Yesterday saw the conclusion of the Henley regatta, an annual summer boatfest that sees all sorts of people head down to the sleepy town of Henley and cheer on their clubs and teams, or other people’s clubs and teams, as they consume pimms by the river.
Sarah, an excellent friend of mine, had us over to her home in Henley for some post-event Pimms, which was complete fun and very enjoyable. The voyage there and back, however, was marred by the “all sorts” of people somewhat.
I mean, football fans get a bad rap, but being stuck on a train with 500 pimms and sun-wasted upper-middle-class aristo wannabes was irritating, even for a middle-class aristo wannabe like myself.
As one particular ponce redirected fellow travellers to a different toilet because one of his friends was having an “emergency situation”, I began to rethink my assessment. “Ponce he may be,” thought I, “but at least he looks out for his friend.” Some minutes later, though, I heard a knocking from the inside of the loo and noticed that the “friend” had wedged his foot against the door, preventing egress. When he eventually let his companion escape from the cramped train loo, gasping for breath through his blue-black-and-yellow crested boat-club blazer, my estimation sank once again.
Still, we had a nice time in Henley.