It's getting late. No laying down the law this month, dear members, just a half-baked ramble down memory lane.

I'm one of those oddballs who is lucky enough to be able to go down to the club in quiet off-peak moments when no one else is around, and have a cup of tea with mother. She was there at the club's inception nearly fifty years ago, and it gets her out of a morning. We congregate with a motley band of outcasts and ne'er-do-wells and prattle on about nothing in particular, pooling the chips on our narrow shoulders as we put the world to rights. If you can catch us you'd be more than welcome to join us.

Rest assured, we don't amount to much with our stubborn views and high-handed opinions. How we love to grandstand as nostalgically we talk about the past, about the characters and personalities that have drifted through the club over the years, and the way things used to be; for example, sometimes we like to recount how, way back when, we used to change into our shorts hopping around the nettle infested car park behind the boot of cars long since out of production. In those days there was no clubhouse, nor even the thought that we would ever want one. We were simply excited at the prospect of getting afloat in a second hand Salters coxless four with rusty riggers and a rudder the size of a paddle.

We reminisce about how before every outing we would insert corks in the bow and stern of boats to stop water from getting under the "canvas", which in those days were actually made of canvas. When stepping into the boat we had to put our feet on the keel or else we would go right through the thin wooden skin of the boat. And if the corks didn't get taken out again after the outing the boat would rot from the inside....ah, happy days.

Today we can't help but notice that our well-intentioned boat recommendations are often met with a frown and a stoney silence should the boat be more than a couple of years old. Times have changed and people expect more from their club now. Sometimes, dear members, I'm afraid we struggle to keep up.

Often I can tell that our little group senses the past more vividly than the present; the smell of the grease which was wiped on the buttons to stop them creaking; the brilliant white club racing vest which was, in fact, just a vest; a satisfying contempt for people who had the impertinence to train; the excitement of watching club member John Wingfield subbing in the Russian Army Grand eight for an outing. We even reminisce about when a UTRC four reached the semi finals of the Wyfolds and when "Wingers" (RIP) nearly made it into the final of the Diamonds.

In those days, let us call them the Sixties and Seventies, GB hadn't won an Olympic rowing gold since '48. One of those victors was local boy Bert Bushnell (David's uncle). Ten stone ten in his brogues. Even back then that was still on the light side for a heavyweight.

Bert's funeral was just a few weeks ago, the passing of history close enough nearly to touch. Prior to that, you have to go back to '36 when the legendary Jack Beresford rowed down the Germans in Berlin, marvelously affronting Hitler in the process. Like Steve Redgrave, Jack won 5 Olympic medals in successive games, although there was some silver mixed in amongst his gold. If it hadn't been for the War he would probably have won 7...

But tempus fugit, time flies, and we don't care to be any more sentimental than we've already been.

Preposterously, the first fifty years have nearly been and gone. Now we'll be judged on the next fifty. Quite right too, we can't dwell on the past. Thankfully by then there will be more to the Upper Thames tale than babbling on to mother about the scent of the cow parsley in spring. Or brass rowlocks.

We're well past the point of no return. Now we're a modern club, with new faces, bright plastic boats and a long list of demands. Some of our crews are looking good. Only last weekend one crew won two pots in a day. Well done them. Maybe we can increase the holdings of our trophy cabinet this year, who knows? Perhaps this will be our year...

But I'm getting ahead of myself, forgive me. The sports psychologists tell me this is a big mistake. We must "stay in the present", they say. Rambling's out.

So with that I'll close; let the past go and the future take care of itself. Just be content with building on the foundations laid nearly half a century ago, and give thanks again for our good fortune in having such a lovely spot by the river.

Don't worry, I haven't gone soft. Next time, it's back to basics.

Until the morning then,

Justin