, drunk and pissed off. I think we let ourselves down, and coach down today - and I’ve got my iPod
charged again. I’m up for an erg. And all the things listed below. The only way we can compensate him [coach who was angry and upset with us] is by going up in bumps. So, we should train for that. Let’s do it.
‘Bean-pole’ ”
Thus, last night, the following email was received by the whole club- all four boats- to try and break through any malaise, and arouse passions True Blue style. It was sent by the captain, a navy chap who was in my second boat this time last year:
” CCAT II and St Edmund’s II;
Trinity Hall III and Darwin II;
Jesus II and CCAT;
Downing II and Wolfson;
This is the last we shall say of these crews, for we cannot control what they do. The only thing that we can control after the gun goes is what we ourselves do. It is time to look inside ourselves and discover what we are made of.
Either we will see the glint of something special, something that will not lie down, but will stand up and say “We are Peterhouse”, or we are destined to fail.
I believe that we will find the former, that we have worked for the past term, indeed the past year, for these moments and these moments alone. Through the early mornings, and the hail and the snow, through sheer exhaustion and physical pain.
I have faith that you will do both the Club and yourselves proud. But to achieve this you need to have faith in yourselves and your crew mates.
It will hurt, but the only reason that it is worth doing what we will do tomorrow is the bonds built up within our crews through the many miles and hours we have spent together. We deserve our just rewards.
We must row well and we must row together, for no-one can move a boat on their own. Put your trust your crew mates.
At the simplest level, we must want that bump more than those around us, and be prepared to put our bodies on the line, “to tear ourselves, and everyone around us, to pieces for those inches” every single stroke.
It has been an honour to Captain the Club for the past term, and come Saturday night, I want us all to be able to look back, no matter what the results are, and say that we did our utmost.
Row ‘House ”
And I received the following personal message from Crazy Dave, aware of our particular problems and anxieties, to forward to my Second Men’s Crew:
“Hi ‘blade’,
Can you just pass on my best wishes for tomorrow and for the subsequent days of racing.
You asked me if there was anything I thought should be mentioned. The only thing I can think of is what I think about before every race, although it might be particularly appropriate for this crew. It is so important to do a professional job during the race from start to finish. This is not the “up guards and at ‘em” mentality that some people unsuccessfully try to bring into their rowing, where the resulting tension only slows the boat down, leads to mistakes, and an unsustainable rhythm. It is about a commitment to maintaining excellent technique while pushing down on the footplate as hard as you can for the duration of the whole race. It is about racing like you train, and having the confidence to be able to do that, without letting your nerves alter your rowing stroke and inevitably making you row worse.
I hope that helps.
‘Crazy Dave’
And so the Sabra and I went to Ask Pizza this afternoon, so that I could have a carbo loading session. I had tuna pizza with pineapple, and some pasta with vegetables and sundried assortments. I also had some coke in a bottle. I then ran to the boathouse, and received a final talk from Mr F, another coach who is filling in for our main coach for the last week. He had altered our stride somewhat in the last week, in order to stop our ’spacking’ the blade like an egg whisk, and maintain the pressure in the water rather than out of it through too many strokes per minute.. (The latter should increase naturally owing to adrenaline on the day of racing). I had some jelly babies with beef gelatine, and some leftover quality streets. I put on my racing Zephyr, and we went on our way towards the bottom of the river to marshal. We had a couple of practise starts, where the second one was best. We were due to be chasing a Trinity Hall boat that we thought, owing to a hunch from previous form, were worse than us. Yet we were to be chased by a Jesus boat who had already bumped that day in the division below us, and moved up towards the bottom of our higher division, where we sat. (There are three divisions below my division, demonstrating that we are among the better and tougher oarsmen). Thus the start was to be crucial.
The ten minute cannon went, then the four minute cannon, then the one minute cannon. We were pushed out into the middle of the river. Thirsty seconds, twenty nine, twenty eight. Ten Seconds. Take your place at front-stops. BANG..
The first three strokes were ok- not the best ever- but got us going like a steam ship. The next seven were better and we made our way into our stride. Already after a minute of tunnel vision and growing gasps, hooters and shouts came from the bank, indicating that we had come close to Trinity Hall already, who we were chasing. Jesus had gained nothing on us, having started behind us when the cannon was fired. More hoots, and then suddenly the cox called a push for five to finish them off. Then, to my horror, the man in front of me crabbed and fell of his seat in the painful excitement, and writhed around, trying to row with just his arms. I pulled even harder to make up for this, and much to my relief, the hoots kept coming. A few more strokes and I saw the beautiful sight of our boat crashing into their side: WE HAD BUMPED TIT HALL. We had gained to much for this set back to make any difference. We quickly easied, went to the side of the river, celebrated, and were thrown greenery to wear, to denote that we bumped. The man in front had turned his seat into gnarled scrap metal, and we had to row in sixes, rather than eights, all the way back home, covered in green leaves, and clapped all the way. As we docked into the boat house, I heard my name being cheared: ‘blade’, ‘blade’. It was The Sabra and her friend having tea at the public house adjacent to the boat house by the river. I waved back, rattled my leafy branches, and went on my way rejoicing.
