Why I'm an Angry Boater. Part 2

This is why I’m an angry boater.

In 2009, I was on a stand up comedy tour across America’s Deep South. Even though I lived in Watford, Hertfordshire, stand up was something I had been doing in the US - with a modicum of success - since 1992. I’d performed in around 40 states and, at the time, had aspirations to become the first Brit to perform in all 50.

Prior to that I’d been a secondary school teacher and - at the same time - was working as a  UK promoter of stand up comedy shows too.

Throughout all these phases of my life, I’d been afflicted with hypertension - quick to judge, quick to react & quick to snap.

I didn’t particularly enjoy living in England and treated my thrice yearly Stateside trips as my sanctuary. I lived for those trips.

                                                                                                    *******

I was in Johnson City, Tennessee - a small, mountain town in the Deep South and I was feeling angry.

There was no stage lighting and a toy microphone - which had been plugged into a Juke Box with a blown speaker - served to muffle the first act rather than amplify him. Worst of all, the TV’s at the back were left on  so that  guests and the ambivalent staff could mingle at the bar and talk about sports.

All my buttons were being pressed. I’d come to America to perform - and I was in an environment which was  undermining what I was there to do. I felt very disrespected. 

After the show, an audience member attacked me and - at 1 am - the local police arrived at my room to kick me out of the hotel for having incited the assault. 

4 hours later, I checked into a motel room in Asheville, Nth Carolina. I was seething. I turned on my video camera and made a video about what I had just been through. It’s uncomfortable viewing but, if you want to see it, the link is below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8DzwD3d2jA

I found out later that there had been a recent history of visiting entertainers being treated badly there. Unlike the others though, although I didn’t acknowledge this on the video, I reacted to the disrespect that was directed towards me by being disrespectful too.

Actually, the video spins a version of events that paints me in a good light but - deep down - I knew that a fair share of the responsibility was mine. I play the victim very well in the video, I think. I was a victim but I know I was  responsible too.

   

Two days later, I was in Louisville, Kentucky licking my wounds. I was in a strange state - wounded, reflective - out of balance. That awful night had brought all my stresses to the surface and provoked some kind of autistic meltdown. My need to be in control,  the challenge to my freedom and restrictions on how I communicated had caused me to over-react. 

I did not know it then but it was a key turning point which would  move me on to a new stage in my life. 

I was in a wonderful record shop in Louisville called ‘Ear Ecstasy.’ It’s since closed, unfortunately. ‘Gomez’ were about to do an in store appearance to promote their new CD. and, afterwards, the guitarist was chatting to the audience.

Later that night they were doing a big show at ‘Headliners’ Music Hall, further up the road. If I knew if they were playing ‘Shot Shot’ - my favourite Gomez song - I knew I would go. I just wasn’t sure how to ask them without causing offence.

“Hey are you playing Shot Shot tonight ? To be honest I don’t want to waste my time with new material.”

I bought the CD and while the band were signing it, I had a chance to speak to the guitarist. 

“Can I ask a cheeky question?” I began.

“Of course,” he replied.

“By any chance is Shot Shot on your setlist tonight?” 

“Yes, it is actually.” He smiled.

I smiled too.

“You’ve just sold another ticket for tonight,” I said, “Because to be honest I really didn’t want to waste my time with new material.”

I went to the show and got to the front. There was a drunk girl next to me. She kept screaming and it was making me angry. I was about to snap but - just before I did - had a Johnson City flashback and restrained myself.

I was looking at her, considering possible strategies, and she caught my eye. She knew what I was thinking and smiled, a little sheepishly. Her look calmed me somehow. I smiled back and said,  gently, “You’re not going to do that all night, aren’t you?”

“I’m sawrrrry, she said.” And that was it. `We had connected and she didn’t scream anymore.

The last song of the night was Shot Shot. Halfway through the song, I looked at the guitar player. He was looking right at me and giving me the thumbs up. 

I was very happy.

After the show, I saw the drunk girl outside in the car park. She was on the ground, crying. I went over to her and, sobbing, she explained that she’d fallen over and was sure she had broken her thumb. Her tears were not about her physical pain - she had no medical insurance and had  only just incurred a $2000 medical bill. Now, she could see it all happening again.

A week before, I would probably have lost my temper with her for screaming in my ear during the show and I can’t imagine I would have stopped to ask her about her troubles in the car park. However, my post-Johnson City state of self pity & vulnerability had opened my heart somehow and, for now, made me more gentle, given me more empathy, perhaps. There was some  guilt too - a knowledge that I was partly to blame for what had happened to me. Maybe I felt the need to remind myself that I wasn’t a shitty person.

