My first Boat Race party. Despite going to school in Hammersmith for five years and spending a large amount of my teenage life drinking in pubs by the river, for some reason I had never actually watched the Great Boat Race. This time I accepted an invitation to a party hosted by a friend in her riverside flat with enthusiasm. So it was that I found myself heading merrily towards the Thames on a damp Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago.
I entered the building via a raised path of wooden slats, which create a plank-like effect. Below lay wild grass, with the odd crazed daffodil poking out. The early April showers fell lightly onto the glistening, moist sea of green below as I gingerly stepped across. It was as if once you had reached the safety of the porch, you may well have looked behind you, the timber would have been whisked away, the captain would have given the signal and you would have set sail off to lands unknown.
The flat itself was designed by Sir Richard Rogers twenty years ago and is located a stones throw from the River Café. It is a seminal piece of architecture upon which many other flats have since been modelled. It has a very high ceiling and a large central space with the bedrooms tucked away beyond view. The upstairs office overlooks the split level arrangement and is a perfect place for the master of the ship to oversee affairs. The piece de résistance is the vast `curtain of glass' that takes up the whole of one wall, at some twenty metres high and looks directly out onto the contained expanse of water that is the River Thames.
Bright sunlight burned through the clouds and shone through the window, filling the room. Well dressed people of all ages milled around. Even the younger ones in their twenties and thirties obviously realised that one `dresses' for the boat race, for jackets and heels were the order of the day. It was Sunday Best rather than my interpretation of Sunday attire, a bright green t-shirt and jeans. An incredible spread was laid out, an abundant mass of quails eggs, smoked salmon twirls, Parma ham, cheeses, baguettes and olives.
An art exhibition had been held at the flat two days before by young artist Amy Bernays, and her work, primarily of rippling water scenes, was hung on walls throughout. The river, as seen through the window was reflected firstly in the paintings on the wall, with their grey and blue tones, and secondly in the large television screen showing the glinting river, in anticipation of the race. The triple river effect, as if mirror after mirror was reflecting individual interpretations of the original, combined with the hazy light looked like a psychedelic installation. I almost felt like donning a bikini and diving in. Settling instead for a glass of Sancerre and some olives, I made a bee-line for the roof. The race, I was told, was about to begin!
Up and out through the office, skirts and sunglasses flying in the wind, we climbed up a ladder to where the roof was, just as a deck would be on a ship. I wondered, not for the first time, if Sir Richard had been living out schoolboy sailing fantasies to some extent.
The flat is situated very near to the start of the race and suddenly there they were, the two diminutive shapes of the contenders boats appearing from nowhere, slicing through the Thames with agility and determination. Behind them raced the army of media boats, conducting their own contest and looking for all the world like the Greek Armada fervently sailing to Troy.
Then they had passed and we rushed inside where all eyes turned to the television. Our party seemed to be equally divided, with ardent cries of "Come on my Cambridge" and "You can do it, Oxford" ringing out across the room. From the perspective of a novice the two teams appeared be very well matched. As the BBC radio commentator, John Snagge ( 1904-1966 ) once famously remarked: "I can't see who's in the lead, but it's either Oxford or Cambridge". The flurry of activity continued for a few moments longer before ending abruptly. Oxford were declared the winners.
The crumpled, deflated faces of the losing team elicited a fleeting twinge of sympathy, but there were no tears and certainly no evident highs and lows akin to that of a football match. Another quails egg and glass of white wine and any rivalry seemingly melted away. We chatted some more in the hazy sunlight, disembarked and ambled down to the pub, which was strewn with the remnants of revelry, paper cups and empty bottles of beer. We sat by the window and watched the pebbled sky turn dark.
