Post Exam Arrogance, Growing Up and the Journey to the Centre of the Earth

Today marked the first exam of the very last season of exams ...Ever. I'm not going to lie. It went well. Too well for me to be arrogant about it really. The last weeks hard work of homoerotic companionship working late into the night revising as the taller and more rugged part of a duo more incredible than the Wright Brothers and sure to achieve far more than just inventing flying machines, paid off. Although the temperature in the examination room was enough to steam the hairs of a coconut and perhaps lowered my sperm count considerably, knowledge was transferred from brain to paper in a great splurge and before I knew it, it was time to leave and celebrate with a cornish pastie. 

In other news, I had a sudden scare last night on the metro journey home. Listening to a group of northern teenage yobos, with more piercings than a heroine addict from Croydon, laughing at farts and other such delights it occurred to me that it wasn't funny. When did this happen?  I used to pride myself on my childlike antics of entertaining myself, and to quote my Father, I realised I have to get old but growing up? Not willingly. But it seemed somehow without realising it I had become a boring old man. However quickly this morning I realised that this must have just been lack of sleep. A child fell over on the metro this morning when we stopped. I laughed out loud and attracted all manners of glares. All was right in the world again. I mean I am probably going to Hell, but then I'm ok with that. It sounds more fun down there anyway.

So the ratio of revision to watching videos of other  people having fun in kayaks around the world has slowly diminished in favour of the kayaks, and productivity is at an all time low. The next exam is in one days time and it's a mere 10 days until I put tyres to tarmac and up sticks from North back to South.

I suppose I should stop talking crap and get on with it.

Football, Dirty Weekends and the Last Lecture EVER

So one day, a week ago, marked the end of an era. Four years of lectures have come and gone, new and inventive methods of sleeping upright being invented with each new term, enough caffeine consumed to give even a cold cadaver palpitations and keep Lavazza Coffee in business, and you would think I would be as happy as a dog with two tails when for the last time, I walked into a lecture theatre, sat down and duly nodded off. I think I expected more of a finale, more of a going out with a bang - but the clock creeped past its hour and as the class filed out that was it. The last lecture ever. A bigger anti-climax than waking up on Christmas Day morning, running into the living room and then remembering you're German and have already opened your presents the night before. Not that I am truly finished. I still have reports, a 25,000 word dissertation and a bunch of exams but that is a winge for another time.

To celebrate this momentous occasion, instead of exploring the great binge culture of Newcastle and killing off my last remaining brain cells I took a flight down to Bristol for a weekend.. In a miraculous first for the UK the sun appeared and an awesome weekend of wine, sun and slacklining in the park at Bath ensued and I returned to Newcastle on Monday evening slightly burnt and satisfied. Satisfied because I had finally overcome my ability to wear gravity like a coat when slacklining, and was starting to create some substantial sex appeal in sunny England, rocking the beard better than Jesus in a death metal band.

Some sexy hunk

The following day, the entire group of people on my Masters course planned to get together for a friendly kick around at the local sports centre, so it was with eager anticipation that I donned my shorts and previously unworn Lonsdales that morning and shuffled off like an eager beaver. Now I should point out that the below image summed up my expectations of this match, and despite not having played football since I was 16 I had this notion that I would be a god on the pitch.

