The water-based Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race has been a water feature on the River Thames ever since 1829, when the chosen venue was the attractive, picturesque and Utterly Charming town of Henley-(on-Thames).
Sadly, or not, depending upon where one stands on this issue, the Henley-based Henley Angling Club poured cold water on this innovative Oxbridge venture by making all sorts of waves about their Rods being splashed by cold water splashing up rather unremittingly on the banks of the Thames, where these Rods were trying to catch fish.
The Anglers then got the Rowers into more hot water by selling them down the river to a place called Putney, in a tidal wave of emotionally charged emotion because the fish they were trying to catch were running away in Fright.
The Rowing Fraternity then exacted a terrible revenge on the Angling Brotherhood by founding a regatta at Henley (now known throughout Henley as ‘The Henley Regatta’) in 1839, just as the First Opium war was breaking out between Britain and China (The less said about that, the better).
Now in England, at the moment anyway, Heritage is a Big Thing. There is so much Heritage in this country, it’s just impossible to count it all up. Places which used to manage very well without any Heritage at all have been forced to invent some (Heritage) to keep visitors happy.
The Henley Regatta is now so steeped in Heritage that even the Government (Prop. Tony Blair, Leader of the First Water) can’t stop it from happening. His policy is to maintain the geographical status quo in Henley, because relocating it (the Henley Regatta) would not hold much water in the backwaters of Government as we know it.
Having said that, the first University Boat Race between Putney and Mortlake and Oxford and Cambridge took place in 1836. Following two years of keeping their heads above water by treading water, the Rowers made the race an annual WaterFest in 1839, a year in which nothing much else of importance happened, as luck would have it.
If all these scholars passim had continued rowing up the Thames instead of parking at Mortlake like normal people, eventually they would have reached Marlow Bridge, although it would have taken them aeons (metaphorical ones) to get there because Marlow is 27 miles from Mortlake, if you happen to be a Crow in flight.
The current crossing point at Marlow was built between 1829 and 1832, and it is a Suspended Bridge. This structure obviously superseded the previous wooden example, which unfortunately collapsed unceremoniously in 1828 with nobody on it.
While this incident shook Marlow (and district) to its very core at the time, everyone agrees that it’s now all water under the bridge.
On one side of the (new) bridge stands the attractive, picturesque and Utterly Charming town of Marlow, while the other side is dominated by a hotel called The Compleat Angler, named after a book by Izaak Walton, a famous writer and fisherman who couldn’t spell properly. Ominously, the hotel is now a part of the MacDonald Group (of hotels) with all the connotations that entails.
The Compleat Angler has been full of history ever since someone built it in 1640. A veritable plenitude of ‘A’ list celebrities of yore have graced its bedrooms, including Mr. Noel Coward, Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Mr. J.M. Barrie and Mr. Peter Pan.
A list of more recent glitterati to have used the facilities at the hotel features Mr. Omar ‘Dr. Zhivago’ Sharif, the Most Irreproachable and Virtuous (and Late) St. Diana, Ex-Princess of Wales and Mr. Clint Eastwood, better known in Wild Western Society Circles as The Man With No Name.
The story of Mr. Eastwood’s stay at The Compleat Angler has an ironic twist at the very end of it. The epic saga of his trip to Marlow has passed into local legend, rather like Percy Bysshe and Mary Shelley, who both used their time in Marlow (1816-1817) to write Gothic Tales about Dr. Frankenstein and other monstrous examples of the Classic English Literature genre.
Mr. Eastwood (this is the story now, just coming up) wished to combine a business trip, not totally unconnected with his Bounty Hunting activities, with a short mini-break at The Compleat Angler.
The business element of his visit was a resounding success. Mr. Eastwood rode into Marlow on his favourite Mule (without experiencing the ignominy of having the Mule laughed at, by the way) and dismounted just outside The George and Dragon, which is just across the bridge from The Compleat Angler.
He took a half-smoked cheroot from somewhere underneath his Poncho, ignited a match using his ‘designer stubble’ as an abrasive surface and lit the cheroot in a rather menacing fashion.
The already suspensful (and menacing) atmosphere was sorely enhanced by the coincidental presence of the Marlow & District Salvation Army Band, who were busy playing a selection of musical pieces from A Fistful Of Film Music: The Ennio Morricone Anthology (Rhino Records: 1995) and trying desperately to convert at least one person to some form of recognisable Christianity.
Mr. Eastwood pushed open the swing doors of the saloon bar of The George and Dragon and surveyed the scene with his cold killer’s eyes. The bar staff ducked down behind the bar, and a profound silence occurred as the piano player took refuge in the Gents Lavatory with a very close friend for company and a packet of condoms.
He walked casually up to a table, the spurs on his boots clinking away merrily like the targets on a 1960’s pinball machine, and cut into a game of Happy Families with, amongst other notorious outlaws and actors, Mr. Klaus ‘The Hunchback’ Kinski (RIP), and Mr. Gian Maria ‘Indio’ Volonte.
