Two Hundred and Thirty-Three Men in a Boat

Almost forty years ago, I recall my older brother introducing me to Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat. It remains, for my money, one of the greatest comic masterpieces in the English canon. The story revolves around three hypochondriac friends: J, George and Harris - all of whom are overwhelmingly convinced that their imaginary ailments can only be cured by a fortnight on the Thames. They set off from Kingston with a fox terrier named Montmorency (the brains of the outfit), although even back in 1889 the dog was considered surplus to requirements. The book is a whimsical series of mild disasters, packing catastrophes, losing battles with canned food, and the quiet conviction that everyone else on the river is an idiot. It is English to its core: understated, self-mocking, and fundamentally harmless.

Fast-forward to August 2026 and the boating holidays across the South-East of England have undergone a transformation that would have left Jerome requiring therapy. On Monday of this week, a single 15-metre inflatable dinghy deposited a record 232 people on British shores (if you count Montmorency among them, that gets you to 233). The previous high-water mark of 165, set only weeks earlier, was already pushing (the boat out). Thirty more would-be passengers were left stranded on the French beach, but one need not fret; you know what these dinghies are like - you wait for an hour, then three come along at once.

In 2018, the average boatload was a modest seven succour-seeking souls. By 2025, it had climbed to 62. In 2026, we have now entered the era of the floating village - Piddington-on-sea, if you will. Like Jerome’s boatmen, the dinghy passengers are nursing imaginary ailments (an inexplicable intolerance to French cuisine and Isabelle Adjani), and are hardly suffering from “overwork”. Indeed, so relaxed are they during the trip to Britain, that the size of their dinghies now appears to be a genuine status symbol - the maritime equivalent of Audi vs BMW.

With the prow now approaching five meters in and of itself, the BBC are increasingly forced to resort to panoramic lenses simply to keep the entire craft in frame. At this rate, the logical conclusion is to abandon the pretence of individual boats altogether, and simply inflate a continuous pontoon stretching from the Normandy beaches to the White Cliffs of Dover. Why roll out the barrel, when you can simply roll out the red carpet?

Naturally, Andy Burnham’s Downing Street North paints a different picture. It speaks of “appalling images” of babies placed in unseaworthy craft, and of the “ruthless smuggling gangs” prepared to risk human lives for profit. Ah, if only our own governments weren’t quite so willing to risk human lives for votes, the Prime Minister - like our new arrivals - might be on slightly firmer ground.

To be fair to “Our Andy”, the Home Office notes (with some justification) that the numbers are significantly down from last year. Forty-three percent down to be exact, with “only” 15,242 arrivals to date in 2026. According to officials, this is likely due to the disrupted supply of small boats and engines, and the “sophisticated surveillance and reconnaissance operation” in place over the Channel. It might also explain why the boats are now overloaded like an EasyJet one-way all-you-can-drink booze cruise to Marrakech.

None of this concerns me nearly as much as our “co-operation” with the French. I know I’m going to be accused of channelling my inner Rod Liddle (the great man has only just left us, after all), but surely bribing Johnny Crapaud to the tune of a billion quid not to look the other way as their least desirable citizens set sail to join Les Rosbifs, is an exercise in futility? And while I’m not averse to the French border force roughing it on filet mignon and Château Lafite three times a day at our expense, surely a sum that could fund free school meals for every child on Universal Credit for a year should yield something more substantial than a shrug and a non, merci? I mean, if you gave me a billion quid and a ferry ticket to France, I’d at least come back with Sophie Marceau, Emmanuelle Béart, and whatever’s left of Brigitte Bardot!

Having taken the bait however, the best line in this entire farce came from the French lifeboat service - who are about as useful as the English Border Force, but naturally better dressed. The director of the SNSM (Société Nationale de Sauvetage en Mer) Jean-Marc Lamblin admitted: “We’ve been seeing more and more 15-metre boats passing through. We didn’t think there could be any more, but there really is no limit now”. To his credit, he managed not to smirk when he said it.

Jerome’s three men sought only temporary relief from their imagined complaints, and a bit of fresh air. They caused no one any lasting inconvenience, and asked for nothing more than the chance to make fools of themselves on the river. The modern equivalent is another matter entirely. Three men in a boat, England could manage with equanimity; we would probably even welcome the dog. Two hundred and thirty-three at a time, week after week, year after year, is beginning to look like rather more than a harmless jolly on the river.

It’s just as well the French are “helping”. I shudder to think how bad things would be if they were really taking the piss.

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Frank Haviland is the Editor of The New Conservative, and the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West.

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