The girl, Jessie, was with a  friend. His name was Lance.

I had a rental car and - after arranging for another Gomez fan with a truck to take their bikes home for them - I took Lance and Jessie to the hospital. On the way there, we talked bikes (I’d been planning to rent one the next day) and I asked if they knew anywhere I could do so.  Lance happened to work for the local bike shop and had a spare bike which he offered to lend me for the  rest of my time in Louisville.

I loved cycling. At the time, it was my favourite way to exercise and explore wherever I happened to be. I often rented bikes in America.

The next morning, I showed up at the bike shop and - true to his word - Lance had the bike ready for me. It was a little rusty and the brakes didn’t work so well but - as soon as I got on - I found it so comfortable, the coziest bike I’d ever sat on. I don’t have a great posture but this bike had me sitting in a naturally upright position. I loved it.

The brand was ‘Specialized.’

Within a week, I was back in England and I’d bought my own. 

The next day, on my maiden journey, a perfect summer’s day, I decided to cycle from my flat in Watford to Tring, about 10 miles further to the north. I’d cycled short distances along the canal path on my previous bike - a cheap thing from Halfords - but it was so uncomfortable that a 5 mile round trip was my top limit. Any more than that was a surefire route to hemorrhoids. However, I knew I’d be able to go  much further on this new bike so Tring was the plan.

I didn’t make it though.

Even though it was only a few miles from the town where I’d spent the last decade, I had never heard of Apsley. It was love at first sight.

There were dinky restaurants on the waterfront, a beautiful waterside pub and a small marina housing 50 or so narrowboats. One of the restaurants was called 'Woodys' -  a vegetarian cafe. I had lunch there, outside, overlooking the water. 

After my spinach and feta crepe, I bought a scoop of ‘Aged Prune and Armagnac' ice cream and wandered over to have a  closer look at the marina. I met some of the residents and the warden. We got on very well. We chatted for over 2 hours and one of them gave me a beer.  

I had always seen myself as an outsider by - at that moment - I felt connected to these people.  I could feel myself bursting to live there.

I had an epiphany. I was going to buy a boat and I was going to live in Apsley. I told my new friends my plans but they didn’t believe me.   

The next day, I saw 10 narrowboats. The day after that, I saw another 5 and - by the end 5 pm - I’d bought one. 

Within a week, my epiphany had become a reality. For 2 happy years, I lived in Apsley and ate at Woodys most days.

My unhappy experience in the Deep South triggered a chain of events that led to my lifestyle change.

If I hadn’t reacted so badly to my stressful Tennessee situation, I would not have been attacked.

That moment and my subsequent expulsion at the hands of the local police humbled me to the point that I needed to bring love and balance back into my life. It was the reason that I arrived in Louisville with an open heart - a vulnerable demeanor that made me want to reconnect with the universe. It’s why I was in a ‘go with the flow’ mode, why I went to that Gomez night and ended up helping Jessie and Lance. 

My good deed led Lance to help me with my quest for a bike.

Lance’s good deed introduced me to ‘Specialized’ bikes and led me to buy one of my own. 

If it wasn’t for Lance and the bike, I still probably would not have heard of Apsley and I would not have had that magical day on the Towpath that led me to Woodys and my people. Why else would I have been motivated to buy a boat? I fell in love with that place and those people. A boat made me one of them.

                                                                                                        *******

5 years on, here I am, sitting on my little boat in Little Venice, reflecting on fate and the wonderful new life that my stressy nature eventually brought my way.

I am less stressed these days. I love being in England now too. Being here on the canals is wonderful. The thrills and joy I used to get from being in America have morphed into my life here. England is full of joy for me now. There are bad times of course but embracing the lows allows me to enjoy the highs. I feel alive again and no longer have to fly to the US to have that feeling.

My stress reached a breaking point that led me to this life - a life where my stress is more manageable.

The antidote was right there in the heart of the problem.  

Joel

January 27th, 2014

Angry Boater? You don’t seem angry to me. Pt 1

I like my privacy and I like things to be quiet.

I’m typing this on my boat in Little Venice at 00.15 am on Saturday night. I don’t have the TV on or any music in the background. That’s how my boat usually is. Until 50 minutes ago,  I could hear some music coming from the floating restaurant across from me and - quiet as it was - I’m definitely happier now that the restaurant has closed. When it comes to external noise, I am very intolerant. However, I understand that part of the price of getting to stay in my beloved London is that I will sometimes have to endure the noise of others. It’s a fair trade.

