Tales From The River Bank

THE CAPTAIN’S LOG (or: 5 Men in a Boat)

CAPTAIN’S LOG: BARDATE 0

It’s Sunday, the novice landlubber crew  assemble in an Eastern City (Captain, First Mate, The Winch, Lost Boy and Skiver). They await embarkation on the nautical trip of their miserable lives.  For sustenance, they repair to a foreign cantina to sate themselves on Tex-Mex, knowing it could just be their last decent meal before giving in to a diet of bacon butties and lager (diet sheet available).

The meal is excellent. The Figurehead suggests an ice cream with chocolate sauce and nuts all round, but the Captain declines, muttering, “You’d only have to eat my nuts for me”.

CAPTAIN’S LOG: BARDATE 1

The crew ate a hearty breakfast, at about 12:30. The Famous Five set sail as the sun rose over the yardarm, indicating the time for a large gin & tonic, then another, and again. Absolutely no point in trying to come to terms with some of the crew’s personal habits in a sober condition. The Winch, a big man in every sense, steered the boat simply by padding round the deck with his trainers off. Everywhere he went, the other 4 went to the opposite end of the boat to avoid choking, thus causing the change of balance necessary to steer without using the wheel.

With the sun now setting over the yardarm, it was time for a lot more rations, so the crew set about parking – er, sorry, mooring – the boat at Ludham Bridge. With First Mate at the helm, sadly the er, mooring operation became a little fraught in the wind, leaving Winch dazed, confused and angry, flat on his back on the bank without the mooring rope he’d previously held, resorting to the kind of language that would make Bluebeard blush.

His distemper was alleviated by a large steak at Ye Olde Dog Inne, but unfortunately no lock-in was on offer, so the crew trudged off back to the boat. The Captain notices that the aft mooring pin had dragged 3 inches in the soft molehill in which it was buried. None of the inebriate crew seems interested, so why should he, in similar condition.

CAPTAINS LOG: BARDATE 2

The day started badly at 0630, well before the yardarm was thinking about the sun. Skiver observed that the boat was in the middle of the river, on one rope only, sideways on. Incredibly, he rolled over again in his hammock, muttering that something should be done. Captain and Winch sprang into action, the Captain cutting a commanding dash in his Bugs Bunny Tanga briefs, Winch clad attractively in his Weavers Arms shorts (oops!). This mishap set the tone for the rest of the day, which drizzled on for the main part, just like the conversation, which only rose as high as the amount of airbrushing in Winch's educational material, purchased specially for the trip.

Lunch was taken at Ye Olde Sutton Staithe Hotel -  except no food passed lips, apart from more of the dreaded Porky Scratchings which had followed them down from Tipton to smother the Broads pubs like a rash - or like the crew, if you prefer.

Skiver displayed a taste and knowledge for music like never before on the pub jukebox, and showed signs of animation for the first time on the trip.

Moored for the evening at Ye Olde White Lion Inne at Thurne, where a hearty meal was washed down with several Light Ales.

CAPTAINS LOG: BARDATE 3

Malthouse Broad - stilll can't pose outside Ye Olde Malthouse Inne for the third day running even though we have the coolest boat on the Broads, so we anchor up and a fishing contest ensues. Much time is spent later arguing as to the winner, but there’s no prize and every chance of having to buy a round, so the result hangs in the air.

Leaving Malthouse we take on 50 pence of water -and run out of water again later as we moor at Potter Heigham, which looks like it’s in a 60's Skegness timewarp. The crew take just one glass of porter in Ye Olde Admiral's Barre, and return to the good ship, and substantially reduce the red wine cellar. To nil, actually.

After the sunshine of the day, not to mention the wine, the crew are re-named; Winch becomes Mr Pinchy, after the lobster-like colour AND claw actions he has taken on, First Mate becomes Dwarf, for no good reason. Lost Boy and Skiver become Baked Bean and Peanut in the age-old power struggle over member size, and Captain is now Tanga, for the firm way he fills out his pants, both front and rear.

CAPTAINS LOG: BARDATE 4

Potter Heigham looks even worse in daylight as the crew fill with water at somebody's pump for free. We turn back from the low bridge, even though Peanut reckons we’d go under if we let the tyres down.

Tanga treats the crew with extra rations for breakfast, to assist with the collective hangover. Bean pulls the crews' first eel from the Bure, causing consternation as to who’s going to disgorge the slimy, wriggly little thing without gloves on. Peanut’s eyes glaze over whistfully as he sees the thing wriggle, Bean just doesn’t have the time as his foot slips into the river while wrestling the creature to a standstill.

This forces a stop at Ye Olde Bridge in Acle, to calm the crew's nerves, and even then Tanga managed a good bang on the quayside. Just the boat this time, though  .  .  .  .

The last evening was spent at Ye Olde Swanne Inne, just a couple of miles downriver from the boatyard, just in case of severe debility the following morning. How prophetic.

CAPTAIN’S LOG: BARDATE 5

The crew set sail unwillingly to return the good ship Prelude II to its charterers for 0900. Peanut makes breakfast in a vain attempt to rescue his reputation before the trip ends. Dwarf has by now become so dexterous at manoeuvres that he shows off with a final 180 degrees turn at the boatyard without damaging any other boat, but fails to finish off with his Frankie Dettori-like leap from the flying bridge. The sea-going leg of the trip had concluded. The Broads had been drunk dry, as planned. Now for the delights of the Eastern Capital City .  .  .  .

The afternoon was concluded with the Greater Norwich Short-Course Golf Championships for Distressed Seafolk, Dwa’f overcoming the Laws of Physics to triumph with his foreshortened swing, over the greater experience of Tanga, who suffered more sledging than Scott of the Antarctic. Peanut would have been pretty pissed if he’d known we’d started off matchplay, converting to strokeplay when it looked as if he might win, well it’s only a game, as Bean was saying all the way round!

Mr. Pinchy, apart from mangling his 8-iron with his strong pincer-like grip, stayed a silent 4^th as he contemplated the evening ahead. His master plan nearly succeeded, but Tanga managed to crawl out from underneath the local inebriate celebrant without too much damage to himself or the dance floor. Nice move, Mr Pinchy . . . !

The revellry continued into the night, moving from strange place to even stranger place, until somehow all arriving back at the Figurehead’s billet. The adventure was nearly over – for this season, at any rate.

Ernie