It is hot and I just did some ergos in the gym of the College of St. John The Evangelist. Rowing has been very technical in terms of coaching, as of late. This does not particularly float my boat, as it were, but I am sure it is necessary. There are some big blue-boat guns who may parachute- deus ex machina- into the first boat, leading to a knock on effect into my boat, so worries all round. Anyway, we shall see. On more important matters, namely foodways, I went to an exclusive ‘Celebration Dinner for Peterhouse Running Club’s Promotion to Men’s Division One’, which I was invited to thanks to my strong involvement in the squad over the year. Luckily, I was on a run with The Sabra, and so I only caught the tail end of the pre-dinner reception in the Masters’ Lodge, where Lord Douglas Hurd was present. I would have questioned his lamentable involvement in the Kosovo Crisis, and his references to ‘managing British decline’, which may have caused a brouhaha. The menu, served in the Henry Cavendish room by splendid butlers, was as follows:
Celebration Dinner for Peterhouse Running Club
Radish lead and mint soup
Cava Trad Brut
***
Breast of Guinea fowl roasted with garlic, lemons and mushrooms
Fennel and celery braise
Thai baby corn with garden mint
Black pepper duchess potatoes
Dallas Conte (Chile) 2000
***
Summer pudding served with fresh whipped cream and summer fruit garnish
Muscat de Valencia
***
A selection of English and Continental cheeses served with biscuits and grapes
Smith Woodhouse LBV 1994
***
Coffee and mints
Here is an update on many matters of state in the last weeks:
I am currently in the middle of an intense training camp with the rowing club, which has already consisted of video footage analysis of my stroke, and timed ergo competitions, akin to the manner in which the British Olympic boat is picked. Indeed, I attended the Arsenal Versus Villa Real match, and went on my way rejoicing, on the train, back to Cambridge. The next morning I did my 30 minute ergo with the coach looming over me, and, dripping with sweat, I had to jump off the machine, put a back pack on, and run two miles to the train station, in order to get a train to Nuneaton 20 minutes later. I ran and ran, stumbled onto the train, only for a historical paper I had been working on to flutter out of my bag and onto the platform. I commanded passers by to help me pick it up, as well as some broken matzah, which is all I had for sustenance, and bundle me onto the train with 15 second to go. I sat there dazed, starving and sopping wet, on my way to Nuneaton, to change for Liverpool, where I was due to give a paper on Cannibalism and the Blood Libel in Iberian expansion. It was still Pesach, and all I had was some marshmallows, cheese and matzah. I changed into my suit, meandered to the conference centre, and gave my paper. All the other papers were dull and dry, so I made witty jokes about Heebs on Haemoroids, cannibalism, and the fact that, given it was the last day of Pesach, little Christians were no doubt being eaten somewhere in the world. An awkward silence ensued, I got in an argument with a professor about the meaning of the ‘Atlantic World’, left the room, and got back onto a train to Cambridge, breaking my Pesach fast on a Chicken Tikka sandwich followed by a glass of water, which allowed me a milky Twix.
I went to Istanbul with parents in mid-March for three days. The synagogue we booked to go into for a service, boasted yellow hard hats under each seat, in case of bombing. It was impossible to go into other synagogues, owing to security. I went into lots of mosques however, and enjoyed walking bare foot. It was a sometimes upsetting few days for me, however, because I wanted to buy a carpet/ hat/ dinner from every hawker who accosted me, leading to much guilt when I did not. We ended up eating in smoky Turkish pubs because we were guilty that the proprietors kept on recognising us as we walked past their establishments. The bazaar was as Middle Eastern as you could imagine, and I was sent into a spiral of adrenaline and confusion as hawkers sought my shekels from every angle. The Asian side of Uskadar, which I went to by a working class ferry, was bustling and Mohammedan. Every morning at 5am I was woken with the eerie call of the Muazzin wailing for Allah, right outside my window. British Airways was sound and calming. I have now straddled Asia and Europe. I drank pomegranate juice from a street stall.
I also went to Brighton for a couple of days with the Sabra. We ate cinder toffee, fish, and Greek food. Brighton palace was odd and ersatz in its style. It was windy and we got sprayed on the beach, where I was inspired to run shirtless at night. We lay in the sun and ate olives. We also went on a pilgrimage to the Grand Hotel, where they tried to bomb Thatcher, to no avail, luckily. We sneaked to the top of the hotel, and had some moments of contemplation.
