We were taken to an old hotel The Centrali on Gorky Street in central Moscow, and in our exhausted state refused to be called at 8am, and certainly Desmond was not going to be roused without having a good nights rest. We came down for breakfast at about ten, but in common with some French Hotels, it did not run its own restaurant, and we traipsed next door where meals for the hotel were served. We were all still weary eyed and Desmond’s generous features were still such that you could hardly see his eyes. As we sat at our table we were puzzled by rude noises coming from the waitresses who were setting out the tables for lunch. They were spreading clean white cloths on the tables, and then having filled their mouths with water, they sprayed the cloth in order to remove the creases. In out tired state, we all just collapsed with laughter at this improvised method of ironing out the creases in the linen. Our group of officials and wives were well chaperoned by a young girl, Violetta, whose English was excellent, but who had never been further than 25 miles from Moscow. When out of interest we enquired about travelling to Leningrad, she said it was not possible, for additional visas would be needed, indeed as a Russian she could not travel there without a permit. I could not help but gently probe her with questions about their way of life, and who could and who couldn’t join the Communist Party. She indicated that only a few million were actual Party members, and when I mischievously pointed out that it was about the same percentage of the very rich that controlled all of us, she felt I was just pulling her leg. When we suggested that we sent her some books or magazines once we returned home, she thanked us for the idea but made clear she would not be allowed to receive them, and any acceptable books would have to be cleared for inclusion in their library. As the two weeks came to conclusion, we all agreed to invite her to join us for a farewell supper. During the meal, and not as a result of any serious political conversation, she leaned across to me and said “Mr Brandon-Bravo you have left me very confused”.
The Moscow equivalent of W H Smith of Gorgy Street was a further illustration of how different their world was from ours. In any other capital city in the world, such shops would have at least a few newspapers from other countries, but not in Russia. Indeed the only English language paper was a shortened version of the Morning Star. Their postcards gave us a chuckle and one was a picture of a family sitting around a long refectory style table, with a stern faced father at the head, mother at the other end, and a large bowl of something or other in the centre, waiting for its distribution. It was not the sort of holiday card ever seen back home, but we took a chance, added a message to my staff back home: “Workers of the world unite!” Surprise, surprise, it was delivered to the amusement of all.
Jim Railton who had been our National Coach, was then the Times correspondent and sat drafting an article on the Russian bid for what became the 1980 Olympics. He and other journalists had been given a rough time by their “guardians” during the World Student Games that preceded our Rowing Championships, and was in no mood to be diplomatic. Sally had come with me, and Jim passed his draft for her to proof-read. When she had read the last paragraph, she said that he could not file it, for the Russians were not daft and would know just what he meant. He had ended his piece with the comment that, since Russia, and therefore Moscow, had to have the Olympics sometime, better it was 1980, for 1984 would be singularly inappropriate! He said to hell with them, they can put me on the next plane home, I’ve had them up to here. Needless to say our embassy contacted him the following day and expressed their concern at his having filed his rather provocative piece. They did not pack him off home, but for the next ten days, he was followed by two little guys that had KGB written all over them.
Desmond ran into trouble again, for the Russians had designed the entrance to the stands through two pairs of glass doors, to reduce draught. Unfortunately they had used ordinary glass panes rather than thicker toughened glass, and had failed to put any markers on these pristine panels. Desmond promptly walked straight through one of the panels, and a shaft of pointed glass penetrated his generous rear end. We should have been sympathetic and not laughed, but the image of our friend lying on his tummy, with a Russian nurse stitching his backside, was just too hilarious to take seriously. He was a great sport and took the joshing in good spirit, and certainly brightened up our stay on what was a very drab occasion.
There was one service in Moscow that would never have survived in England. On the streets were drinking water “fountains” consisting of two compartments In one an upturned glass –yes a real one – which you pressed down to wash the glass, and another where you pressed to fill your glass with water. When finished the glass would be returned to the washing compartment. I could not imagine such a system lasting for five minutes in any of our cities. Quite what the punishment would be on a vandal breaking the glass I shudder to think.