Some boaters can be difficult - more than most, perhaps. I am one of those. Often, we have pushed ourselves (or been pushed) beyond our comfort zones. The decision to move onto the water in the first place can sometimes be traced back to a time when coping with life seemed almost unendurable. Often, it’s a personal struggle; sometimes a disconnect with society. Whatever is deep at the root of our “escape” though - wildly different as each boater’s story will be - probably isn’t a time of happiness. However, we’re all different and, ultimately, I can only speak for myself.

The boat, for me, was about finding a cure for what troubled me. It was partly an escape from that which I could not tolerate.

When I lived in a flat, for about 18 months, there was a large gang of youths who used to meet outside a shop on the opposite side of the street. They were loud, anti-social, usually drunk, and were typically there from late afternoon ‘til well gone 1am.  All of the windows in my flat looked onto this shop so - whatever room I was in - I could hear them.  In my own home, I felt like a hostage. I often called the police to disperse them but - once they had left - the gang would re-assemble.  On another occasion,  I opened my windows and played loud classical at them. They went home and returned twenty minutes later with their grandparents.

At around the same time, I was a secondary school English teacher and had been allocated a classroom that looked out onto a section of the playground where PE lessons often took place. I was trying to deliver my life enhancing lessons about oxymorons & conjunctions and they were being ruined by a guy with a whistle who wanted to shout and teach football outside my window.

I would often abandon my class to complain or ask them to play elsewhere. On other occasions, I marched my class to the empty canteen and taught them there instead. 

My need for quiet and control was being challenged at home and at work.

What you resist, persists.

Everywhere I went I was doing everything I could to control my environment and it wasn’t working - a stressful way to live and one of the causes (or perhaps effects) of my hypertension.

In time, the gang found a new hangout and I got a new classroom. My life was manageable again but  - like a Pavlov dog - I now had a subconscious conditioned response. Even today, I experience disproportionate stress if exposed to the stimulus of an ongoing, external noise that is out of my control.

My stressy nature eventually brought me to a point where something snapped inside and I needed to find an antidote. Living on a boat - for all the bullshit  and hardships that goes along with it - is my antidote. It’s reconnected me to the universe, albeit via the back door. I am alive again, still stressy at times but everything feels manageable. I can still snap though. It’s always under the surface.

Nowadays, if I am uncomfortable with the noise level in my immediate environment,  I can untie my ropes and move. I like that a lot. It doesn’t mean that I will necessarily move but the knowledge that I can is hugely empowering. I can take my home with me wherever I choose to go. I am a tortoise. 

Paradoxically, I love live music and see tons of gigs. This kind of noise does not stress me because I have chosen to be exposed to it. Unlike noisy neighbours etc, watching my favourite bands play is a choice and I am in control of my choices.

The thing is that I have been at the front for enough loud gigs now that my hearing has been permanently affected. I don’t want to go completely deaf but I really wouldn’t mind losing a further 15 to 20 percent. That should block out just enough everyday background noise to drop my blood pressure a few extra points. I already say “pardon” and “I didn’t quite catch that” far more often than most people but that really isn’t my problem. That is only a stress for whoever is talking to me.

Whilst my issue with noise  is an important reason why living on a boat works for me, it wasn’t the key reason why I bought one. Major lifestyle changes often need a traumatic event to act as a trigger and, luckily for me, I had a crazy one of those in 2009. 

To be continued.

Joel 

Jan 27th , 2014

You live on a WHAT?

When I became a boater, I was convinced that my new identity would reinforce my quirky & eccentric image. It definitely did that but that was only a part of the story. Like most of us, I’m fascinated to know how others perceive me. Perhaps I’m wrong but it’s my impression that most Muggles see boaters as objects of either mystery, envy or fear.

The mysterious element is most obvious when I am traveling through a busy lock with a curious crowd -  perhaps Broadway Market on a Saturday or Camden on any day you care to pick. 

In my early days of boating, the gawping eyes and camera phones stroked my ego but, once that novelty had worn off, it started to annoy me. I went through a fairly lengthy, self-righteous phase of dramatically taking photographs of everyone on the towpath who pointed a phone or camera in my direction. Ironically, those who seemed most surprised were usually the Japanese tourists. (I’ve always wondered how they’d cope visiting an Amish village).

