It was jolly exciting, in my opinion. Especially seeing as, for once, I had much more knowledge about the subject matter than several of the commentators. So I was able to yell abuse at the screen and make pseudo-intelligent remarks about the stroke rate, catches, coxing and course of the two boats.
(Transgression: In fact, I rowed this exact course in early March. Except the other way round. So instead of starting at Putney and finishing at Mortlake, we started at Mortlake and finished at Putney. Yeah. But the important thing was that WE WON. And we beat Shrewsbury. Bunch of fucking cunts, they think they're so smart with their fancy boats and their stupid blue oars. HOW SMART ARE YOU NOW WE RAPED YOU BY 23 SECONDS? NOT VERY SMART AT ALL. HAH. I hope Shrewsbury's lead coach reads this and starts crying at the amount we raped their team. And when I say raped, I mean RAPED. Like:
Kidnapped-beaten-up-with-a-rubber-penis,
stripped-naked-covered-in-engine-oil,
tied-with-electrical-cables,
bent-over-a-table,
then-not-too-kindly-anally-penetrated-with-a-pool-cue
a-bag-of-lemons-three-pineapples-two-blades-and
several-live-partridges-two-pear-trees,
all-WITHOUT-LUBE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That's poetry. William Wordsworth would be proud. Poof. But anyway: Fuck you, Shrewsbury, we dicked all over your heads. Losers. LOOOSERS. I know what you're thinking, though. How did Thomas get to be SUCH a good winner? It all came naturally. I am a good winner. A very good winner. I win the good-winner race.)
But where was I? Oh yes. Well basically, I was far more knowledgeable than the entire ITV sports team, many of whom were totally incompetent. My cat could've reported better than them. And my cat has been dead for three years. Before he died, his foot swelled up to twice it's previous size and he threw up on the bed.
The presenter woman was like "And look at the nice Cambridge team, with their pretty blue sticks, they seem to be pulling their boats along quite nicely, although I think that they might sink," and I was going "IT'S CALLED AN EIGHT, YOU STUPID BINT. AND THEY AREN'T STICKS, THEY'RE CALLED BLADES OR OARS. AND ROWING IS A MATTER OF PUSHING FAR MORE THAN PULLING, YOU STUPID-ASS WOMAN. AND YOUR HAT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A FLOWERPOT. AND IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE BOAT RACE, ONLY THREE BOATS HAVE EVER SUNK AND IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY, YOU MORONIC OESTROGEN-CHARGED BLONDEFACED HAIRSTYLED VAGINA."
Meanwhile, while we were watching the race, ITV decided to keep us updated on everything else that was going on in the race by using a set of nifty blue captions flying across the screen. These captions gave us a host of interesting information, including the average stroke rate, average height of each boat, average weight of the oarsmen, times, best times, personal bests, and location on the course. As well as these nuggets, they included a little animation of a man rowing. Just in case we didn't know what rowing looked like. And for some reason they chose to give their little animation a really bad rowing stroke. Like, he didn't tap down at all. OMG.
ITV are crap, by the way. And did you know that the boat race was sponsored by XCHANGING? I hadn't noticed, what with the total lack of XCHANGING on every boat, oar, piece of clothing, banner, river, tatooed on the back of every oarsman, burned into the collective retinas of every viewer, drawn on the trophy, attached to the center of the logo, etc. What does XCHANGING even make? Probably dildos or something. It had better be something pretty special, just to abstain themselves of the fact that they have used "X" instead of "EX" in their logo. Dickheads.
But now that we're on the subject of rowing, I thought that everybody might want an update on how my own personal battle with the rowin's goin. Because I know how fascinated you all are with the image of me, sitting in a boat with seven other sweaty boys, wearing my lycra, thrusting my long piece of hard black wood towards a midget in an anorak and bellowing obscenities.
Actually, I'm pretty sure that nobody wants to hear about that at all, but hey, already started typing and I'm in extreme physical agony at the moment, probably exacerbated by the typing I'm doing to complain about said agony, so I'll be fucked if I'm going to delete what I've typed. Screw you lot.
Whatever, dude, here's a picture of my hands:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH.
LOOK AT THEM. MY FUCKING SKIN IS ROTTING OFF. I mean, look at the bottom of the little finger on the right hand hand. That's blood, that is. Real honest to goodness BLOOD. And that wound wasn't caused by me accidentally cutting myself or anything. No, nothing that simple. I was just rowing along and I RANDOMLY STARTED BLEEDING OUT OF MY HANDS. I must have the plague. It's the only thing I can think of. Well, either that or my hands have died and have started to decompose. Which makes sense. You can't see on the picture, but on Saturday I also accidentally sliced a huge hunk o'thumb off my hand after an encounted with a sharp bit of boat. There were flaps of skin hanging off it and everything. Blood spurted everywhere. It looked kind of like this:
... except gorier, and I ain't no pussy like Roger here, who was unable to fight off TWO zombies in a lift. What. A. Loser. But on the other hand, there was loads of blood, and blood is cool. I must be a closet emo or something, but I gain immense pleasure from bleeding everywhere. I smear the blood all over the place and draw warpaint on my face and then flick it at people and scream NOW YOU HAVE AIDS.
I really am not going anywhere with this. I just wanted to show off my fucked up hands. Plus, my wrist has suddenly gone dodgy. The muscle has swollen up to twice the size it should be and has gone brown. Admittedly, this may mean that I have started to turn into a black man overnight (cases of white men turning black and black men turning white are uncommon, but they do happen. Just look at Michael Jackson), but it seems to me that my hand is about to fall off. And that was after ONE WEEKEND of hard racing on a rowing lake. I'm going to Amsterdam on Friday, where I'm going to spend a week doing hard rowing on a lake. I will probably come back with no arms at all and will be forced to type this blog with my penis.
Oh, woe is me.
Comedy Mohammed No.17:
I actually did make a 'Rowhammed' picture, but I figured that it would be too appropriate in this situation to properly fit in with the ethos of the rest of the blog, so instead I chose to include a picture so hopelessly esoteric that only me and about two other people worldwide will ever understand it. Oh well. Ooh, and I'm back in the Second VIII again. And I got invited to a party on Wednesday. That was what I originally blogged to tell you. Good, eh?
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