In a tense denoument, Mr. Eastwood forced Mr Indio to give up Mrs. Baker, thus giving him all the Baker family and allowing him to win the hand. He then tossed the end of his Poncho over his shoulder, took a musical watch from his vest pocket, opened it and invited Mr. Indio to ‘Make My Day (Punk)’.
Oh dear!
Mr. Eastwood was the quickest on the draw. He filled Mr. Indio full of lead, loaded the (dead) body into the back of a Zenith Blue Metallic Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet and attached this fine example of German automotive engineering to his Mule. He took the Porsche (and the late Mr. Indio) to the nearby office of the Sheriff of Marlow where he collected his Bounty Wages (in cash), after supplying the necessary receipt as demanded by Marlow & District Council.
Fully satisfied with his shooting skills to musical accompaniment, Mr. Eastwood proceeded apace across Marlow Bridge (on his faithful Mule) and checked into The Compleat Angler. The hotel receptionist, unaware of the identity of The Man With No Name, allocated him a room at the back of the hotel.
A minor problem then arose. It transpired that the room in question lacked a Panoramic View of the turbulent waters rushing over Marlow Weir. So Mr. Eastwood went upstairs, dragged Dr. Zhivago from his room (Dr. Zhivago being in his pyjamas at the time, I might usefully add) and threw him bodily into the hotel carpark. (Dr. Zhivago subsequently sought accommodation in a small family-run Bed & Breakfast establishment on the A308 Maidenhead Road, before rushing off to look for Lara again.)
The receptionist now discovered an unexpected vacancy with a View, and she gave Mr. Eastwood the keycard for easy access to the room of his choice.
After spending about 3 hours trying to get the keycard to work properly, Mr. Eastwood decided to shoot the lock off the room door with his trusty Colt ‘45’. He then lay down on the bed exhausted with his boots on.
Following a spot of much needed ‘shuteye’, Mr. Eastwood removed his boots, put on a pair of fashionable Mules, moseyed along downstairs, passed through the swing doors of the restaurant bar and addressed the bartender, as follows:
Hello there, Punk. What a fine evening this is. Please may I have a Gin and Tonic with Ice & Lemon, shaken and not stirred, with 4 grains of the finest Russian pepper on top of it. Thank you very much.
Yes sir, of course sir. Please sit down and I will bring your aperitif type concoction to you at your table, sir.
No thank you, Punk. I like to stand at the bar and pay cash by throwing a coin carelessly in your direction, if that is OK with you, Punk.
Not here you don’t, Sunshine. This is The Compleat Angler. If you buy at the bar, we can’t reasonably add a service charge to the liquor bill. Sit down, and would sir like a straw with his G&T?
Oh, er, thank you, Punk. A straw would be just the job. Perhaps a green one, if that would be in order at all?
Perfect, sir. Your drink, complete with green straw, will be with you shortly, sir.
Mr. Eastwood sat down about 2 feet from the bar, put his Mules on the table and took another half-smoked cheroot from somewhere underneath his Ponch ensemble. He lit it, and sat back to reflect on yet another profitable day’s Bounty Hunting while awaiting the arrival of his G&T.
Suddenly and without prior warning, a bar waiter materialised as if out of nowhere and spoke thusly:
I am sorry sir, but for the convenience and comfort of our smoking guests we request that you kindly refrain from smoking in this area of the bar and, come to think of it, that area over there as well.
In that case, Punk, what is that display cabinet of Cigars For Sale doing over there, then?
Well, sir, you may of course buy a Cigar but you cannot smoke same in here. You may, if you wish, place the Cigar behind your ear, or under your Poncho, for later enjoyment of it. Or you can go outside and smoke it there.
Right then. Excellent. No problem whatsoever, Punk.
After sipping his Gin & Tonic through a (green) straw like a Man, Mr. Eastwood was invited to choose from a selection of mouthwatering foodstuffs on a menu chock full of excellent cuisine. The kitchen at The Compleat Angler has only two AA rosettes to record in its Promotional Literature Booklets, but the culinary effort is steadily ‘working its way towards a Michelin Star,’ a target which is also in the sights of the Wimpy Bar on Marlow High Street, or so one might reasonably conclude.
Noticing the [sub]small print[/sub] at the bottom of the menu, Mr. Eastwood summoned no less a Personage than the Head Waiter Person and made enquiries of him, like so:
Hello, Punk. Please explain to me what this means: ‘A discretionary service charge of 12.5% will be added to your bill’.
Well, sir, if the discretionary service charge was to be included in the bill, the price as stated on the menu would be far too accurate, cost wise. So, we add the discretionary service charge on to the bill afterwards. Naturally if a guest wishes to argue the toss and demand the removal of said charge in the presence of a roomful of rubbernecking diners, we will readily oblige the Tight Bastard. Strange as this may sound, very few Tight Bastards are prepared to do this.
