What could possibly be awry about the Gin palace motor boat pictured above? Look at its strong nose and moist back end. Like Paris Hilton after midnight. Much like Paris Hilton it is what fills this vessel that is particularly heinous. Unfortunately for her it is a portly middle aged gent owner who generally looks something like this:
He is the true victim of my ire. Dear reader, I am about to convince you that the idyllic perception of these vessels is mistaken, and that this vile creature is of such low moral standing that he deserves to be counted even lower than the humble beasts which my fellow writers have so rightly disparaged. Deserving even of banishment to the furthest abyss of hell from which he doubtless sprang for extra time on toasting detail.
I make no apologies for the personal rarefied nature of this vitriolic shower of abuse. I take my justification from Ratty in ‘Wind in the Willows’: “there is NOTHING - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” Who am I to argue with a fictional rodent used as a propaganda tool against the crass commercialisation of our culture; forewarning against the celebritisation which we so bemoan in the press and our every day life. After all, more people have heard of him than me.
I make no secret of the fact that I love a quick row on the Thames on a summer evening, or alternatively during a winter blizzard. It just seems unfair to me that I have to share it with idiots who believe that due to some quirk of fate giving them enough money to buy my family and then sell them into better lives, they are entitled to a greater right to use my, MY MY!!! River, than me. Were they there in the snow? No. Did I see them there when it rained? No. But come summer- ‘Oh yes its a nice day, lets go and spoil it for all the proles rowing on it , actually using the river in a way which doesn’t pollute, leaves them healthier and oxygenates the water for the fish, by chugging some fuck off motorised oil and petrol leaking excrescence whilst we have a few beers on deck adding to our beer guts and Britain’s obesity epidemic.’
Perfect. You do that mister in your 5 ton motor boat whilst I skim through the tidal waves you create in my 14 kilogram single scull shell, with its 30 cm wide look. And do you do you know what that means? It means that I can’t afford to take the time off focusing on not getting swamped to give you the two fingers you so royally deserve as you cruise past calling ‘Hello! Nice day for it’ interpreting facial expressions more often associated with suicide bomber level murderous fury as a desire for a pleasant chat and fraternisation.
‘By their own hypocrisies shall ye know them indeed...’ Jaime Madrazo
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