A Tour Bore On A Booze Cruise

Or, Conrad's Night Out
It has long been an assertion of mine that reading about other folk's party escapades does not make for enthralling reading; what seemed at the time like terrific fun, with lots of hilarious banter, turns out to be painful on cold, sober viewing.
     However, because I am fickle, and it's my blog, I am going to nevertheless entertain you with the tale of our office do on a canal boat.  There are pictures, so it's not all bad.

Weather Treachery!
No post on BOOJUM! would be complete without a rant about The Metro, First Bus or the weather.  Today, the weather.  So far, this week has been the very definition of "soggy".  This means Conrad looked on the canal cruise with misapprehension, far preferring to sail upon the water than be deluged by it.  The day dawned damp - but blue skies did put in an appearance.  Art?

     So your humble scribe is reassured.
     For ten minutes, anyway.

Conrad, Like Napoleon, Is Solo
The plan is that we gather at the Bridgewater Basin at 6:25 PROMPTLY for a 6:30 departure, then to travel down the Bridgewater Canal, to travel along the Manchester Ship Canal, end up at Salford Quays and return.  Laughing up their sleeves at Conrad, everyone else stays at the Electric Goldfish Bowl, drinking.  After I get a delicious complementary Classic at Northern Soul, I head off to the Basin, pausing only to patronise Waterstones - I mean, I was passing, it would be rude not to - and buy a book.
     So I get to the Basin.  Alone.  Art?

Not just alone.  UTTERLY alone.

     "See you on the boat!" Anna had e-mailed, mere hours before.  
     6:30.  Still alone.  See?

     I was told that people back at the Electric Goldfish Bowl were worried about me not being present amongst them.  "Oh where can he be?" they worried.  "Where, oh where, can he be?"
     At Bridgewater Bloody Basin on my own!  See?

That chap on the steps doesn't count

     For all my splendid isolation the usual suspects arrived en masse shortly after and we set off.
     Oh, before we do, literally, get under way, a few nautical terms need defining, as my pedantic bone aches dreadfully over inaccuracies.
     1)  IT IS NOT THE "FRONT" OF THE BOAT!  I probably snarled this with a bit too much venom at the time.  It is called the "bow", pronounced as in the act of curtseying.

The bow

     2)  IT IS NOT THE "BACK" OF THE BOAT!  And I confess froth flew from my mouth last night when I barked this out.  It is, instead, the "stern".

Looking towards the stern

     3)  "Left" is actually "Port"

Port view, featuring Rick's rear

     4)  "Right" is "Starboard", and no I don't know why they call it that, except they do and you better had, too.

Starboard view.

The Tour
Having allowed my pulse to settle, we began our journey.  Many people were startled when the boat's klaxon blared out; this was due to approaching a narrow blind bend, but I don't have a picture and a klaxon's sound doesn't come across well on the printed page.
     Moving slowly along, we then had to descend from the Bridgewater to the Manchester Ship Canal*, by negotiating a lock.  This process was greeted by most of the passengers with what can only be described as "abject fear".

     Not your humble scribe, however, for I know how locks work.
     "You open the gates, sail in, close the gates.  Let the water out, slowly.  Open the other gate, sail out."

The front of  the bow at the lock gate

     No, Lauren, the boat will not violently pitch forward at an acute angle and drown us all in the disgusting depths of the canal -
     <long essay on the hydrodynamics of canal construction erased by Mister Hand for fear of boring the audience into a stupor>
     After their terrifying descent into the very bowels of the earth, people celebrated their narrow escape from the jaws of death -

"Rejoice!  For we live!"

     Ah yes, a bit of scenery to distract from the text.  Imperial War Museum North:

     An odd-looking bridge that had lights underneath it:

     I don't know what this is, but it looks grim.  An island prison?

Grim building on the rig - on the starboard side

     Enough of scenery.  Well, landscapes, at least.  Onto Liam, who was kind enough to praise BOOJUM!, and Lauren (recovered from her knee-knocking terror at the lock).  Liam, to be frank, wants to use the blog as a species of <shudders> dating agency.  Liam is - picture please, let's see those trout pouts both of you -

No, Lauren, that is NOT a pout!

     Liam, show how it's done -

     Liam is looking for a Sugar Daddy, if I can put it that tastefully, and in that pursuit he wanted to highlight his teeth.  Okay -

     Regretfully I don't have an ultra-violet flash here, yet even so you can still read in the dark when Liam smiles.
     There you go, Liam.  I want a cut when that Sugar Daddy calls you ...
     Oh, and after enduring another terrifying ascent from the very <cont. page 96> 

More celebrating

     Quite the most worrying event of the evening came when we neared the end of our trip, as we moored.  MOORED!  Not "stopped" or even - be calm my throbbing forehead vein - "parked".  MOORED!  Niall asked for a link to BOOJUM! on Monday, so I shall probably spend the weekend editing and deleting ...




*  Well obviously.  You wouldn't expect Bactrian camels or helium blimps, would you?