The return of Mr Happy

Three weeks without a cast, almost the whole month of February has passed me by.  A week of arctic bastard conditions didn’t help, my only motivation then was to stay warm though it was nice to get out for a yomp across the fields.  It’s not that I’m afraid of the cold and I know it’s nice to get out for that much coveted ‘snow Pike’ photo but with the local fishing available to me, nah fuck that!  In truth there are three sizable stillwaters within an easy walk of my house.  One is a park lake which is very busy with dog walkers and fuckwitts; fishing there would drive me mad.  Another is a gravel pit carp fishery that I have fished on and off over the years, when I was younger and had more tolerance for cloned bellends sitting behind rod pods talking bollocks.  Then there’s the Marsh which is a lovely place and holds some good memories for me but since I last fished there it’s become a Carp syndicate and the price of membership has tripled along with a rule book that bends and flexes to the whim of the syndicate leader - allegedly.

That just leaves the river which does allow me to wander about in solitude but it is a poor fishery these days and I’ve already written more than enough about its demise on these pages.  But because I can’t resist the pull of angling I do still fish it …

Yesterday I sorted some lure fishing kit and drove down to the ‘childhood’ stretch.  I unloaded the car and walked to the bridge but after looking at the boiling current below for a few minutes I thought better of it so retraced my steps and got back in the car without a cast.  In hindsight I’m sure I could have made a go of it and had a cast or two but I’d probably have been better off plopping a deadbait down somewhere.

This morning I had to drop Isaac in Stow so repacked the same kit and on my way home parked in a layby a couple of miles out of town.  Today was that day, the first warmish sunny Saturday that makes you feel that spring is getting closer, every year this encourages idiots to come out of hibernation.  On my way out I passed the cool kids who felt obliged to wear shorts and someone else dressed like Biggles who was driving a convertible and looked like he was trying to convince himself it was all worth it.  Then there was a plague of fucking cyclists, lycra clad wankers everywhere.  If I have to stay local for my hobby then what is local to a cyclist?  I can’t drive for an hour alone then get into my boat and head off fishing alone but these twats are allowed to pedal unsteadily off and block the roads in groups of four?

Talking of lycra, what is it about sports that involve dressing up in skin tight multi coloured clothing that makes them obliged to be a pain in the arse?  At places I’ve fished including parts of Broadland bloody windsurfers are a damn nuisance, not to mention bastard Jet skis.  This reminds me of a story I read in the local news just a couple of days ago.  Two total fucking rockets used this very mode of transport to set off on a drug run, across the North sea to Holland!  I’ll say it again, to Holland on a fucking Jet ski!  They made it there and three quarters of the way back before running out of petrol and had to call the coast guard for help whilst 27 miles off Lowestoft. This lead to the discovery of their dodgy cargo and a custodial sentence was handed down last week.  Fucking priceless!  How did these clowns reach adulthood?  You could be forgiven for assuming they were locked up for their own safety.

Anyway, back to the river…  Usually when I fish this stretch I walk downstream but today I went the other way instead, fishing a stretch I’d never even looked at before carrying a lure rod, a net and with a rucksack on my back.  I fished a Shad upstream and a spinnerbait back down, I wasn’t expecting anything and I wasn’t surprised, the stretch was mostly shallow and uninviting but at least I’d got out and had a cast.  There were a few spots that looked good for a Chub in other circumstances but I’m not sure there are any of these left in the river nowadays.

Now I’m waiting on that useless bastard of a PM to waffle his bollocks on Monday evening.  At some point his verbal vomit will be translated into English and I’ll learn if I can get out in a boat again before March 14^th.  The whole ‘mental health’ thing is being flogged to death and for me to claim my right to fish on these grounds is an insult to those who are genuinely suffering.  But having said all that, it would do me the world of good to get a dose of proper wild countryside before the Pike season comes to a close but its unlikely that this would stem my urge to swear and moan.