Henley is a once-a-year must (writes Becky Talbot). It involves lots of Pimms and staring at men in Lycra. It started for rowers back in 1839 - we jumped on the bandwagon in 1999. In sixth form me and my mates wanted an excuse to get out of doing General Studies. It's a pointless exam - the government may disagree, but seriously it's utterly dull. The four of us went to the head of Sixth and suggested the school should have a rowing team (us): it would make the school look more sporting; and there needed to be more women in sport. Fortunately, she was a raging feminist back in the 1960s and said yes.

Wednesday afternoons became ours for training. One of the girls' dads was a rower for our local club, Wallingford. He somehow bagged us the Oxford University Ladies' coach. The coach obviously had no idea he was getting three rowers under 5 foot 4 inches - slightly overweight and under-trained - and one very tall girl. There's a term in rowing called 'sitting the boat' - it means rowing all in time without the boat rocking. If everyone can time it just right, it feels as if you are flying. This didn't happen often.

My friend who was stroke (the person at the front of the boat who sets the stroke rate) has continued with rowing - she's tiny but has the power of a giant. I was put in the bow (at the very back). I often couldn't keep up or caused a crab - sometimes capsizing it - because I got cramp in my wrist. After a couple of months, we started training on Sunday mornings to try and get fitter. We'd go out on a massive bender in Oxford on the Saturday night, get up next morning and happily row for a couple of miles. All these years later, this would be impossible - it takes two days to recover.

OK I admit we were crap. Eg when rowing past the Oxford Brookes mooring, we would try to look as if we knew what we were doing. We failed, especially with our coach bellowing at us through a megaphone. What always livened things up was male rowing teams on a wee break. This was eight men pulling themselves towards the bank, all standing up on their boat and weeing over the side. For a group of 17 year-old-girls this was highly entertaining. We never got good enough to enter any competitions, so we never graduated into Lycra (thankfully). We did get fit, but not in an attractive way. I'm sure I got a bigger neck and arms.

One thing you must do if you ever get the chance is blag your way into the Enclosure at Henley. The Enclosure is pure class. It's not like Ascot, where chavs reckon that if they wear a hat, no-one will know. Henley is old money, private education and titles. It's en masse men in chinos, boat shows, team rowing blazers, and occasional straw boaters. Women are in twin-sets, classic-cut outfits, and some hats - depending on the weather. The actual Enclosure isn't much to speak about - a few bars, some very nice toilets (that's me and my lack of class) and an awful lot of deck chairs.

Best time to be at the Regatta is Saturday night. It's electric. We don't just go for the evening, we do the whole day. Around 10 in the morning, we get to my friend Em's. Em and her brother arrange a whole day of food (we all chip in about 20 quid) and a massive vat of Pimms - including compulsory fruit. This is how you get really drunk. It's school and university friends, brothers, sisters, cousins, and a few randoms - 20 or so altogether. Then off to Henley.

We used to camp by a friend's parent's mooring. That stopped after our second year. We thought after a day of drinking that stealing a giant fern from a marquee, a picnic-bench umbrella and a crate of champagne was a clever idea. Unfortunately it wasn't. And when we got back we decided to show off and talk about it very loudly. As you might imagine, waking up a load of toffs on their boats at 4am won't go in your favour. After a drunken sleep, we sneaked off quietly.

There's a camp site at Henley. It gives entry into the Barn Bar, where bands play and underage drinkers hang out by 'poshing' their way in. If you're a single lady, you'll notice some fine specimens of good breeding: beautiful locks, classically-dressed, and the general sound of ra in the voice. On the other hand, watching teenagers vomit and snog is a bit gross at two in the morning, so I've sort of grown out of going to this bar. I've moved up on the hill - drinking a bottle of red and enjoying a cheese board. Sad, but reality.

This year was a very drunk one. The focus was on socialising rather than sport. It was blankets by the riverside, out with the hamper, commencement of nibbling. After four hours' drinking we couldn't stop giggling. It was the sort of giggling that is only funny to the group you're with. What made it funnier was John Prescott was walking along the bank with a camera behind him, shaking people's hands. No I don't know why. We were considering throwing vol-au-vents at him. I'm sure his crew heard us. Anyhow, they moved him on pretty sharpish. The thing about drinking Pimms is - everyone gets slowly posher the more they drink it. Pimms - a shot of posh. About 8 at night, it was back to the tents. They get put up round a gazebo - so you can chill out and sit on blankets. You know the kind of thing - at least one guitar, drunken songs - obligatory 70s numbers and Oasis classics. Chavs (white trainers, white caps, jogging suits - another kind of uniform) filtered through the campsite, trying to nick things out of the tents. The police were out in a dash and nicked them instead. The best bit is the fireworks. Everyone is toasted from a day of drinking, and crispy from sitting in the sun. The campsite overlooks the town and the Thames. Friends are close, and couples snuggle up to one another. Fireworks erupt over the valley.

The morning after gets worse every year. This time I was woken up by a friend puking his guts up on the side of his tent. You could hear the groans from the other insides. Five in the morning and no chance of going back to sleep. I felt as if someone was drilling into the bit between my eyes. Leaving the tent to get some fresh air, it looked like some sort of a Henley apocalypse - the clear-up job is always a complete mission. What I noticed most was not the empty Pimms, wine and beer bottles - but that someone had stolen the gazebos and cool-boxes. Bizarre. I love Henley. It's less about the place and all about the company. Forget Facebook - you don't have to poke your friends with a cyber present, you get to enjoy their real company and have a good old proper catch up. Next year it will be the same old routine, but that's what makes it special.

END

(c) Rebecca Talbot 10 July 2008

Rebecca Talbot is an actor and writer living in London UK

Fringe Report (c) Fringe Report 2002-2012

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