Nowadays, I have developed my shepherding skills and learned to harness the enthusiasm of any onlookers. While the lock is filling / emptying, I can  be seen at my most charming - chatting away, and answering questions. Once the lock is set, as a special treat, the spectators - with the kind of eagerness usually associated with an unexpected  wild dolphin swim - heave and sweat away at the gates as I drive off into the mire.

The envy component is perhaps the most obvious one. The relaxing, floaty boaty life - that spiritual, life extending escape from the burdens of traditional living - is a perception that lulled many boaters to move onto the water in the first place. That was certainly my motivation. One of the first lessons I learned, however, was that not everyone had been ‘seduced’ onto the water. Many boaters have told me they had been driven to the lifestyle through financial problems. I remain an idealist though. As far as I’m concerned, this is a lifestyle upgrade - perhaps, for me, because it was a choice. ‘Angry Boater’ mode or otherwise, my boating reality has always be experienced through that filter.

Those who behave towards boaters with fear, oddly, are sometimes other boaters.

Last summer, I had a strange encounter on the Oxford Canal. I was in a lock and another boat was waiting to come the other way. The other boater was standing by the gate, helping me work the lock. We were talking amicably until he asked where my home mooring was and I told him that I didn’t have one.

“It’s all about to change for YOU,” he practically shouted. “ I’m on the boater’s forum and you’re not going to be doing THAT for much longer.”

I am not sure what aspect of not having a home mooring he objected so strongly to but I stayed friendly, tried to empathize and  introduced myself. When I asked him his name - and what forum he meant  - explaining that I was curious to learn more about his predictions for my future, he turned even more red and snapped, “Don’t you be worrying about THAT!”

It was probably the first time I’d had cause to reflect on a ‘Them and us’ dynamic existing amongst boaters. I wish I’d gotten to the bottom of his angst but I didn’t. All I can do is hypothesize.

Obviously, he had a home mooring but what was his resentment? 

Did he hate the fact that he was paying for a marina and I was free from that burden? 

Or was he expressing his own fear of living on the cut full time? 

When I started boating, I lived in a marina and, like many of my neighbours, I soon became institutionalized. I paid a lot of money to stay there, partly because I was scared. I believed it was better to be here - jammed between other boats - than on the scary outside. I even recall reading a British Waterways’ pamphlet which referred to the cut as “bandit country,” which reinforced my desire to stay exactly where I was.

Moving onto the cut full time, for me, was a gradual experience. For 2 years, I plucked up the courage to travel in the summer months but I still continued to pay for winter moorings. Eventually, however, I unplugged my shoreline for good. 

As for non-boaters, the fear-factor is sometimes manifested through a perception that living afloat is either lonely, unsafe, unsanitary or uncomfortable. Of course, all those fears have some justification behind them. Ultimately, it depends on your boat,  what you do and how you do it. Living afloat isn’t for everyone. Sometimes, it’s challenging.

For me, that’s the appeal. I’ve learned new skills, faced my fears, become more self reliant and explored beyond my comfort zone. It takes more effort to live like this. The reward for that effort, however, is that I now feel so much more alive and, for the first time, I have an emotional connection with my home.  I love living in different places, being around other boaters, feeding swans by hand from my side hatch, sitting on a beanbag on my roof in the summer with a book and a bottle of wine, exploring different towns, cities and villages and setting my own pace and destiny. 

As for that boater I met on the Oxford Canal, I’d still love to know what that was about. As he’s “on the boater’s forum,” perhaps he’ll read this. If that’s you, don’t be a stranger.

Joel

Jan 22nd, 2013

Double Mooring etiquette

It took a while to get my head around the concept of double mooring. 

If you who do not bring your boat into London, do not have a boat OR you are the Liverpudlian I met in Braunston who asked, “Soooooo, what’s with all this doubling up  you does down there, like?” I’ll start with an explanation. 

In London (and perhaps other places that I haven’t been),  there is never enough space for every boat to park alongside the towpath. To maximize the space that is available, we therefore moor up alongside one another.  If moored on the outside, you will therefore have to step onto another boat  to reach the towpath. It’s a horizontal, boaty equivalent to high rise buildings - a way of expanding limited space to accommodate the excess of demand over supply. 

As I already said, it took a while to get my head around it.

Can I just tie myself to another boat?

Do I ask permission first?

What if they don’t like me being there?

What if I am the outside and the inside boater wants to leave when I am not there?

What if I am on the inside and I want to leave whilst they’re not there?

Does the 14 day mooring rule start when I am on an outside mooring or only once I’ve moved to the towpath?

If the 14 day mooring rule DOES include outside mooring time, how will CART be able to check my license details?

