Salty yarns…

Crossing London Bridge with Chris the Swordsman, I paused to wave enthusiastically at the boat full of Japanese tourists which was passing below. Chris expressed some amusement at this, presuming that I was pretending to be a tourist myself. "No," I explained, standing up. "I just recognised the boat."

Chris laughed even more, because he knew as I did, just what did go on aboard that particular boat. Once a year, with all the Japanese tourists safely tucked up on Drury lane, watching CATS, that boat played host to one of the kinkiest and most outrageous parties in London (the grooviest city in the world). The Firm’s boat Party.

The Boat is an idea for which we cannot take all the credit, since the first SM boat parties were organised by Der Putsch in 1987 (or possibly before, anyone who can confirm this might e-mail me). It was only when Der Putch closed down its London operations in 1993, that we wondered who was going to do the boat party, and decided that we probably should.

There is nothing, simply nothing, like messing about in a boat. There is no better way to see London than from the river at night, it is beautiful; there is simply no other word for it. The lights, the cathedral, Westminster, HMS Belfast, Tower Bridge – goodness knows why the architecture works best from the one place you can’t possibly drive a car but it looks superb. Added to this, you’re in a closed environment with lots of like-minded deviants, so you could not have better company. There is something very exciting in spanking your playmate in the open bows while a boatload of city workers float by, realising that celebrating Harry’s retirement is not such big fun at that.

Long standing member of The Firm, The Lord Polemaker tells this funny story.

On the night of The Firm’s first Boat Party in 1994, the ambient laughter of two hundred happy partygoers mingling with the yells of pain from the lower deck, and the wails of envy from anything else on the river, another boat cruised slowly past us. That boat was full of norms in suits, and all their eyes turned to our boat, agog at all the mischief that was being got up to. At this, one of the women on our boat raised her top and flashed her tits at the other boat. Lord Polemaker swears that the craft listed to starboard as all the men ran to look at the tits - and one of the women belted her husband with her handbag, which as far as any of us knew only ever happened in Carry-On films.

Stimpy at londonfetishscene.com describes The Boat thus:

Once docked, everyone piled on and besieged the bars on board and before we knew it, we were cruising the river. This was a club night with strange rules ; everyone had to arrive and leave at the same time unless they fancied a swim to shore. Instead of the club being shielded from the outside world, as happens at The Fringe and Mass, the whole spectacle was open for viewing for the stunned vanilla viewers on the river banks, bridges and other cruise boats. The weather was ideal - cool enough to merit layers of tight rubber and / or leather, yet dry and clear so that we could be waved to passers by. Several other cruise boats stuffed with bored looking tourists or corporate drones on office outings passed by. The sight of the pervey boat attracted whoops of delight from their stunned passengers and camp poses and open air spanking from our uninhibited passengers.

Darkness fell after an hour or so and then the London skyline appeared in all its sparkly glory. Fetish clubbing is always a very visual experience, but instead of the backdrop to the event being the walls of some club or other, it was a scrolling illuminated collage of the likes of the Millennium Dome, Canary Wharf and the majestic Tower Bridge...

...The TV maids served up a light buffet with chicken for the carnivores and humus for we veggies. Their service topped off the whole atmosphere really well and gave the event that special 'Firm' factor, i.e. not just dancing

and playing, but tongue in cheek role playing too. Ishmael Skyes had briefed the assembled maids on how to serve, and I was so impressed by them, I was wondering whether to reach for my crop by way of thanks, but that would have delayed their distribution of strawberries and cream!

(Their website is well-worth a visit).

In 1996, the Boat Party fell on the 4^th of July, and our Adjutant had dressed up as Uncle Sam and two women had come as cheerleaders. As we got towards Greenwich, the sky lit up with a massive firework display. Everyone stopped playing to watch, and the boat stopped, mid-stream so that we could just watch. There was some controversy as to whether the people celebrating US independence were American or British, but in the event I tried to claim credit for the Firm.

When we did The Boat 4, we engaged a DJ named T, who undertook to supply us with music, lights and technical expertise, in addition to that of our excellent regular DJ, Madam Zak.

I spent the day time before the event in my tiny kitchen, cutting up fresh fruit for the buffet, listening to the cricket on Radio 4. I recall it had been rained off, and the BBC were transmitting hour after hour of good-humoured nonsense from three lunatics ensconced in the commentary box. Those boys could give the Ancient Mariner a run for his money.

At around 6pm (by which time I could have cheerfully diced anyone even saying the word melon) catering help from Borgia Buffets arrived, giving me the opportunity for a much-needed shower and change of threads.

Then the doorbell rang again, announcing T’s arrival. I answered the door in my boating suit, and T pointed proudly to his transport, parked a little way down my street: A remarkable vehicle in urgent need of a respray, that is known in professional circles as ‘The Shit-Brown Van.’

From its back doors issued half a dozen highly qualified theatrical technicians. All of whom, I knew well – and not a perve among them – and all I knew commanded highly respectable fees.

To my huge gratitude (and relief), T explained that they were all along as volunteers because rigging a party on a boat seemed like a good crack.

I was astonished. We loaded the entire buffet into the van, and Borgia and I piled into the cab beside T’s good friend and factotum, a brawny Rastafarian called Mr Lisle.

So we rode across London in this enormous van with six expensive technicians in the back, and Mr Lisle talking periodically on his mobile with a seventh, who was stuck somewhere near Elephant and Castle. When we stopped at Lambeth Pier, the crew disembarked like marines and started humping all their heavy equipment – record decks, lights, cables – as well as the buffet and our dungeon equipment – down to the boat.

I must say that I have never known a faster nor a smoother get in, but at the same time I will not go as far as to say that The Firm’s own techies have not been as fast. Setting up The Boat is always dead tight for time, and that van full of professionals certainly showed us the way forward!