For those who have never attended a committee meeting of (The Royal) Loch Broom Sailing Club here’s a taste of what you’ve been missing.
First thing to understand is that meetings scheduled for 4pm prompt start promptly at 4.30, or thereabouts. At five minutes to the hour the place is
deserted; at two minutes still no-one is to be seen anywhere near the club
house, except the commodore who has been
hanging nervously around since before dawn, switching on heater and lights,
going over and over in his head “don’t mention the skiff cushions”.
At one minute to the hour, in a haze of diesel smoke and
chip fat aroma, a duo of ancient Land Rovers can be seen approaching, one of which
is bumping noisily along the beach, shedding body panels along the
way. At precisely the same moment the bicycle flying squad swoop down the ramp and
dismount in superbly choreographed unison.
At the appointed hour the real business of the day
begins, with a lengthy discussion outside on the merits of the electric
bike that the commodore has acquired. After many an admiring look and questions
about its capacity, rude remarks about the commodore’s age, etc etc, trial
rides are organised, at which all are surprised and delighted.
The time is now 4.15 and the secretary, who has been
warming up his computer indoors, is getting impatient. He has a lengthy speech
to deliver about the merits of the club joining the Association of Community
Affiliated Sport, Leisure and Rowing Clubs, ACASLRC, a document on which he and his lady wife
have spent the last four months preparing.
Bike trials over, the committee assembles inside
the now overheated club room where a lavish buffet, smoked salmon sandwiches,
caviar canapés, sausages on sticks etc and, for the more traditional, pineapple
and cheese chunks, plus a startling selection of wines and spirits, including a large number of
bottles of the Club claret (subject to an unminuted purchase in 2009 and now ready to drink) is spread out on silver platters, engraved with the club's coat of arms, herring rouge rampant.
Glasses are filled, canapés scoffed and without more ado
the meeting is convened. The time is now 4.45.
The racing secretary’s iPhone bleeps. “Collapsed? The entire bridge? That’s your problem. Can’t talk now, I’m in a vital
meeting.” What can it mean?
The commodore clears his throat and hopefully announces
the meeting will be brief. There is an appreciative noise from the floor, and
the sound of hiccupping from the back. The commodore begins to outline the high
and low points of the past season of which there have been a number of highs,
nicely balanced by the same number of lows. Naively the commodore believes that
the lows have been lower than ever, until those who have been in the club for
ever interject by saying that compared to some of the lows in the past these
lows could in fact be considered as highs.
The club’s youth coordinator’s iPhone chirps. “No, I can’t
speak now, I’m in an important meeting.” (guffaws). “No, a really important
meeting. No, nothing to do with my bonus. Honest…”
The commodore struggles on. Nevertheless, he says, we
must address the question of safety (cue embarrasssed silence). The reputation of the club
is at stake (giggles); nay the very existence of the club has been jeopardised
(outright laughter). Relief all round. It has ever been thus with the old Royal LBSC. Nostalgia grips the floor. Memories are swapped of epic escapes and near misses. "Remember when we went to St Kilda and that sheep blew off the hill and sank old Bob's Contessa? And then there's the time " The meeting is called to order.
The commodore continues, voice rising nervously, moving
on to calmer waters. The Flying Fifteens. Three trailer collapses, two
collisions and the dent left in the Winkie buoy suggest an unusually successful and trouble-free
season, at which there is a round of applause. "At least no one sank their Flying Fifteen," pipes up the man in the far corner, pointedly. The commodore blushes.
The results of the races will as usual be manipulated (should not that be calculated; Ed?) by the Sandicap officer. Wallets are produced; nods and winks exchanged and the results will have been settled there and then in a most efficient and sensible way.
The results of the races will as usual be manipulated (should not that be calculated; Ed?) by the Sandicap officer. Wallets are produced; nods and winks exchanged and the results will have been settled there and then in a most efficient and sensible way.
The club’s entertainment officer’s iPhone bleeps. “No,
make that a dozen,” we hear him say. “No, two dozen, there’ll be four of us.”
What can it mean?