If I am on the outside, grease my gunwales and move my license to the most inconvenient window position possible, might I then get to stay longer than 14 days?

Do the answers to any of these questions change if I am triple moored?

Or quadruple moored?

And is five abreast still OK?

On my first few trips to London, I never double moored. It felt like a huge violation of the other boat’s privacy. Yes, I saw other boats tied together everywhere I went but  I assumed they were friends traveling together. If I couldn’t get in at Little Venice or Camden, I’d find myself somewhere at a less celebrated spot instead. I normally only came in for short periods anyway so I managed to get by.

Now that I sort of know what I’m doing, I enjoy being double moored and have made many new boating friends through doing so. I prefer to be on the outside but, either way, I feel safe buried in the midst of a cavalcade and I’d much rather be tied to another boat than whack a set of mooring pins into soft, wet ground (a particular point of contention on account of having recently woken up in rain-sodden Kensal Green with the front of my boat banging against the opposite bank).

My questions about the etiquette have all been answered through getting stuck in and doing it. As is so often the case in life, something that I once feared now seems normal. It’s a fine system and we mostly get on with each other. I appreciate the benefits and accept the drawbacks. 

Last week. however, I had a double mooring experience in Little Venice which I haven’t fully processed. If you have an opinion on what I’m about to describe please, feel free to comment.

I was moored to the outside of a narrowboat that was considerably shorter than mine. 

My neighbour’s stern was fitted with a pram hood  so  I was not able to board via the back deck. Whilst mooring up, I reversed so that the front of my boat sat parallel with my neighbour’s front deck.  I would then be able to get on and off safely at that end - by stepping onto my neighbour’s front deck and  onto the towpath. 

Once the boat was secure,  I headed to the supermarket.

When I came back, my boat had been moved forward about 8 ft in order that a new arrival could squeeze in behind me.

I was still on the outside  but now the front of my boat was sticking out.  Even without my 4 bags of shopping, how was I supposed to get back on?

I was initially startled, then felt angry but was I being too precious? After all,  there are times when I’ve also moved other boats up in order to create space for myself. However, I’d never restricted my neighbour’s access to their own home.

I stepped onto the inside boat’s front deck and then onto my own thin gunwales, tightrope walked along to my front deck and crouched down to unzip the cratch cover. I then repeated this action twice more in order to get my shopping on board. I didn’t leave the boat again that evening and, the next day, I decided to find another mooring.

I didn’t meet the boaters who had moved my boat in order to create space for theirs. I understood their need for a mooring space but why hadn’t they understood my need for safe access? Even if they had assumed that - as a boater - I’d be OK with using my gunwales, what if I had friends coming to visit? Furthermore, there were other spaces in Little Venice where they could have double moored, albeit a little further away from the water point. There were also places where, as others had done, they could have triple moored.  

My decision to leave was only partly influenced by the physical awkwardness that had been forced upon me. The main factor was my perception of these people on the boat behind. All I knew about them  was that, in order to fulfil their own needs, they  had disregarded mine.  That scared me a little. I was uncomfortable there, felt violated and didn’t want to be near them. That was my motivation for moving on.

When I step aside and examine what happened objectively, I suspect I over-reacted. If anyone was truly as selfish & disrespectful as I’d convinced myself they were, my boat would simply have been cast adrift in order to make room for theirs. However, they had secured my boat properly again once they’d moved me up. These were not the actions of the Somalian pirates I’d conjured up in my imagination.

We’re all doing our best to co-exist in an overcrowded, under-resourced environment and, for the most part, we do so extraordinarily well. My predominant experience is that London boaters make for a friendly, supportive & helpful  community - often against the odds (or perhaps because of them).

By moving away without bothering to talk to the boaters who had inconvenienced me, I had experienced a moment of self pity and denied myself a potentially enlightening opportunity. I usually try to communicate honestly and openly but, on this occasion, I had shut myself down and seen myself as the victim of their selfish actions. 

The sparse moorings in London are disappearing at an alarming rate. Double moorings have been temporarily stopped in Angel to appease some residents there and a huge number of moorings in Kings Cross have just been taken away too due to construction work. Worst of all, CART (the charity that is responsible for running the system and to whom boaters pay a significant annual license fee in order to  be able to use - and moor - on the waterways they govern) decided it was appropriate to boost their profits by selling off a huge proportion of what little space remains for the winter months.  Boaters who pay the extra premium may occupy these - previously public   - moorings for the winter months. The majority of boaters in London who choose not to take a mooring (or cannot afford to) therefore have even less space available on which to moor. Every metre of mooring space that CART has sold and profited from means that another metre of towpath is placed under even greater pressure. More double moorings becoming triple moorings and more boats have to be moved up to accommodate new arrivals. 