Some sexy woman

Now the above notion was quickly dashed as I remembered that no such women exist on my course (hopefully they don't read this) and the second notion was similarly dashed as the knowledge that I was actually completely useless at football spread faster than an STI in a University Hall of Residence. I was sweating more than a fat man in a sauna as I found myself essentially just chasing people up and down the pitch in an attempt to locate the ball. In my frustration resorting to slamming my opponents to the ground to get the ball, apparently an action that is generally frowned upon. I finally found my calling in standing in front of the goal and stopping the ball from entering the net, the result of such an action I was assured would result in the opposition getting a point. Just like back in school playing rugby when I simply followed the instructions of staying at the back and not letting anyone through, these were instructions I could follow - although my methods were occasionally frowned upon. Perhaps a little too high on our glory my team mates even let me back out onto the pitch where I managed to score a goal, although it was the result of hitting the keeper in the arse and deflecting into the net but ill take that. Now the only gripe with that day was my Lonsdales. Now a good friend once told me that Lonsdales are for Chavs, povo's (his words not mine) and steroid junkies and I am sure he would tell me that I deserved every damn blister that I got on my feet. Not that I could call them blisters, more one huge continuous open wound of festering goo. So the last few days I have been hobbling around slower than an old man with his zimmer frame, feeling like I have been running on a running machine made of sandpaper. But skin heals and glory lives forever, and that goal will live on forever.

OK enough milking of that moment.

In more depressing news I made the momentous decision when I moved back up North after Easter to leave my boats behind, as in recent times they had seen as much action as a nuns lady garden due to a ridiculous workload, and the constant knowledge of their nearby location was about as frustrating for me as I imagine it is for a monk living a life of celibacy next door to the Playboy Mansion.

Some sexless monk

So I guess that's it for this week. I'm currently sat at home working on flood reports, pretending to revise and wondering what I am going to have for dinner. In 3 weeks time I will be packing my bags, my room, my northern life, into the small confines of a blue metal VW Polo and praying to the car Gods that the wheel bearings don't go completely on the 350 odd mile trip down south to Cardiff, where I will start my dissertation in earnest with work in the office. I will save sharing  my enthusiasm for my hydrological modelling work for another time, I don't want to overload my readers with too much excitement in one sitting.

Lost months, big waves and an initiation

It would seem that I fell asleep for a few months and before I knew it months had passed and I failed to write an update on life in the big bad North.  Despite this the country is still stuck in deep winter akin to that wrought upon Narnia by the White Witch  herself. Much has happened in this time of frozen despair, man parts have temporarily defrosted only to be plunged back into the realms of the subzero, (where to venture outside you have to look down to check your not walking around in your baby suit, as the cold cuts through the ten layers of clothing quicker than it takes to spread juicy gossip in a woman's changing room), many riveting reports and presentations have been written, presented and duly forgotten, and the day when I return to Cardiff fully qualified and primed for some hydrology action creeps dangerously closer.

So the pain in the rear end that are exams is now over, (long over in fact) and I will now move on with no further winging other than to state that whoever writes said examinations is a sadist. In true form the cessation of two weeks of boredom and sitting on the old derriere was a trip up into the bowels of Scotland with the NUCC lads to kayak the gnar. A bottle of whisky in one hand, my GoPro camera in the other, what could possibly go wrong.

As many will know, the UK has recently resembled the North Pole, with snow covering all but the most inefficiently insulated houses. With rain promised for the weekend in question (some few weeks ago now) you didn't need to be a hydrologist to know that runoff in the region was going to be off the chain. If the promised rain materialised that is.

Eager in this anticipation myself and one other, the youngest and soon to be proved most talented of the group, got up at the crack of dawn the next day, ready to battle the raging torrents we had dreamt of. Unfortunately, the first day in the cold north resulted in some of the laziest sleepy students known to man, that made even the faff fest which is Cardiff Uni look like eager beavers, and the scruffy shits were still crawling out of bed at half 9. Admittedly the full cooked breakfast they then knocked up did make up for this slightly. Also, this raging monsoon we (i) had envisaged did not materialise and we were left paddling rivers more resembling the result of a bunch of horses urinating than anything that was made by the Gods. The evening was spent drowning out the memory of this rock scrape with consumption of all the alcoholic supplies that were to hand. Not sure really what happened but sure it was a merry time had by all. I was less keen to get up the following morning.

