Fear & Loathing at the Southampton Boat Show

Well, here we are. After a tow from London that took 24 hours more than was expected. In order to avoid a force 6 southwesterly that was coming up round Beachy Head, our tug driver, Graham, took us round in circles in Pevensey Bay for about four hours. He had to do this because his capstan was broken, so he couldn't just shorten the tow line and drop anchor. We hit the weather anyway when we headed west. Things fell over, and Paul Hadfield began raving about "inadequate bloody lashings", which was fair enough.

We discovered the thing about the capstan when we got to Cowes, as me and Stitch had to go over to the tug in the dinghy to help haul in the towline. At this point, the MCA and the cops turned up and crawled all over Graham's tug for a good amount of time. Word to the wise - when going under tow to Southampton, don't hire a tug driver who has an ongoing feud with the Southampton Port Authority.

Another word to the wise - there are lots of powerboats crewed by spoon-faced morons in the Solent. If they refuse to slow down as they pass while your wooden ship is on the hip of a tug, this may cause the tow line to rip straight through the port bulwark and one of your stanchions. Needless to say, we're sitting starboard side to on the pontoon at the show.

On the morning when we sailed (ooh!) for about five minutes (oooooh!) into the show, we were joined for some PR stunt by Ellen MacArthur, who was forced to mess around for publicity photos on the ship, which by now was strewn with the sponsor's banners. I strung up a flag above the main course yard that the photographer wanted in shot, but then he was too scared to climb into the fighting top. C'est la vie, je suppose.

The day before, I'd made the mistake of wandering into Dennis' eyeline without carrying anything.

"Tom," he said, "Are you looking for a little job?"
"Go on then," I said.
"Just pop up and unwrap the flag from the pole, will you? It's all tangled up there."

It was as I was standing seventy-odd feet up, on the main crosstree, that I decided I need a pay rise. Luckily (or maybe not), this could be on the cards. With Patrick's departure, I have magically turned into him, being given the food money and getting moaned at by the other crew and so on. But Roddy might give me more money. I don't know. I want to take a week off after the show and see what I can find. If I still need a job, I might go back. But I don't really want to be around while the ship's being re-crewed.

Anyway, Ellen MacArthur was fairly personable. "How's your morning been?" I asked in an idle moment. She seemed slightly taken aback that anybody was actually talking to her, instead of barking photography-related instructions at her. By all accounts, her day was going to be a long one.

She asked how long our tow had had taken. "Forty-eight bloody hours," I said.
She was suitably taken aback, which on reflection seems rather odd. You wouldn't have thought that Ellen MacArthur, round-the-world yachting superperson, would be terribly impressed by a 48-hour journey. But then, it was a pretty bad journey. And we ate all the food.

Last night, we attempted to go down the pub, but ended up in McDonalds, having lost Bob, Ryan and Jamouli. One of the girls on security almost put them on our trail, though. She recognised them from our description as we passed by before - "Have you seen a guy dressed as a pirate come through here? With a builder?"

Still, here we are at the show. I've got a day off today (yes!) as Mum and James are coming down. Now we've settled into not having tours, but letting people wander round the boat and ask questions, I think things will be okay. Stitch, Jamouli and I have plenty of time to watch the girls go by, and of course to engage in lame banter with the girls on the RNLI and America's Cup stands.

It is awfully yachty, though. Some of these people have so much money, I don't think they even realise it.

There's more to write, but I'm pretty tired. Thursday was a 16-hour working day. Yesterday was 13 hours. And I don't really want to become the manager. But I do need a job. Advice, condolences, etc. on the back of a postcard.