months: Molesey, Wallingford, Marlow, Reading and so on, culminating, if you were good enough, in the splendour and glamour of Henley Royal Regatta.
In the winter you would train in the boat on Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. There were a few marathon events, such as the Tideway Head in March, where crews from all over the country raced in a mad free-for-all from Chiswick Bridge to Putney, a gruelling endurance test for oarsmen and coxswains alike, especially as we then had to row back to our headquarters in Kingston afterwards. On one occasion I was so frozen through after this event I had to be lifted out of the boat and carried into the kitchen where I was propped on a chair and my feet placed in the oven to defrost.
The clubhouse itself was (indeed, is still) situated in Canbury Gardens, just by Kingston Bridge, a short bicycle ride (on the pavement) from Teddington. The boats were all stored on the ground level in three big bays. At one end, giant clanking metal shutters could be winched open, then the boats carried out across the shingle to the river.
Upstairs were changing rooms, a kitchen (because oarsmen are always hungry), a bar (because oarsmen drink a lot of beer), a gymnasium and the clubroom itself, with its wooden floor and lots of black plastic leather-effect sofas and chairs. On the walls were wooden panels listing previous captains and presidents and winning crews, some of whom could be seen in the old sepia photographs sporting big baggy shorts and handlebar moustaches.
During my first year at KRC I didn’t take it very seriously. Barry and I would turn up on Saturday and hang around to see if any crews needed a cox. If not, we’d just lark about the clubhouse, maybe clean a boat if asked.
The club’s eccentric caretaker was a pipe-smoking Scottish man of about 60, called Jock. He was short and bald with a big moustache, like the men in the sepia photos, and gnarled seafaring hands. He seemed to more or less live on board his own flat-bottomed skiff boat, and it was his job to open up the clubhouse at weekends, serve behind the bar and generally boss everyone around. He was very moody and would shout and holler at anyone who crossed him. He seemed to be pretty much in charge of us boys, giving us chores to do, such as peeling potatoes or waxing a boat before a race.
He was also a bit of a dirty old man, and if he got you on your own in the kitchen he would come up close, his hands furiously scratching about in his pockets, and say things like: ‘I expect you boys like a bit of horseplay, do you, when you’re alone together, aye? Play with each other, eh?’
Then dissolve into a strange lusty giggle, all the while tugging away at his cock inside his trousers.
We obviously all knew about his peculiar ways and would avoid getting stuck on our own with him in the kitchen, but one or two of the boys went on dubious ‘overnights’ with him, sleeping in his leaky boat under a canvas contraption somewhere downriver. Nothing was ever said, but it’s hard to believe there wasn’t scratching and giggling involved.
Not me though.
‘Leave yourself alone!’ I said to him once, tired of the dirty talk and furtive wanking. ‘Or I shall tell my parents!’
Jock aside, the rowing-club crowd were jovial, sociable rugby types who loved rowing and sport in general but didn’t take it that seriously. They could drink for England in the bar once training was done, and in fact some of the set didn’t row at all, simply turned up every week to down lager and make merry. Most people had a nickname: Vampire, Groundhog, Lurch, Shirley, Skidmark and Birdshit, to name a few.
I was christened Fuck-Pig. This was laddish vulgarity: their label for me, a pretty blond girlish boy. In fact, they were kind and protective towards me. Eight drinking, swearing oarsmen were better role models than one strap-wielding monk.
Some of them had girlfriends who would come along to regattas to cheer on their burly
In the winter you would train in the boat on Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. There were a few marathon events, such as the Tideway Head in March, where crews from all over the country raced in a mad free-for-all from Chiswick Bridge to Putney, a gruelling endurance test for oarsmen and coxswains alike, especially as we then had to row back to our headquarters in Kingston afterwards. On one occasion I was so frozen through after this event I had to be lifted out of the boat and carried into the kitchen where I was propped on a chair and my feet placed in the oven to defrost.
The clubhouse itself was (indeed, is still) situated in Canbury Gardens, just by Kingston Bridge, a short bicycle ride (on the pavement) from Teddington. The boats were all stored on the ground level in three big bays. At one end, giant clanking metal shutters could be winched open, then the boats carried out across the shingle to the river.
Upstairs were changing rooms, a kitchen (because oarsmen are always hungry), a bar (because oarsmen drink a lot of beer), a gymnasium and the clubroom itself, with its wooden floor and lots of black plastic leather-effect sofas and chairs. On the walls were wooden panels listing previous captains and presidents and winning crews, some of whom could be seen in the old sepia photographs sporting big baggy shorts and handlebar moustaches.
During my first year at KRC I didn’t take it very seriously. Barry and I would turn up on Saturday and hang around to see if any crews needed a cox. If not, we’d just lark about the clubhouse, maybe clean a boat if asked.
The club’s eccentric caretaker was a pipe-smoking Scottish man of about 60, called Jock. He was short and bald with a big moustache, like the men in the sepia photos, and gnarled seafaring hands. He seemed to more or less live on board his own flat-bottomed skiff boat, and it was his job to open up the clubhouse at weekends, serve behind the bar and generally boss everyone around. He was very moody and would shout and holler at anyone who crossed him. He seemed to be pretty much in charge of us boys, giving us chores to do, such as peeling potatoes or waxing a boat before a race.
He was also a bit of a dirty old man, and if he got you on your own in the kitchen he would come up close, his hands furiously scratching about in his pockets, and say things like: ‘I expect you boys like a bit of horseplay, do you, when you’re alone together, aye? Play with each other, eh?’
Then dissolve into a strange lusty giggle, all the while tugging away at his cock inside his trousers.
We obviously all knew about his peculiar ways and would avoid getting stuck on our own with him in the kitchen, but one or two of the boys went on dubious ‘overnights’ with him, sleeping in his leaky boat under a canvas contraption somewhere downriver. Nothing was ever said, but it’s hard to believe there wasn’t scratching and giggling involved.
Not me though.
‘Leave yourself alone!’ I said to him once, tired of the dirty talk and furtive wanking. ‘Or I shall tell my parents!’
Jock aside, the rowing-club crowd were jovial, sociable rugby types who loved rowing and sport in general but didn’t take it that seriously. They could drink for England in the bar once training was done, and in fact some of the set didn’t row at all, simply turned up every week to down lager and make merry. Most people had a nickname: Vampire, Groundhog, Lurch, Shirley, Skidmark and Birdshit, to name a few.
I was christened Fuck-Pig. This was laddish vulgarity: their label for me, a pretty blond girlish boy. In fact, they were kind and protective towards me. Eight drinking, swearing oarsmen were better role models than one strap-wielding monk.
Some of them had girlfriends who would come along to regattas to cheer on their burly
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