But get up I did and this time it had actually rained. Not the epic deluge I had envisaged that once was responsible for Noah's Arc of selective favouritism but a small pitter pattering of wetness nonetheless which turned the rivers into an acceptable level. Off we journeyed to the River Etive, which for those that don't know, is a river which snakes it's way across bedrock dropping in gradient in a series of fun ledges, slots and slides. Perhaps the most impressive feature of this river is the aptly named 'Big Man Falls'. Or Right Angle...depending on who you talk to. Not ridiculously large it still gets the heart pumping, and considering the last time I ran a waterfall, albeit unintentionally and a tad larger, I ended up in A & E with my 'rugged good looks' decidedly more rugged. I was a tad nervous. The entry move, although not something to worry about normally, was a tight right angle before dropping off into the fall. Mess this up and you're going over the fall upside down, on your face or if you're really daft...out of your boat. I manned up and stormed this beast, and mess it up I did not.

That said however, safely down looking up at the next person to follow me, I was greeted by a slightly panicked face. And a boat. Together but not together...

Much merriment was had by all over this event, don't worry readers - no injuries were incurred other than that of pride. The day was spent sessioning different drops and basically having an all round good time, and it was a tired and satisfied group that traipsed back to the hut at the end of the day to consume yet more whisky and beer. That night said whisky had the unfortunate effect of causing the NUCC president to lose all his clothes and frolic in the nearby river like a lamb in spring shouting 'it's not even cold' as it hammered down with rain and his under garments floated off down stream.

The next morning heads were even heavier than the night before and mine was significantly heavier than some, and in true feeling sorry for myself form I took some considerable persuading to get out of the warm bed. In my defence the night had been shattered on countless occasion by a certain member on the top bunk opposite me decorating the lower bunk and floor with the contents of his stomach at regular intervals of the night, as well as the club president flashing his children makers at me repeatedly in an attempt 'to cool down'. To say it was a disturbing night is an understatement.

But the good news, the rain had arrived. That night all the rain I had envisaged for the entire weekend fell in one night and I was like a junkie in a drug store as I looked eagerly out of the mini bus window at all the rivers, quite literally raging like a bull in a china shop.

Off to the River Orchy we travelled. Now this is a river I have done before, certain sections multiple times and never have I seen it look so inviting and uninviting at the same time. Nice big volume, an awesome day on the water. Admittedly there was one Grade 5 section that looked so meaty that we all stood and looked at and after a certain degree of macho willy waving the majority decided enough was enough, myself included. Two guys ran it, one the aforementioned 16 year old, and Phil, both making all those on the banks feel like they had very small willy's indeed as they made it look, literally, like child's play.

And so that was that, a long and damp ride back to the land of bovril and pies and a week of intense programming and modelling in Uni that I will not bore anyone with talking about. Unfortunately my way to becoming a true geek is now firmly cemented in place as I lapped up all this new knowledge with eager ears.

In other news, on a recent trip to Pembrokeshire for a weekend away with the family and girlfriend for my mums birthday, I re-introduced her back into the world of kayaking. The girlfriend, not the mother, that scenario is about as likely as a teenage boy reading Playboy without looking at the pictures. Now, she actually started all this malarkey before me and likes to point out that she learnt to roll before me, however promptly stopped and never got back into a boat again until that lovely freezing cold day on the beach at Newgale, with 2 metre waves crashes down onto the shingles, and a wind so cold it put the Newcastle gales to shame. Now I'm not one to boast of my manly gentleman-ness but here I will make an exception. I will let the following images sum up our dressage for the subsequent few hours of playing in the sea....