One further incident illustrated the kind of attitudes prevalent in Soviet Russia at that time, was when one of our group drew my attention to the fact that the Israeli delegate, Jonny Szabo, had had a rough time on arrival at the Moscow airport. They had gone through his bags with a toothcomb, confiscated the magazines he had with him, and generally made him feel both frightened and most unwelcome. From all accounts he had locked himself in his hotel room at the Rossia Hotel, and would not join the early meetings of delegates and officials. Sally and I obtained his room number and knocked on his door. His frightened response said it all, but we called out shalom and he let us in.
He had unstitched his Israeli blazer badge, so that if he did attend any gatherings, his identity would be hidden. He insisted I accepted his badge, and I still have it as a memento of the pressures some Jewish people still labour under. He was Hungarian by birth, and emigrated to Israel after the war ended, living in a suburb of Tel Aviv, returning occasionally to Budapest, though after what he had been through I found it difficult to understand why he felt he should visit “home”. For him, the only survivor of his family following the holocaust, the Russian anti-Semitic attitudes must have hurt him deeply. When he retired, his son Eli took over the Israeli Federation’s presidency, and our friendship continued for many years.
Our hotel had a receptionist on each floor, in addition to the main reception on the ground floor. I had arranged to file copy to Nottingham on a reverse charge payment, but after my first call, the phone rang and a voice said “Nottingham ten minutes”. I took no notice since I did not expect to have to pay. However each time we left our room, the receptionist would rise from her desk and say “Nottingham ?” and I would say “Yes”. To which she would say “You pay !” and I would wave my hand and say “No Nottingham Pay.” This went on for about five days, when she was getting more desperate each time we left our floor. We had complained about our so called first class room, which had two single beds placed head to tail, there being insufficient room for them to be side by side. We had brought a rubber ball for the hand basin, but Sally was convinced we were under surveyance since we could not turn the radio off. When we were finally allocated a better room on a different floor, we packed our bags and as we stalked past the receptionist, she rose with a choked expression, but I waved her away, and to our surprise we heard no more about YOU PAY ! It was only when we were back in Nottingham that we found there was no reverse charge possible at that time, and so I do hope the poor receptionist did not end up in a gulag.
The autumn and winter is primarily taken up with long distance time trials or Head Races. They are held all over the country, wherever the available river is suitable, and ours in Nottingham boasts one of the biggest entries. However even though the stretch of river is long enough, the width demands that we run the event in three divisions. The only Head that can cope with a full entry in one division, is that held on the Thames, over the reverse Boat Race course at the end of March. There some 500 eights compete in what must be one of the biggest athletic one day events in the World. The sight of early crews racing down the centre of the river, whilst crews in the higher numbers are still paddling to t
he start up the sides, is a sight to behold. When you note the number of overseas crews, and the spread of home crews from all over the United Kingdom, you wonder why it has taken so long to dispel the public image of our sport that ties it solely to the Boat Race and the Royal Regatta. We have to thank Steve Redgrave for opening the public’s eyes to the reality of our sport.
In truth I had enormous fun, double sculling with a guy called Mike Collier who still races in the Masters category at 82 years of age, or dropping into the odd coxed or coxless four, or pairing with either club-mates Kevin Bruton or Robin Haslam, and of course an eight whenever possible. In the early sixties, it was possible, particularly after Henley Royal, to put a crew together and do a bit of what was then described as pot hunting. On one such summer Barry Start and Pete Hubbard from the Britannia, Kevin Bruton and I formed a combined four that just clicked together, and with the driving force in the stroke seat from Pete, we had a great season with five or six wins throughout the provinces. I can’t claim it was at the highest standard, but it was great fun. Added to that, I spent whatever time I could spare in coaching, and derived great satisfaction seeing crews under my care, collecting their winning trophies at regattas up and down the country. It was a great diversion from the pressures, first of business and factory management, and later during my time in Parliament. For me there was, and is, no greater participation sport.