Hmm. I see. Thank you, Punk.
Mr. Eastwood trudged wearily back to his room and lay down on the bed with his Mules.
In the middle of the night he woke up feeling a bit peckish (having had no dinner), so sleepily he ordered a Ham & Dijon Mustard sandwich from the telephone by his bed.
Shortly afterwards a Night Waiter brought the sandwich to him, and requested his signature on a mini-invoice to the value of $11.61.
Punk, what is the meaning of this? A Ham & Dijon Mustard sandwich is a mere six bucks forty eight, according to this Night Menu.
Ah, well, yes, sir. The cost of the sandwich is in fact $6.48 plus 12.5 % discretionary service charge which is $0.81, plus a delivery charge of $4.32 giving a Grand Mini-Total of $11.61. Kindly refer to the [sub]small print[/sub] on the Night Menu which is provided for your comfort and convenience, sir.
The chilling words of the Night Waiter were chillingly prophetic in content. In his befuddled jet-lagged sleep-ridden Brain, Mr. E. had forgotten to read the [sub]small print[/sub] again.
Curses!
He signed the mini-invoice and started eating his sandwich with Gusto (and Dijon Mustard).
Ahem.
Yes? What is it now, Punk?
Sir, it is quite the usual etiquette in the Compleat Angler (A member of the MacDonald Group of hotels) to graciously proffer a Gratuity to the waiter who takes so much time and trouble in satisfying your comfort and convenience, sir. 12.5% is the customary pourboire, sir.
- Oh, I see. Well, you can just fuck off, Punk. Furthermore, if you see that other Punk, Ronald Fucking Macdonald, please advise him to also fuck off. Now go and Fuck Yourself before I put a bullet in your Bollocks, you Fucking Bandit.*
Thank you, sir. Will there be anything else, at all?
Yes, Punk. I’m checking out at Sunup.
You are aware, sir, that there is an early checkout charge relating to departures at Sunup, are you sir?
Oh, Fuck. Let me guess. There is a 12.5% Sunup Checkout Charge. Am I right, Punk?
Spot on, sir. You’re getting the hang of it now, aren’t you sir? It’s a pity you are leaving so soon, sir.
With a deep sigh of Utter Resignation, Mr. Eastwood opened the refrigerated mini-bar provided for his comfort and convenience. Inside he found a solitary can of Coca Cola. Referring to the mini-bar Price List, he noted that the charge had been marked up by 650% from the Recommended Retail Price.
Sipping from a glass of water, Mr. Eastwood located the Promotional Literature Booklet featuring the following comment from the General Manager of the hotel:
My priority lies with the guest, and I expect my team to put the guest first, after making lots of money and everything else.
At Sunup the next morning, before the vultures began circling the hotel lobby, Mr. Eastwood requested his bill, a piece of the Direst Possible Paperwork which read like this:[ul]
[li]Mr. C. Eastwood[/li][li]Bed & Breakfast (Special Offer):…144.00[/li][li]Bar Liquor:[/li][li]Gin…5.90[/li][li]Tonic…2.81[/li][li]Ice…43[/li][li]Lemon…65[/li][li]Pepper…36[/li][li]Straw (Green)…29[/li][li]Glass Hire…40[/li][li]Travelling Expenses @ $1.44 per foot…4.32[/li][li]Discretionary Service Charge…1.90[/li][li]Sub-Total…17.06[/li][li]Room Service:[/li][li]Ham & Dijon Mustard Sandwich…6.48[/li][li]Discretionary Service Charge…81[/li][li]Delivery Charge…4.32[/li][li]Sub-Total…11.61[/li][li]Sunup Checkout Charge…21.59[/li][li]Mr. C. Eastwood’s Mule[/li][li]Bed & Breakfast (Special Mule Rate)…72.00[/li][li]Michelin One Star Hay (A La Cart)…49.68[/li][li]Discretionary Service Charge…6.21[/li][li]Travelling Expenses To Stable…4.32[/li][li]Sub-Total…60.21[/li][li]Sunup Checkout Charge (Mule Rate)…16.53 [/li][li]Replacement Lock For Mr. E’s Door…9,600.00[/li][li]Preliminary Total…9,943.00[/li][li](Rounded Up to Nearest $100)…10,000.00 [/li][/ul]
Mr. Eastwood took the $10,000 bounty paid to him by the Sheriff of Marlow for offing Mr. Indio, gave it to the receptionist, mounted his faithful Mule and rode off into the distance towards the attractive, picturesque and Utterly Charming village of Cookham Dean.
Watching the gradually disappearing Mule’s Bottom slowly going round the bend, the receptionist turned to the duty manager and said:
Well, who was that Tight Bastard? He didn’t leave a fucking tip!
There are people like that, I’m afraid. Don’t worry about it. It’s not you, it’s them. Have you counted the Money?