Her

Me

 She was bloody good. Considering the sea was about as wild as a goat on heat she absolutely nailed it. That was until her new found confidence prompted her to opt for her very own maiden voyage as she set of for Ireland, heading out to sea in what i thought was some vain attempt at finding land on the other side. This new found adventure was then brought to an abrupt end as a particularly large wave picked her up, held her vertically long enough for me to see the look of sheer terror on her face before depositing her face first back into the water. Hilarious. That was until realisation dawned that the tide was going out and her attempts to swim to shore against the power of the tide were about as successful as man in a suit of armour treading water. Not helped by the fact my spare helmet was about as loose as a rope of sand on her head and every wave plunged her into darkness. Now this distraction was actually very thoughtful of her, as it distracted me from the the growing numbness in the entirety of my extremities as the cold forgotten, I set about surfing my additional human cargo and various bits of kit in to shore. No damage, to her or the the kit and she was left only seething, about as frustrated as an Amish electrician, annoyed at the swim but raring to go again. Unfortunately upon safe landing the realisation of the cold returned and I feared my favourite external organs would never recover. I ran and hid in my car with the engine on and prayed for a successful thawing process. But recover they did, and what better way to celebrate an awesome, if not a little epic, return to the world of kayaking  than after a little drive back to the warm house, and with the addition of plenty of beer, watching the Welsh team educate the English in just how real men play rugby. 

So that's it. A few months summed up into a few over-worded, simile-heavy paragraphs. After so long away I have now forced my dwindling fan base to read what can only be described as an essay of epic proportions. But for those who have cried at night unable to sleep due to the lack of literary content this once reliable blog has provided, never fear. I'm back.



Exams: Stress, Panic And A Sieve-Like Brain

Exams. The 5 letter word that for some reason strikes horror into the hearts of any like-minded student, bringing out a cold sweat in any but the most steel balled of learners. That causes groups of girls to burst into hysterical tears on an even more regular occurrence and whole age groups to consider alternative, easier degrees, (perhaps doing Media Studies will open up a wide range of prospective job opportunities after all...) They make even the most level-headed guy consider emigrating to sunnier climes to live out a life of solitude as a hermit somewhere where I don't have to memorise the parameters to equations used in calculating just how much human sewage can be pumped through a pipe the size of my oesophagus...It is this delightful process that I currently find myself in the dubious honour of indulging in on an all too regular basis for the next two weeks. Two weeks where potentially my future is decided based on my ability to regurgitate some key facts onto a piece of paper in some pathetic attempt to prove my everlasting knowledge of hydrology.

You might have gathered already that I do possess some distaste for examinations, due most in part to my remarkable inability to complete them successfully. It's not that I’m particularly dull, although I won’t be winning any Nobel prizes anytime soon either, it's just that when I sit down and the elderly people who seem to enjoy spending their last few days before slipping off the mortal coil of life 'invigilating' start shouting out instructions like some kind of aggrieved army officer, my balls turn to putty and my brain turns to mush.


In reality, when I’m working I will look things up if I can’t remember them...surely being a good hydrologist isn't about being able to memorise things - if so Derren Brown is surely in the wrong bloody profession. As an apt clip from the Inbetweeners summarised beautifully, “I have my revision schedule sorted, colour coded, energy drinks and pro plus on hand and I’m balancing my time well...and nothing is fucking going in!".



But perhaps I rant too much. At the end of the day, it's not even that big a deal. If I go into my Hydrosystems Modelling exam tomorrow and come out with zero, the world isn't going to stop. I won’t starve to death. In fact I have a particularly yummy bacon, cranberry and brie sandwich planned for approximately 1.30pm tomorrow so it can't all be bad. The irony is that every year students across the world, myself included, have virtual mental meltdowns over the process of sitting in front of a few pieces of A4 paper that have about as much real-life importance as a chocolate teapot.

2012: The Round Up

So the curtain has finally fallen on 2012, another year and another wrinkle on the great ball sack which is the timeline of my life. Now 2012 has actually been quite a year. A year in which I have gone from prolific procrastination and wild activities of a brave and heroic nature; such as tumbling elegantly over Grade 6 waterfalls with the grace of a high jumping walrus, to becoming a studious, hard working engineer, destroying with equal grace mathematical equations so hard they make male porn stars look like undercooked pigs in blankets.