When I left Parliament I returned to Rowing, and was approached by old colleagues who suggested I accept a nomination to be President of the Amateur Rowing Association. I was surprised and greatly honoured to be elected in 1993 and took on the Caversham Project which has played such a major part in the continuation, and indeed growth of our sport’s world reputation, and is a chapter of its own later in the book.
The eight years of that Presidency could not have been more challenging or exciting, for it began with our sport’s Gold medals in Barcelona, and ended with Steve’s fifth Gold medal in Sydney. My first World Championship as President was at a course in Roudnice just outside Prague in 1993, when both Steve and Matthew, and the Searle brothers retained their titles, together with an outstanding win for our lightweight women, and a fantastic gold for Peter Haining in the lightweight men’s sculls. Peter’s win was a dramatic demonstration of skill, for leading with barely a hundred yards to go, he touched a buoy and lost his left scull. It seemed all over, yet somehow he reached out, reclaimed his scull and shot off after the Australian sculler who had taken over the lead, reclaimed the lead and a well deserved Gold. As I left the stands with the Associations executive chairman Di Ellis, I could only say, “What on earth are we expected to achieve next year!”
As always the International Federation held it’s Congress before the opening of racing, and our official delegation to Congress was our Chairman Di Ellis, our International Manager Brian Armstrong, and me. I was delighted to draft an impassioned bid to have Mike Williams our own association’s treasurer elected as the International Federation Treasurer. Being my first Congress as leader of our three “man” delegation, I wasn’t sure how far to go with my presentation, but it was successful, and I had to chuckle when Dan Topolski came over said, “well done, it brought tears to my eyes”.
The following year the Championships were in the USA in Indianapolis. The medals kept coming, but as a city, Indianapolis apart from the famous race track which we duly toured and received our certificate, was what we would disparagingly call a one horse town. Considering it was a metropolis of over one million people it had virtually nothing to commend it. A handful of restaurants, a tiny theatre, and a converted railway station providing some shops and cafes, and that was about it. When we expressed surprise, we were told that local folks simply didn’t dine out in a way we take for granted in Europe and the UK, and that time after time, restaurants opened and closed in the absence of any demand. We were entertained by some British ex-pats working for Ely Lilley, and were staggered to find that their swimming pool was fenced off on the grounds that if a burglar fell in, they would be held responsible.
The Championships in 95 were at Tampere in Finland, but racing conditions on that lake, made the problems at Holme Pierrepont seemed petty by comparison. A thunderstorm created mayhem when the amount of rainwater on the stadium covers, caused them to collapse soaking the media center and spectators.
President British Rowing (ARA) 1993-2001
The Olympics in Atlanta followed in 1996, but instead of the racing being held on Stone Lake as planned in the USA submission, it was transferred some fifty miles away to Gainsville. Our team preparation was nearly fouled up, when someone, perhaps from Germany, tried to disrupt our planning by trying to spread the story that our chief coach Jurgen Grobler had been a member of Stazi in East Germany. Fortunately I still had contacts in Parliament, and a good friend in the Foreign Office had the story checked, and confirmed that people in many different careers, such as coaching in athletics, were for payment purposes, members of Stazi. I was assured there was nothing amiss and that we should ignore the innuendo and say nothing to Jurgen or any one else. Racing conditions were excellent, and being almost the first sport in the Olympic programme, we were all cheered when Steve and Matthew claimed gold in the pair. What no one had anticipated, was that theirs was the only Gold for GB in those games. We had one trip into Atlanta, and thankfully it was the day before the deranged guy set off a bomb in the City centre. Our women hit the headlines for laying down in protest in front of the bus due to take them from the village to the Rowing Lake, because the organisers had taken on drivers from all over the US, and many had absolutely no idea where any of the destinations were.