The treasurer’s report is brief. The club is awash with
funds, to the cries of “Gie’s some, Paul”. Against his better judgement the commodore
suggests that any spare cash should be directed towards roof repairs, hard standing,
plumbing, electricity, changing room carpets and water heater. “We want new
cushions,” comes the cry from the powerful skiff contingent, at which the
commodore clasps his head in hands and heads for the heads, to return only to
discover a motion has been passed to buy not only new cushions (in a
fetching blue and mauve with gold embossed logo), but road trailer, cover, cox's padded back rest and
purpose-built heated shed, plus unbreakable oars made of real wood.
The secretary's iPhone twitters. "A red backed shrike? Sure it wasn't a twite? Easily confused. One has a red back and the other doesn't. Besides there is a world of difference in their calls. The shrike goes 'weee-woop and the twite is largely voiceless' and then..." Cries from the floor of "get a move on".
The secretary's iPhone twitters. "A red backed shrike? Sure it wasn't a twite? Easily confused. One has a red back and the other doesn't. Besides there is a world of difference in their calls. The shrike goes 'weee-woop and the twite is largely voiceless' and then..." Cries from the floor of "get a move on".
On the subject of skiff expenditure (agreed at £3,400) the commodore accepts he is beaten, and passes the
floor to the secretary who, everyone knows, will now regale us with hilarious
tales of the benefits becoming an associate ACASLRC. To more cries of “get on with it”, the secretary,
mercifully, spends a mere ten minutes on the subject before admitting defeat.
The old LBSC ethos of self reliance, contempt for authority and strict
adherence to Health and Safety issues (Er?) wins the day. The relief is
palpable: the club can continue for the time being in a state of permanent
virtual reality, circa 1998, the highest point in its history, or at least as
high and as far back as any can nostalgically remember, a time when evenings
were spent down the club in conviviality, tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes
listening to stories of near misses, rock dodging, trailer collapses and hair
raising voyages to Svalbard and beyond. There are many who would turn the clock
back to those halcyon times.
The vice commodore’s iPhone rings. “Exploded? What, gushing oil? Gulf
of Mexico? Your problem mate. I’m in a very important meeting…” What can it mean?
The commodore trudges manfully on, voice getting weaker
by the minute. He knows that the most important matters have yet be discussed, the
first and most controversial of which is the parking of tenders (or the
non-parking of tenders). The debate rages back and forth. An honorary member leaps to his feet, red faced and gesticulating, and is forcibly restrained. One owner, it is alleged, had to
leap frog then rearrange six tenders to get to his. Another was verbally abused by the owner
of a tender that was blocking his path. Another has received death threats
through the post, another a brick through his window with the words “I know
which one’s yours…”
With no sign of a compromise in sight the commodore pipes
up to suggest that every tender owner pays a small levy, but can continue no
further as a roar of laughter descends on him. At least it deflects attention
away from the problem. Perhaps every tender should have its own designated
parking spot? Pah! Eventually the problem is wholly solved by a brilliant
intervention from the floor. Every tender is to have a STICKER, attached to its
transom. Sighs of relief and murmurs of approval. That should do it. The
commodore wonders. “A sticker, now why didn’t I think of that?” And worries whether he is
really cut out to lead such a brilliant bunch.
More in pity, a motion is passed allowing the commodore to park wherever he wants.
More in pity, a motion is passed allowing the commodore to park wherever he wants.
At which another iPhone chirrups. “What? He’s stuck his
head in the washing machine? What do you expect me to do about it? Besides, I’m in an
important meeting. " Is it serious, we wonder?
Crisis over, the rest of the meeting is plain sailing
(although the word sailing never appears). The date of the next meeting is
pencilled in, and the arrangements for the annual party are made known. This
causes a minor stir as the wording of the event is refined. Christmas Party?
That excludes the atheists and agnostics among us, and we have been
reminded by the secretary that in order to remain eligible for funding we must
be “non discriminatory in issues involving the ethnicity, religiosity,
background, gender, sexuality, facial hair, sailing abilities, colour, birthplace, make of
car etc.”
The committee decides that the best way to describe it
would be the Not the Annual LBSC Christmas Party, or just The Party. The motion
is passed unanimously, a relatively easy one that, sighs the commodore looking
at his watch. The ordeal must surely be over as he tentatively asks “Any other
business?”
“Well there is one important matter,” says the secretary,
but too late. Everyone has already made a
rush for the door and thence to The Royal where the real business of the
club, as everyone knows, is enacted.
The meeting, officially closes at 5.30.