It has been a year to remember, if not always for the right reasons. Missing out on a first class honours degree by 2 percent perhaps one of the more frustrating experiences of the year, up there alongside my failure to fulfill my life long ambition of sleeping with Jessica Alba. Perhaps this year, another degree, another chance.

In other news, and one I have been warned by some may put off the huge following of teenage girls this blog enjoys the frequent visits and lovingly typed love letters from: I recently acquired myself a girlfriend. I of course make this sound as if i purchased said lady, perhaps from a dubious thai black market dealer of such items, but this is simply not true. I actually went about it in the semi traditional way of wooing a friend using the art of long distance seduction, black magic and rohipnol. To say this is recent news is also perhaps not strictly true, and to assume readers would be interested in reading this may be a step too far, but this comes from an author who regularly writes of such things as the magical powers of his gentleman parts and dull metro train journeys, so really, what did you expect.

The lucky lady...



So Christmas has come and gone with the bedroom speed of an inexperienced teenage boy, and the New Years party went down with such a bang it made the UFC look like a tame kindergarten brawl. Of course no one was seriously hurt, except the pride of a certain Mr Grant and Mr Farrow who discovered just who was the boss by the hero of this story. At least that is my version of events. The teeth marks in my left ear might suggest otherwise. It should also be noted, as a New Years resolution and just as general useful life information, that at no time is lemon juice an acceptable or suitable eye bathing fluid.

Mr Grant being bossed around like a little school boy


Anyhow, bruises and macho strutting aside I now find myself planning and packing for the long journey back up to the cold and distant North. The romantic lure of exams beckons, and off I must go. Only half a year left and ill be back down South, safely in a job...

Or... ill fail my exams and ill be the one busking on an over-sized guitar on the street, wailing like a gutted boar trying to earn pennies for sustenance. That or turn to high end prostitution for the middle aged spinster. Time will tell. On that note, back to work. If ever there was an incentive to work hard, the threat of becoming an old, greying, hair-lipped widows play thing is a good one.

Christmas, frozen man parts and money well spent

So the past few weeks I have been slacking. Not on the work front, that has been about as unrelenting as a dominatrix on viagra, but on the reporting of said work and the other mundane goings on in my life. The plethora of work and looming deadlines finally culminated in one final week of 5 am starts and 14 hour days - ending this Friday in the big hand in day, and suddenly the term was over, in what turned out to be a bigger anti climax than a crappy one night stand. To illustrate just how hard we work, see below

But I digress, workload aside, the North has recently been mistaken on multiple occassions for somewhere deep within the Arctic circle, with snowfall turning where I live into some sort of winter wonderland, albeit a winter wonderland of cheap chinese imported blockwork suburbia. This coincided with the failing of the boiler, and my modern cardboard house was soon turned into a dwelling perfect for maintaining the ideal temperature of a Gin and Tonic, requiring the donning of pretty much every item of clothing in my wardrobe to stay alive. This had the effect of making me look like some kind of swaddled Papoose, with the cold at night leaving me wondering what had happened to certain extremeties which had retreated back inside to avoid the chill.

To further deep freeze my popsicle within my undergarments, I took a day off from work and joined the Newcastle guys for a cheeky icy paddle on the mighty Tees last Saturday. With the ground frozen and the water colder than a glacier fed waterfall, by the end of the day the only way to warm up was with a mince pie, mulled wine and by jumping around like an epileptic trout in an effort to return blood flow to certain parts of the body. But it was a great break from the work. Even better, upon my return I discovered that the heating had now been fixed in the mansion, and soon I was able to rediscover my manhood as my body slowly defrosted.