Given the rapid - and ongoing - reduction of space for continuous cruisers in London, a more appropriate term might be “Lessings.”

Joel

Jan 8th, 2014

Boat names - the good, the bad and the offensive.

I didn’t like my boat’s name. 

When I moved onboard, ‘Herbie No. 2’ was painted down the sides. The Herbie part was acceptable but  ‘No. 2’  was almost a deal breaker. Yes, I was disgruntled that it wasn’t the first boat to have that name but the main problem was that it was a euphemism for feces. 

My first boat came with a name I disliked too - ‘Th’owd Brid.” It sounded like a Welsh Prostitute.

One of the worst things about buying a used boat (other than the endless, outgoing tsunami-esque flow of finances) is that you inherit a name that has nothing to do with you. The original owner gets to pick the name that is most meaningful to them. For reasons best known to them, my boats’ original owners wanted to express to the universe their fondness for older Welsh women and magical cars.

Unlike my previous life in a flat, I have an emotional connection to my home now. I  get to take my home with me wherever I go and, if I sometimes decide I don’t like where I am, within minutes I can be on the way to somewhere better. I find the knowledge that I have that choice to be incredibly empowering.  Wherever I lay my boat, that’s my home. I love my boat.

Last year, ‘Herbie No. 2’ was repainted and I could not have been more delighted when, early in the preparation process, Dave the painter sanded the old name off the sides. Now I could call it anything I liked.

I’d been told 100 times that it was unlucky to change the name of a boat whilst it’s in the water. I’m not at all superstitious, however, and suspect this to be a cynical rumour put about by opportunistic crane operators looking to exploit the gullible.

I was resolute. My boat was having a proper name and it was not coming out of the water.

I didn’t know what to call it though.

Firstly, I thought about a song lyric. 

This will be a subject for a later blog but, unbeknownst to them, the  band Gomez played a critical role in my transition from flat dweller to water gypsy.  In 2008, I saw them perform a show in Louisville, Kentucky; it started a chain of events which, less than 2 weeks later, resulted in my purchase of ‘Th’Owd Brid.‘ Now faced with the opportunity to rename 'Herbie No. 2,'  my first thought was to pay tribute by calling it ‘Gomez’ or ‘Shot Shot’, the title of my then favourite  Gomez song.

Some boats have great names; others don’t. Some boats have names that reflect their owner’s creativity; others have names that reflect a lack of owner-creativity.

I am a perfectionist and I needed the perfect name. I became obsessed with the possibilities.

One of my first contenders for the world’s greatest boat name was. ‘Eskimo Roll.’  Excited by my own genius, I touted it around as a possibility and - more often that not - was met with blank, confused expressions.  

If I wanted to go the funny route, I needed something simpler.

I thought about having an orange paint job and calling it ‘Easyboat’ ....

..... or ‘Sainsburys.’

I don’t like orange though.

‘Hogwarts’ Express.’

Maybe not. Children would shout out everywhere I went.

‘Permission to Moor Here.’

Possible point of contention with CRT.

‘Costa Concordia.’

..... because someone else already had ‘Titanic.’

‘Tourettes.’

Seemed apt, especially as it was a condition I now possessed as a direct result of buying a boat.

I wanted to be different. That, for me, was fundamental but I didn’t want to be too ridiculous. Otherwise, I’d risk being known as the boating world's answer to Bob Geldof.

I wondered what kind of response I’d get from the towpath if I drove up the GU with ‘Al Qaeda’ painted on the sides? Would my unusual sense of irony be lost on the public?

Dave, the painter, told me he was thinking about calling his boat ‘The Red Herring.’ His boat was bright blue. I liked his thinking.

The trouble with choosing a funny name is that the joke stops being funny very quickly. 

So I thought about a simpler angle, naming it after things I like:

‘Chicken Tikka Massala.’

‘Mick McManus.’

‘Felacio.’

The re-painting of my boat was completed over a year ago  and I still haven’t decided on a name. 

I’m still thinking about it but actually I quite like the anonymity and mystery of being ‘The Boat WIth No Name.’ Maybe I’ll call it that.

I’d be interested in hearing about your favourite and least favourite boat names. If you have a moment and the motivation, feel free to post a comment.

Joel

Jan 4th, 2014