Read Online A Young Man's Passage by Julian Clary - Free Book Online

boyfriends, or to the clubhouse after training where they’d sip white wine and mother us boys.
    Word soon got round that I had a nubile older sister. Frances was now 16, a tall, glamorous blonde who had just started the dance and drama course at Arts Educational and wished, if you please, to be known henceforth as Frankie.
    I took along a holiday snap of Frankie in a bikini and passed it round the bar one day. The reaction was most encouraging, so I offered to introduce her to anyone who would buy me a Mars Bar. First off the mark was Lurch, and I delivered her to him the next weekend.
    The next year – 1972 – Fuck-Pig struck it lucky. I was given my own ‘eight’ for the season, and as it turned out they were a brilliant crew. I’d learned the rudiments of coxing the previous year, but under the tutelage of our coach, Don Somner (Groundhog), I discovered which part of the river to aim for to find the fastest-flowing stream of water, how to push the opposing crew over without getting disqualified for clashing blades, and how to get the best performance from my men, a lesson that has been invaluable to me ever since.
    That summer we won every week, moving through the ranks from novice to elite. We were invincible. After each win we would go out and celebrate, often ending up at Kingston’s Berni Inn, where my boys ordered steak and lager and I was given a shandy or two. I was their mascot, indulged and looked after.
    I remember one celebratory evening at the clubhouse when I had too much to drink and was sick in the toilets and then taken home, still in a bit of a state. My mother slept on my bedroom floor that night, concerned I might choke on my own vomit. The next morning, hung over and in disgrace, I was sent back to KRC to clean up the mess I’d made and then grounded for two weeks.
    But I was a useful cox: in a close contest, aggressive steering and pertinent instructions can win the race. The boats themselves were delicate and expensive, and even the oars were costly to repair, and as the ‘driver’ a cox had considerable responsibility. I only disgraced myself once, but in quite spectacular fashion. One year I was cox to a hopeful four at Henley Royal Regatta. The evening before our first race we went out on the river to train and try out the course. That done, we headed for the landing stage and, aware that other crews and coxswains were watching, I attempted a swish and speedy landing, but mistimed it. I could see Don Somner’s frantic signals to slow down but ignored them. I’d show the opposition what a daring, chic master of the Thames they were dealing with.
    There were a few last-second shouts from coach and crew but it was too late: the bow hit the bank with a sickening crunch. I’d not only caused irreparable damage to one of KRC’s finest boats, but ruined our chances at the most prestigious regatta in the rowing calendar. We had to borrow an inferior vessel for our race and lost dismally. It was all my fault.
    I was in deep disgrace. There was no jolly fun with the boys for Fuck-Pig at Henley that year, and my blonde locks were left untousled.
    But to be fair, they didn’t bear a grudge, and my boat-smashing faux pas was soon just a club bar story that I rather enjoyed hearing repeated.
    A bit like the bowl-of-soup incident.
    KRC’s arch rivals were Molesey Rowing Club, and once a year the two clubs would compete for a day and then have a grand, if tense, dinner, which would take place at the clubhouse of the alternate hosts. Legend has it that I wasn’t happy with the soup at Molesey’s club one year, so I carried my bowl to the top table where their leader, Captain Croucher, sat resplendent in black jacket and club tie, and poured it over his head. Apparently it was piping hot and didn’t result in the hearty back-slapping from my fellow Kingstonians that I’d expected.
    Although the rowing world was one of dedication, tough and exhausting, it had a unique social structure. No one lost