In other news, my car recently visited the car doctor as part of that annual golden requirement all fellow car owners enjoy, the big MOT. Of course being such an awesome car, that never breaks and never lets me down, it failed. This filled me with endless joy, as did the £415 bill I had to rob an old woman to settle. That said, as some past passengers will vouch for, my ABS light has been flashing for pretty much the last year - a little fact I liked to dismiss as a faulty light of little consequence. However it turns out my ABS was indeed faulty, a fact I grudgingly conceded required fixing. Two days later as I drove a little too fast considering the icy conditions of the road, I discovered that the £415 on working ABS sensors was money well spent, as I stopped short of slamming into oncoming traffic on a roundabout by about 2 mm, thanks to the aforementioned fixed brakes. Lesson children, don't be a cheapskate. Or drive sensibly.

So that's pretty much the first term over. It's Christmas time, and Saturday I packed the car and drove the long journey home back to Cardiff. The next few weeks will be solely drinking, eating and making merry like it's Santas final year on this Earth. Well, that's a slight dirty lie as I actually have shedloads of revision and even more coursework than 20 undergraduates combined, but that's a winge for another time. Meanwhile, this week I get to watch the hobbit and go paddling with Max, im not sure which one I am more excited about; the opportunity to see my Nans debut big screen role as Bilbo Baggins, or the chance to be part of an incredible dynamic duo taming the wild Welsh rivers with such panache women will tell tales of our reckless courage and bravery for years to come. All I know is that it's good to be back.

NB: No old women were harmed during the settling of the MOT bill. The author of this blog reserves the right to be liberal with the truth at any time. This was such a time.

A North Wales Special – A Tale of Sordid Debauchery with a bit of Kayaking thrown in for good measure

North Wales. The land of the gogs, mist covered peaks and wild mountain women. The place that for one weekend only, the guys and girls of Cardiff University Kayakers had decided to descend upon, to be joined by myself and some of the other Procrastinate lads.

Finally the big day arrived, and leaving bang on time the error of my well planned departure was made evident as I hit Leeds at the height of rush hour. When I finally managed to get away from the traffic and into the mountains of Wales, it turned out the club was miles behind as per the normal faff that accompanies all club trips. But some of the older and wiser guys who were travelling up separately were on time, so a cheeky pub dinner was planned.

We arrived well fed at our palatial residence that was to be our home for the next few days. Unfortunately there seemed to be some sort of mistake, perhaps a language barrier between the English and the Welsh, but it appeared the luxury pad was actually a barn at the end of a 30,000 mile long mud track deep in the heart of the Welsh mountains. Albeit a barn with a rudimentary kitchen and eventually some running water, (after a certain hero located the stop tap in a well in the front yard). A quick perusal of the sleeping quarters highlighted the division in equality about to take place. In the main residence lay a series of Auschwitz style bunk beds, accompanied by dirty, sweat stained pillows and sheets.

The North Wales Camp....


Above the boot room however lay a slightly nicer 4 bed apartment of comparative luxury, with significantly less stained bed linen. I felt my German ancestry stirring and quickly made plans to inhabit this luxury bachelor’s pad of dominance.

Not quite what it was like...


Unfortunately fate worked against me. When the rest of the Procrastinate boys arrived, a tad merry after polishing off their body weight in Southern Comfort en-route, they burst through the door like the cast of Magic Mike, flexing their bulging biceps like Roman Gladiators on steroids. We quickly felt the need to join them in this rowdy-ness, and before very long one of the two bottles of Port designed to be consumed at a steady state throughout the weekend was gone. When the rest of the club finally arrived they were greeted by a serene, quiet group of well-respected old boys enjoying a beverage or two by the fire. At least that is my recollection.

Without further ado the night stepped up a notch, another bottle of port was cracked and the ‘I Have Nevers’ began, with yarn spinning legend of the evening Rob Haley, of Stuff The Consequences, conjuring delicious adjectives from the air worthy of Shakespeare himself to describe our past misdemeanours with a certain focus on one poor individual, in what can only be described as vicious bullying tactics. The consumption of Port was slowed somewhat as Gin and Juice came into consideration, but I battled on, even pausing at times to sample Southern Comfort, a disgusting concoction.

