Many of you expressed horror at last week's Kate in the Countryside, which saw KITC party to the worst case of sporting sabotage this century. Or so we thought.
|Trenton, mate, if you want to be taken seriously...|
Then came Saturday: the day the world met Trenton Oldfiled. A self-proclaimed Suffragette of our times, Trenton is man so committed to the fight against elitism that he ignores the elitist principles of spelling even for his own name.
It was 1pm and grey when I left the Pad for the river. In my cautiously worn Blues stash I fitted in perfectly with the baying braying crowd. The mood was obnoxious and cheerful.
Oh who am I kidding? I love the Boat Race. In spite of the weather, the banks of the Thames were heaving with enthusiasts emboldened by Pimm's. It was impossible to find anyone or to move. Cast up between a cake stall and the entrepreneurial burger table, I was in danger of accidentally buying a hot dog when my fellow spectators found me.
One, dressed in even more stash than I, had not worn a coat.
'You must be cold?' I asked.
'No. I've got nine Blues,' he explained.
We kept moving to avoid all the other awful people, and they, us. Soon, the two boats passed, Oxford just ahead.
'Oh God,' moaned Nine Blues, 'it's only just started. We've lost.'
'Watching' the Boat Race by the Thames is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Though you are treated to a lot of atmosphere (read: tweed) you can't see much rowing. There's a good bit for about ten seconds when the boats pass near enough for you to work out which is which but, other than that, we'd had our allotted excitement. When the group in front of us were splashed by the convoy's wake and a girl dropped her drink it was already had one of the most eventful Boat Races I'd ever been to.
We wandered back down towards the start and its giant TV screen. We observed a pigeon. We wondered whether to have another lukewarm beer.
The drink-dropper seemed determined to liven things up: 'Hey look, there's a bloke in the water. Someone's fallen in!'
This seemed unlikely. Rowing is a simple sport.
'It's a streaker!' I suggested optimistically.
'It's a protest,' volunteered a radio-carrying gent who was passing.
Like I say, you can't see much at the Boat Race. We called a friend.
'Some cretin jumped in. They're restarting the race,' he explained.
We all agreed that the crews should have carried on and got him.
'Would man's head have been chopped off or just gouged?' Mother Dearest mused, via text.
It was at that point we gave up on the live experience and headed to a pub. As for the #boatraceswimmer, we don't need to talk about him. That pratty little man and his God complex and his beard. And his imbecilic ranting. So we won't. You know the rest.
But be warned Oldfeild: England is unhappy with you. And we won't miss again.