Noughties Indie rockers The Libertines have a song called up 'Up The Bracket' and it begins with a jarring, almost in-human gurgling sound before the thumping guitar kicks in. 

The words actually being vomitted out in this guttural opening salvo are 'Get out of it'. 

I used to be convinced that only a tortured poet like Peter Doherty could ever annunciate a sound with such startling desperation. 

That was until last week, when I spent a long, lonely and claustrophobic night on a houseboat in London's trendy Little Venice hearing sounds and experiencing fragments of sensations that chilled my soul to the core. 

Houseboats are very much the vogue in our cramped and over-populated cities, but they are hardly a new property trend. 

People have lived on them for years, mostly along stretches of canals in places like Birmingham and London, but also on some rural areas of The Thames.

But the number of boat dwellers in the capital has reached a record high, with at least 10,000 people currently calling its waterways home. 

The surge in popularity for riverboats has also extended across the UK, where the amount of floating homes has risen by 6 per cent in the last decade, reaching a total of 34,573.

Traditionally, the sort of person to live on a houseboat is a hardy but bohemian type. 

A bit of an outsider who doesn't mind cooking everything on an electric stove or carrying their waste to a public toilet in the p****** rain.

We all know the sort, and honestly, good luck to them, it's just not a lifestyle 99 per cent of the country want to lead. 

That should, and used, to be all there was to say on the matter - so why am I, a man in his late-twenties living in London, constantly being told I need to grow up and go live on a houseboat? 

Irritatingly, the sort of trendy places I am forced to hang out with my friends these days are nearly always situated on some previously god-forsaken and now overly-gentrified stretch of canal where the pints cost £7.80 and you have to sit on a crate.

If this wasn't bad enough, I'm also now at the stage of life where some of my more successful (*privileged) friends are starting to settle down with their partners and look for properties together. 

It should be obvious to you by now dear reader, that not only am I clinically single but also atrocious with money - the only real relationship in my life being a toxic one with disposable vapes that really should have seen me referred to addiction services by now. 

And of course my friends are aware of this and so after the awkward silences we share whilst canal watching, following their latest attempt to make me justify my life, one question often bobs to the surface. 

'Have you considered getting a houseboat? The mortages are really cheap and it's basically a property hack. Loads of my mates have done it!'

Mmmmhmmm. Yes, your friends, my friends, we're all living on houseboats in this hellish, never-ending water world.

But why? Well, lets find out from the source shall we? 

As we all know, people who live on houseboats love nothing more than telling everyone they know they live on a houseboat. It's like a drug to them. They crave it in that utterly desperate way and we all have to suffer as a result.

And after they've told everyone they've ever met, some people like to take it one step further and tell, your friend and mine, the media. 

You might think 27-year-old El Sutcliffe isn't a stereotypical houseboat dweller, but she and others like her are now, I would argue at least, peak boaters.

The firefighter and TikTok enthusiast recently spoke about her decision to live along the canals in the West Midlands on a £15,750, 49ft narrowboat. 

'It just seemed like a no-brainer and I don't have any regrets, I think the housing market is all a bit mad', she exclaimed, 'I could never afford to live where I do if I didn't live on a boat.

'It had no flooring, it had sunk previously, it was all very questionable – but I thought 'what have I got to lose?' 

Since buying the boat in May 2024, El says she has spent over £10,000 on renovations. These included essentials like a log burner, a fully-equipped kitchen with fridge, sink, and gas cooker. 

So over £25,000 in the hole then? But, she has 'zero regrets.' 

She continued: 'I could have got a one-bed flat in quite a rough part of Birmingham where I would have had to pay ground rent, maintenance fees and things like that. 

'I'd always liked the idea of living on the boat but I was running out of time, I needed to figure something out.

'I can't see myself getting rid of it – it would absolutely break my heart because we've built it from the ground up.' 

She says that once the renovations are complete, she expects to pay between £550 each month on mooring and upkeep costs - which is cheap, so where's the downside? 

Well, listen El, if it works for you it works for you, but I can still think of a few downsides. 