Before the night had grown past its teenage years our eloquent drunkard Mr Haley no longer felt able to provide the nights entertainment and retired to the luxury pad, where he proceeded to decorate the mattress and floor with what was mostly the aforementioned disgusting concoction with a little stomach acid thrown in for good measure.

Now I’m afraid dear readers, I have a digressed a little in this great tale, so I will rush speedily through the next few hours and onwards to the next day. Nothing much happened of note. I may have been a little rowdy, and a certain person who owed me a favour from my earlier gentlemanly gesture of goodwill may have helped put me to bed in the kitchen surrounded by buckets, but all in all it was a very quiet, pleasant evening.

Our Hero taking a well deserved rest...


The next morning I awoke to the sound of people clearing up around me. The room was spinning like a gyroscope on a merry go round and there was no sign whatsoever of a hangover. Evidently, I was unaffected by the previous evening.

I should point out at this time in the tale that the purpose of this trip was supposedly to kayak, but this is in fact a dirty lie. I would have quite happily stayed asleep on my bench in the kitchen for the remainder of the day but unfortunately I had been tasked with taking a group down something wet as safely as I could muster, so I bravely battled on.

The first channel with any degree of debateable wetness we agreed upon paddling, was the gentle Lower section of the Llugwy. The less said about this pathetic rock scrape of a puddle the better, but quickly we were on the much more enjoyable Conwy. I can’t speak for other inferior groups but my group tamed this beast faster than a lion tamer in the Great British Circus. My team, consisting of the now legend-dary Chris Towriss, Jordan and Ross with Helena taking the helm leading the group like a boss, had almost no swims. This is almost as good as no swims, except there was one teeny little dip - but I like to think the man in question barely dipped his head in before both boat and person were rescued and we were on our way again down river within our crafts of whitewater pleasure.

The Saturday evenings jolly making was short lived for some of us, due mostly to our hangovers kicking in around 3pm, mine and Robs especially. After a few hours of attempted socialising we retired gracefully to bed and left the floor to be filled by the younger generation. I hear they did a good job. Literally, I heard everything – the bastards kept me awake for two hours. I especially enjoyed how they embraced fully the club tradition of high card something bad.

The final morning the three of us enjoying the comforts of the officer’s suite, bathed in the great luxury of a lie in and coffee in bed, before departing for a run down the River Dee. A lovely little river, it was a great opportunity to see how much Team Boom had improved, and how well their young heads could deal with the hangovers from the night before. Disgustingly well to both I am afraid to report. We had a few swims, with one attempting to pulverise himself on Serpents Tail by dredging the river bed with his legs but no lasting harm done, and the improvement in everyone was amazing.

Except the leader of another group, the incessantly stupid Jonny Cakes, who abandoned his group, his paddles, his common sense and his dignity as he drifted on upside down towards the final little rapid of the day, Town Falls. Somehow he stayed in his boat, much to the disappointment of all onlookers who watched on in disbelief, as he left his group alone at the top. We quickly divided this unfortunate lot amongst our own groups, Team Boom acquiring an honorary member, Lucy (not to be confused with Lucie), for the final section. Now she was substantially better looking than Jordan, Chris or Ross and with my group numbers swelled to six including two females, I was feeling very manly.

Now at this point I have said very little about Ross, other than to slate his looks compared to the new blonde addition to our posse, but having proved himself more than capable I gave him the task of leading the infamous dredger Chris down the section, a task he nailed with apparent ease, with Helena taking Jordan whilst I tried to make up for Jonny’s failings and take Lucy down myself. Like an absolute legend she powered down the section without missing a beat and thus ended our weekend both on and off the river.

Jonny Cakes paying the price for his failure

Quick pub afternoon grubs munch later and we all said our goodbyes and hit the road, and in a complete opposite to Friday’s journey I was home in just over 3 hours. A cracking weekend with a cracking group of people that I will remember for a long time, as will my liver and my bank manager, but totally worth it.