"The first introduction I had to rowing was in a bar when I first walked into Jesus." It being the week it was, it didn't seem so unusual to hear Himself mentioned within a sporting context, but it was nonetheless a bit surprising to learn that He had taken to preaching the virtues of team-rowing over a couple of Buds and a game of pool. However, Toby Wallace said it was so himself.
Some moments passed before it became apparent that Toby, the 6ft 9in Cambridge rower, was referring to Jesus College, where he reads something or other (Maxim and FHM, probably) for the pale blues.
Saturday was, of course, the day when the academic establishment flexes tradition through sweat and painstaking technique on the waters of the Thames. Naturally, the Beeb was there for the occasion and who better to do the presenting than Steve Rider, all red cheeks and woollen wraps. Wonder the wardrobe department didn't provide a bassetthound for effect.
Watching Rider on a day like this you always get the sense that before his present incarnation, he spent his days loafing around Greyfriars with Bob Cherry, bemoaning Mr Quelch and lazily admonishing Billy Bunter.
He oozes that innate sense of reserve and English earthiness that only ever seemed to be truly realised in the pages of sepia-coated fiction. Rider, you imagine, grew up in a village where the policeman really was called Mr Goon.
Anyhow, here he was on the banks at Putney, blissfully happy and merrily declaring the imminence of the 145th Boat Race, the last of the century. To give viewers an idea of the kind of effort the Oxford and Cambridge crews put in for their 15 minutes on the water, a BBC crew followed Toby around for a few weeks.
The tall one was only too happy to provide a bit of wholesome flavour. "You feel like a pop star for the day," he sighed wistfully. (An unfeasibly tall pop star kitted in a tight pyjama top, shorts and wellies, but an idolised crooner nonetheless).
Toby was, in fairness, a pretty entertaining host and over the neatly-edited five minutes, we saw him witness more dawn sunrises than the Dalai Lama, munch his muesli with gusto, head off for two-hour weight sessions and technique drills, off to morning class, train on the water, study again and finally more rowing. It was exhausting just watching his gangly frame zip about the place. But like his buddies, he was unfailingly good humoured.
Toby's height was the main novelty aspect to this year's race, the other being the very petite and very female cox, Vian Sharif. "She became conscious of being the only female in the crew when they all went off for haircuts to the barbers and they only gave her a dried trim, which is not quite what she's used to," offered Barry Davies with an air of authority which lent an enigma to Vian's "do".
Dried trim not withstanding, Vian was far from uncomfortable, singing a duet with Toby (who just ain't rock 'n' roll) at a karaoke night before the race.
By race day, the stakes were raised for Toby. "You really feel like you're in the spotlight, like the world's watching you," he said.
And who could begrudge them the sensation, these big lumbering likeable over-achievers, each with a name like a mountain range. Tobias Ayers. Dan Snow. Tom Stullard. Once the rowing began, though, the intrigue went out the window. Cambridge won again, dash it.
If the Boat Race represented a rare emblem of worthwhile, untarnished traditional, sporting endeavour, ITV's An Evening With Lennox Lewis did much to confirm JD Sallinger's notion that the world is full of phoneys.
Naturally, Jim Rosenthal played some part in the proceedings. What Steve Rider is to old England, Jim Rosenthal is to plasticity. If you held a lighter to Jim's face, you'd expect him to melt. The whole thing was a bizarre and blatantly scripted Lennox love-in, with only the boxer himself emerging with any dignity.
With Rosenthal posted in New York, the show was hosted by a yahoo-ing and manic Ian Wright. The "audience" in question weren't just any old bunch but special people, you understand. Celebrities. Garth Hale, the world's unfunniest comedian, did his bit. Then came Barbara Windsor, aka Peggy from the Vic.
"How did you feel when heard them playing the anthem before the Holyfield fight?" asked Babs. "Er, I was in the dressingroom," began Lennox, only to be drowned out by the trademark Carry-On cackle, and for a moment you lived in dread of hearing, "oooooh, sauc-ey."
Page three pin-up Joanne Guest appeared. "I'm going to lower the tone a bit," she said, reading her line perfectly and getting the intended cheap larf. She went on to ask Lennox about having sex before fights and the studio tittered at the sheer naughtiness of it all.
Eventually, some degree of class was imposed upon matters by, well, Don King. King came on to get a pasting and charmed the lightweights to bits. The audience fired googlies at him and King deflected them with a cocktail of street jive and literature, giving them Shakespeare and the Bible.
"You can't cook with cold grease, you gotta have the stove on," he rapped at one stage. (When, oh when, will we get a GAA manager who talks like this?).
Ian Wright, meanwhile, had obviously discovered his idol in life, his Jesus in the bar. Someone asked King about his resilience. "I believe in doing as Churchill would do," he said. " We will fight them on the beaches, we will fight them. . ."
"Yeooooooh", shrieked Wrighty, damn well on his knees by now. Don King smiled his freaky smile and Lennox Lewis looked as though he knew he'd lost his audience. Which, for his own sake, is probably just as well.
