Comedy writer Geoff Tristram on Canals

First in the pecking order, if one excludes the kingfishers, herons, ducks, swans, and of course the fish, are the boat people, and this is only right, as it is they that pay the lion’s share of the money for the upkeep of the waterways, and it was for them that the canal was created in the first place. Your average narrow boat owner, I am pleased to report, is a gentle soul, happy to chug along at five miles per hour, dispensing friendly greetings and regal waves – if you will excuse the pun - to the tow-path proletariat; even though the novelty must surely wear off after the first slow mile or so. I have no quarrel with such folk, even though they have a worrying tendency to sport large bushy beards and sing ‘hey nonny nonny’ as they pluck their banjoleles, like that scene from the film ‘Deliverance’. And that’s just the women. The men, let me assure you, are even worse. In spite of having a ninety-inch plasma TV back at home, at weekends they appear to believe that they are still living through the Industrial Revolution and most have a penchant for black waistcoats, collarless shirts and red and white spotted neckerchiefs. I also have reservations about the names they give to their boats, which are invariably either corny Celtic in origin or else a very poor pun. There is also a sub-species of canal traveller, however, that shuns this traditional Victorian approach, and instead sees himself as a millionaire yacht owner carving his way through the waves off Saint Tropez, his little blue and gold captain’s cap perched at a jaunty angle, giving him the appearance of a poor man’s Tony Curtis. Not for him the narrow boat, decorated with its awfully executed, homespun illustrations of fairy castles and roses. He prefers the regulation blue and white fibreglass cabin cruiser that, like the narrow boat, leaks gallons of crude oil, sleeps none comfortably and is only slightly smaller than a large bathtub. Invariably, his vessel is named something along the lines of ‘Sheil-Merv'(in honour of the two grown-up children who cleared off to some far-flung University with no intention of ever returning home), and may even boast the suffix ‘2’, if the previous one sank.

Just beneath Captain Pugwash and Co. in the food chain is the angler, who also helps with the upkeep of the canal, via his rod licence and match fees, and this, he feels, entitles him to destroy the environment by leaving yards of nylon line and tiny, lethal hooks along the towpath and in the trees opposite. He also regards the bramble hedges that line the towpath as his own, private pedal bin, grown specifically to hide his used sandwich wrappers. Then, when the strimmers arrive in the summer, his sins are revealed, as the Sunblest Confetti rains down on us all. It is wrong to generalize, or tar everyone with the same brush, but I’ll do it regardless. The average angler is an antisocial, unshaven creature who prefers the company of maggots to his fellow man. It is as if God had granted him a mere thousand words to last him a lifetime, and he doesn’t like to use them up unnecessarily by wasting them on pleasantries such as ‘Good morning’, or ‘Sorry, let me move this roach pole off the tow-path so that you can get by.’ He will, however, be more than ready to part with a few of the coarser, Anglo Saxon ones in his repertoire should you accidentally ride over his £500 carbon fibre fishing rod on your mountain bike, because he left it across what he regards as his private tow path, and you didn’t see it in time. At times like this, he can even become quite articulate, albeit in a menacing way. Worst of all is on match days, when the path resembles a never-ending line of NCP car park barriers, with hundreds of huge roach poles barring the walker’s progress. Usually, a polite ‘Excuse me please’ is ignored, and the hapless tow-path pilgrim is made to wait while the fish has been landed, deposited in the keep net, the new maggot impaled, the cast made, the fag lit and the News of the World perused. Then, and only then, if said angler is not offended by your face, and you have grovelled enough, will the barrier be lifted, enabling you to walk the whole three yards to the next one. In fact, the only time the angler moves with anything approaching speed is when he spies Tony Curtis slicing through the waves at an illegal rate of knots in his fibreglass tub. The £500 rod is whipped out of the water sharpish on those occasions, I can assure you. I will not, on this occasion, bore you with the tale of how I bravely rescued a small bat which was dangling from a tree on an angler’s line, a size 16 hook piercing its little wing. Modestly forbids, don’t you know! Anyway, I have castigated these stout fellows quite enough for one day. Any more and I will have to undertake my weekend constitutionals disguised with a false beard and carrying a banjo for protection.