After the 1992 General Election, my old boss David Waddington had been made Governor of Bermuda, and had invited Sally and me to spend a few days with him there. The Atlanta Olympics offered an excellent chance to break our return trip to England. We stayed at the impressive Governors House, a classic colonial residence, with a wing of the property all to ourselves. The weather was gorgeous and the sunlight bright as we’d ever seen. We had a most elegant and distinguished “butler” to look after us. Standing at around six foot two or three, this black guy with crinkly grey hair could have made a fortune in films. Errol knocked on our door that first morning, and quietly asked Sally if madam would like him to draw the curtains. With her hands quickly over her eyes she said, “Thank you Errol, but please do it slowly”. The Island had an annual cricket match between two of the villages, and the scene had to be seen to be believed. True they had a cricket pavilion, but all round the ground, the visitors had erected two tier private scaffolding grandstands, where from the upper tier they set builders chutes, so that the empty beer bottles were just tossed down the chute to bins at the base. Alongside the match was something of a fun-fair, and David told us that we would have to expect to lose a few dollars playing Crown and Anchor. The game is illegal at home, for the punters are not supposed to win, but win we did if only for a few dollars and a big laugh. It was also at a time when one of the Parties on the Island was pressing for independence, and felt that David would deny a vote on the issue. In fact he agreed, and the vote was lost, showing David’s gamble had paid off. After four years he was ready to come home, but was asked to stay on until after the 1997 election so that an incoming government could appoint his replacement.
The Championships in 97 in D’Aiguebelette in the Savoy region of France, were overshadowed by the death of Princess Diana, just before the five days of racing began. We were aware that some single day events back home, were either being cancelled or delayed, but we took advice from Sport England and the Secretary of State, and were told not to withdraw the team, but to seek help from the organising committee in order that a race including a British crew would not clash with the planned funeral service back home. Di Ellis, Sally and I went shopping for black ribbon and a box of safety pins, and all British competitors wore them throughout racing. The organisers granted a minutes silence on the day of the funeral, and the Union Jack was rais
ed only to half mast when the four won gold. The photo of the four, heads bowed, with black ribbons on their vests, featured prominently on the back page of the Sunday Times, and the press complimented our sport on the way we had handled that tragic situation.
Cologne followed in 1998, and St Catherine’s in 99. Both events had problems with conditions. Cologne set deep between high banks seemed impervious to wind problems, but the finals had to be seeded based on semi-final times. Peter Haining, a double Gold Medalist, who had stepped up to the open rather than lightweight class, found himself placed in lane six after the semi-finals, and effectively had no chance in that disadvantaged lane in the final. That championship coincided with the Monica scandal in the USA. I could not help pulling the leg of my opposite number, the President of the US delegation, and asked him what was all the fuss about a cigar? He professed ignorance of the case, but said he would look into it and come back to us. He returned with the happy news that it was not an indictable offence since the cigar had not been Cuban.
The Canadian course appeared excellent and flat calm, but weed became a bit of a nightmare. Our women’s lightweight pair had a ding dong neck and neck battle with the pair from the USA, but they picked up some weed at about the 1750 mark, and wobbled off line. They lost by a few feet, and the umpire inspecting their tiller, showed a bunch of weed, and raised a red flag indicating that until investigated further, the result should not stand. FISA called myself and the USA president to consider what should be done. The rules decreed that the Jury should consider the Umpires decision, but the Americans made clear they would appeal, and would continue to appeal all the way up to the FISA executive. This would have taken so much time, that the re-row, if that was the outcome, would have had to be held long after racing was complete. Taking advice from David Tanner and Di Ellis, I agreed that the case should go straight to the executive, and we would accept their verdict. I’m afraid TV won the day, and the result was allowed to stand, and I feel that our women were denied the justice of a re-row, for without the pick-up of weed they would have won that final.
Rowing Against the Tide - A career in sport and politics Page 8