A former colleague of mine used to live on a houseboat, having bought it cheap with his girlfriend at the peak of their love. 

They probably dreamed of all the romantic nights they'd spend on the loch as their late-twenties rolled into their thirties. But time and perhaps the claustrophobic nature of their relationship and squat (*houseboat) did for them. 

She split up with him and moved up north with her new boyfriend just before Covid.  He stayed on the houseboat (which he only owned half off) - working from home during the pandemic with an internet dongle and an electric heater. 

I left that job over three years ago but can still picture him in the office like it was yesterday. He would sit hunched over his monitor in a dirty wool sweater with a palpable sadness in his eyes. 

His pink chapped hands clawing at the keyboard and cradling his coffee mug for warmth. He also stank. 

I hope he is doing OK now. 

We've started rambling here, but the reason we have is that my editor asked me to interview someone about a houseboat. Naturally, I refused for the reasons outlined above. 

Eventually, we came to a compromise. 

So, this is what happened when I spent one night living with the enemy on one of London's trendiest waterways. 

My home for the night is a charming enough vessel which I found advertised on Airbnb for the reasonable price of £160-a-night. 

It sleeps four, with two in the double bed at the back of the boat (starboard?), and another two presumably sleeping uncomfortably on the sofa bed which is crammed in by the door and log burner at the front (port?). 

My host is incredibly proud of it anyway, and in fairness, it is well equipped and he seems amenable, even offering me a quick one-hour tour along the river before the night begins. 

As you would expect, it is incredibly cramped inside the boat, it essentially being a caravan on water. 

After arriving, I busied myself making a cup of coffee navigating the lighter hob with aplomb and only momentarily being overwhelmed by the noxious smell of the leaking gas.

As I worked I kept smacking my elbows against the shelves and windows of the kitchen area which was naturally irritating. 

But, if you did actually live here (shudder) I can imagine you would eventually get used to the cramped quarters and adapt your movements. 

What was more interesting, and perhaps something you'd never really get a hold on, was the fact the boat did rock from side to side as I moved around and it was hit from the side by waves and disturbances in the fetid canal. 

I take my coffee outside and sit for a while on the small deck area at the front of the boat. I watch the joggers and cyclists go about their business and hear the sounds of birds chirping. 

Across the canal, trendy diners are eating gourmet Italian in a pop-up cafe. 

In the distance, I hear the throng of the Westway, that ol' familiar of London's heaving road network, carrying on with its solemn duty by selflessly ferrying commuters home to places like Reading and Slough. 

I sink back and close my eyes, allowing myself the space and time to relax into my surroundings. I feel peaceful, like I'm perhaps enjoying this after all? I open my eyes again and see a teenager staring listlessly at me on the opposite bank. 

He's staring at me intently, but it's not boredom or envy I'm reading in his sullen eyes. No, I've seen that look before, in the faces of exasperated bus drivers, in the gaze of triumphant traffic wardens, in my own mirror after a bad weekend. 

Yes. the look he's giving me is one of pure hatred. He thinks I own a houseboat, and he's giving me that self-same look that screams a familiar mantra. 'Bore off, mate.' 

I rush back into the boat and slam shut the makeshift doors vowing not to leave it again until darkness offers me the sweet release of personal brand anonymity.  

After a disappointing meal in one of the aforementioned trendy riverside haunts (no change from £30 for a burger and drink) I am ready for bed. 

The canal boat is baking when I return having basked in the sun all day. It is interminable but I'm beyond caring. 

I peel off my drenched clothes and make use of the shower, which has a surprisingly firm water pressure even if it is freezing cold. The cramped apparatus floods the bathroom though so my feet are soggy when I return to my small and hot bed. 

As the water dries on my unhappy feet, I drift into a restless sleep. 

At 3am, I awake with a jolt. I can hear something outside in the darkness, a low, groaning sound interspersed with cackling and the clink of bottles. 

I peak out through the curtains and my worse fears are confirmed. The undesirables are having a substance party underneath the bridge. 

With neighbours like these, who needs friends?