With noisy kitchen activity going on at home, I managed to finish my book chapter on Sudan, which I sent to the publishers. It is ace.
This rowing camp will be a make-or-break affair. More on this later, no doubt.
The bog-dweller sent me the following ebullient recommendations, in the last days:
I have fallen in love with the French socialist Segolene Royal. She is waging a one-woman revolution to capture the Socialist nomination for President and with it the Elysee Palace. She tops all the opinion polls and has high praise for Tony Blair stating her admiration for Blair and his policies has gotten her in trouble with the French old Left. ‘I took a lot of flak for what I said about Blair…..so I said it again and again to ram the message home.’ A woman after my own heart.
Commentators are already talking about
Sego V Sarko
Segolene Royal, Madame la’Presidente
Before this nonsense, he sent me the following:
Get ‘Hillary’s Turn,’ an inside account of her Senate Campaign 2000. It is a great romp through the exotic hothouse that is New York City politics and the entire state is painted in vivid colours.
Hilary v Condi 2008!
Better than the backwaters of the Ulster Bog, I suppose.
Happy Purim: Tonight I am going dressed as the Rebbe, while the Sabra will be dressed as Esther/ a Damsel in Distress. (Shouldn’t that be Vashti?)
Last two days of Bumps were gallant rows, only to be bumped by crews who gained blades in the end. We pushed them both further than any other crew had on previous days. Mays should be a different kettle of fish, as, in my opinion, we are far better placed in our division. Watch this space for what should be a nailbiting crew selection, with more politics, tears and effort. As such, for my birthday, (today) I received a weight training book to help me achieve that bit more power on ergos, given the club’s new director and coach, who is very much a Jurgen Grobler style technician, for whom everything is about numbers and scores… The redhead bought be some gentleman’s shaving cream from London, because, I am a gentleman.
I just got back from a couple of days in London, where I watched Chelsea get booted on the telly, and Real Madrid get held by Arsenal, so that the latter could go through to the next round of the Champions’ League, in one of the best live matches I have seen in many years. We stayed to the end, and I went on my way rejoicing.
Hunt sent me the following message today:
Blade,
It is good to know that as your Phd continues apace, you still have time to think of, and even electonically write to your old friends in North West Lonon, Blade.
Secondly, I want to say how touched I was when you rang me yesterday to tell me you were at the Arsenal v Real Madrid match. A day on, and all that goes through my mind is how fantastic the experience must have been. Thank you for offering to purchase me a ticket for the match (I presume as a season ticket holder you have priority when match tickets come out), Blade.
I trust this letter finds you well. Please pass on my warmest regards to your family. Tell your mother that I have called on worldwide Islam to back me as I launch a Fatwa against Jacqueline (is the correct spelling?) Rose, Blade.
As ever,
Hunt.
And so I begin writing about Missionaries in Sudan, now that my notes are made, to be completed before I go off to Istanbul for a few days, next week.
Having listened to Adieamus and some Negro Spirituals to motivate me, I made my way to the boathouse yesterday, carbed up, and with non-porkine wine-gums in pocket, and Lucazade in hand. It was the first day of Lent Bumps 2006. It was cold, and snowing at times. We had to remember the tears, blood and toil of this term, which had brought us to this moment.
After the canons, the urination in bushes, the focused stairs, and last minute advice, we got off to a great start. First whistle, meaning that we had gained on Fitz, who we were chasing, soon came. This continued for a further two minutes. Yet after two sets of continuous whistles against Fitz, and the great start which pushed us well away from Queens behind who got the row over in the end, we were forced to hold it up, with alleged carnage in front of us. We came within a canvas of Fitz after two and a half minutes, and then settled to within 3/4 length, only for them to stop rowing, claiming that ‘they had been told to do so from the bank’.
We had to have a re-row, just between our two boats. This meant going all the way back to the start, and waiting, in the freezing snow and wind, for other divisions to go by. This was now a battle of minds, with clear water in front of them (makes it easier) and just us chasing. They had a better start than their first attempt (though we still gained in first 2 minutes), but held us at length or so for most of the row-over. It was painful, but at least we were not bumped.
I went on my way to supervise on the American constitution, rejoicing.
Today, we rowed over again. Weather was sunny, but Fitz, a strong boat like us, chugged it out against us, as we were the last gladiators standing. We should both be higher in the division, where, paradoxically, there are potentially worse boats who we could both bump. But such is life.
On Friday, we try and get them again. Yet this time we have a fast Trinity boat ready to ram us into oblivion. We will have to prevent this. Perhaps, in the prevention, we will finally take our perennial bugbears, Fitz.
The Sabra is cooking me fish tonight, as a reward for my efforts.
Today