Okay – we have dealt, and fairly, I would argue, with the ones who contribute to the canal’s upkeep, and I thank them for that, if nothing else. Now we’ll cast a critical eye over the freeloaders, beginning with the cyclist, and again, these creatures sub-divide rather neatly into three separate species; namely, the Lycra Lout, the Tootler and The Hopeless Woman.

The Lycra Lout is by far the most appalling of the three and certainly the most dangerous. I hold my hand up and say that, in my opinion, the bicycle is an environmentally-friendly machine, and as such, should be encouraged. Where I draw the line, however, is the lycra-clad speed merchant. They are acceptable on the road, preferably between the hours of three and five a.m., but the tow-path is not Silverstone. What puzzles me is this. How come these people think nothing of spending literally thousands of pounds on a bike, but baulk at the thought of spending an extra two pounds on a bell? To have a gang of these gaudy, aerodynamic racers storm up behind you at thirty miles per hour as you take a leisurely Sunday stroll, and bellow ‘Coming through!’ in your ear is perhaps one of the most effective cures for chronic constipation that I can think of. Far better, in my admittedly biased opinion, are the Tootlers, of which I am a member. As the name suggests, we merely tootle along, as would a vicar heading for church on his trusty sit-up-and-beg pre-war machine. Most of us couldn’t reach the dizzying double figure speeds favoured by Lycra Louts if our lives depended on it, and even then, we manage to incur the wrath of the ramblers, who just don’t like us as a class.

Last but least in this particular list is The Hopeless Woman. Now I am not the least sexist (as all sexists say before launching into their blatantly sexist manifesto) but some people should not be allowed on a bike. Most women, I have to begrudgingly admit, are good, if unflashy cyclists – you seldom see them riding without hands or pulling wheelies, for instance - but occasionally I encounter the dreaded family of Sunday cyclists, and bringing up the rear is the lady of the house, who always seems to have a huge posterior, a gaudy shell suit and a determined expression. Now, if you engage in conversation with a woman for any length of time, as I am forced to, she will inevitably remind you that men are hopeless, whereas women are brilliant at Multi-Tasking. This is tosh. They have been fed this nonsense by their silly women’s magazines, and they believe it. My wife, in fairness, can simultaneously burn the toast while leaving the hot tap running while ignoring the front doorbell. The Hopeless Woman Cyclist, though, cannot even pedal and say Good Morning at the same time. As you pass her and offer a simple greeting, she immediately panics. There is often a violent wobble that nearly takes her into the drink, and she will appear to be having a minor stroke. Multi tasking? Gentlemen, I rest my case. It is another myth, like the G Spot.

Your average Tootler, of which the Sunday Cyclists are a sub-class, will at least possess a bell, or if not, will call out politely to a walker or group of walkers that he or she wishes to pass, whereupon the walker will either begrudgingly or cheerfully move to one side, depending on personality type. I must admit that one bike overtaking a walker - from the walker’s perspective I mean - is a novelty, whereas three quickly becomes annoying and ten in quick succession can push the blood pressure into the red zone. I can readily see the pedestrian’s point of view, but live and let live I say. We all have a right to be there, so we must be tolerant. However, when a cyclist tinkles the bell and nothing noticeable happens as a result, things can really get heated. Recently, I did just that, and the old couple blocking my progress failed to respond in any meaningful way. I tinkled again, and the result was the same. I tinkled for the third time, this time as loudly as my Halfords 99 pence bargain bell would allow. No business ensued, and I was now so close, I could smell his Old Spice and her Deep Heat, intertwining in the frosty November air. I tried Plan B, which was to slip onto the grass at a snail’s pace and gently go round them, and the result was dramatic. The old lady went off like a house alarm and accused me of everything short of rape.

“You people should invest in a bell!” she shrieked.

“I have one,” I replied stiffly. “I just rang it three times and you didn’t hear it.”

“We’re a little deaf,” replied the man in consolatory fashion.

“No you are not,” I argued. “You are a LOT deaf.”

Sometimes, I mused as I quickly rode off into the sunset, you just can’t win. And don’t get me started on the fifty-strong groups of elderly ramblers who take over the canal with alarming regularity. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I yearn for the ordered discipline of the M5 in the rush hour.

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