Iceland

Part One of Three

The Arrival

My second visit to Iceland was a somewhat longer and a little more planned than my first, but just as lively. First time I would classify as a shambles, lost fishing tackle, days and days of heavy drinking in Copenhagen before waking up in Reykjavik with two German lesbians. The whole sleazy drama only lasted a few days with me hot footing it back to Sweden with huge mobile phone bill and life long dislike for cauliflower.

Within months of my return home to Sweden I was on my way back, even in the total chaos of my last visit I had seen enough to be sold and consequently haunted by the raw beauty of the place, fascinating culture and prehistoric landscape, and of course the chance of spot of salmon fishing. Checking in at Icelandic Airs desk at Stockholm’s central, Arlanda Airport I got duly fleeced in the way off excess baggage for my awkward pipe, stuffed to the brim with the carbon sticks that set me free, truly was a pain to cart about. Complaining to my wife to be Anna, we wasted no time at all making a dash to the nearest watering hole (as you do) in the sprawling international terminal of the terminally ill.

We had meet briefly a while back at some New years party, a short lived fling with drifted apart, but recently found each other again, which is what you do when your dieing for bunk up. I suggested that we take job on Iceland, work hard, snare a few salmon and fuck a lot, well I didn’t over accentuate the salmon fishing, just dropped it in gently. She thought it an interesting offer, and took a year out of University, thus duly finding herself sitting in an airport bar, oiling the old cogs before we ended up in the asshole of the world. As usual I somewhat over did it on the gin and tonic, tapping the fuselage a few times as I boarded, I was as usual convinced I faced certain death. I staggered a touch pissed down the aisle like some kind of early 90s throw back, you know, doing the old Charlied up primate. I slumped into a window seat and wished everyone would get a bloody move on, always traumatized by those people who mince about when getting on board areooplanes, mind you since having a family I’ve got more developed a highly tuned sense of empathy, still I get severely wound up by mincer’s be it plane, buss or bank, both the one that keeps all the money and dry land adjacent to water, where some of us gather to feel, forget or even fish! Anglers who mince about bug me the most,, but I’ve not got the time to go down that road right now keflavik is just mer hours away, ok anglers with mallets WANKERS!!

I was there nearly half year, so it’s going to be a rather condensed tale, And not the usual wealthy guy goes prancing up Laxa that we’ve all heard about, nearly as many times as wealthy guy goes to catch fucking Nile perch, or Mahseer in India.

“What the fuck did you just say”

When language like this gets used on a full to the gills passenger plane, as the landing gear is dropping, its not so good, a minor scuffle broke out between myself and some Swedish lads just as sober as me, I got my hair pulled and my thighs tickled, this was enough to get myself isolated at the back of the plane, restrained until all the other passengers had left including a tearful Anna. I sat looking out the planes rear porthole I remember thinking it really did resemble the moon, black volcanic rock as far as the eye could see, like no other place on earth, well maybe Norfolk after copious quantities of nuclear fallout. I was escorted to the baggage collection and led into a small room

I thought I knew what was going happen next, either PC plod was about to make an appearance, or I was going to get my bags and large awkward pipe back and duly marched back up the tarmac and bundled off back to Sweeeeden, minus an Anna.
What did in fact happen, helped me begin to fall in love with Iceland and the odd, rather innocent and charming people that inhabit it, more than ever, yea right!

This bearded old guy wearing a fancy official looking suit, customs control or what not comes in and tells he’s going to wash my equipment, “What?” and that he knows the flight is a boring one, he also tells me he knows what it was like to be young bla, bla, bla! I wished I hadn’t used so much tape to reinforce the end caps; it took him an eternity to cut and scrape them free, then I remembered I had even packed rod rests, this gave me an immediate pang of home sickness, short lived and interrupted by;

“My colleague is looking after your girl friend, you needn’t be worried” delivered in a forced official yet friendly voice, my heads banging, we are talking miniature monkeys with silver cymbals. He sprays and dips my net, spare spools and rods, doing so he continues to question me. How long am I planning on staying, were and with whom, I give him the full story about finding the job on the internet, for a couple to work on a livestock farm on the banks of a salmon river, and that we have to meet our new employer in Reykjavik in about an hour, panic was setting in, as the small ape was doing his best Keith Moon.

“You have missed the buss you understand” he informs me that there are no busses now until the evening flight from Düsseldorf arrives. Keith’s just been joined by Mani, I new what a packet of fags cost, a fucking taxi into Reykjavik, were talking the price of a kidney!

After the Spanish inquisition, and my tackles decontamination, that shit better not of damaged my line I remember thinking, even unused bulk spools had been treated, apparently not a fisherman then. I was led out to meet a somewhat disgruntled Anna, she was bearing up nether the less, we stood under the apron of the airport terminals door way, both staring beyond the empty car park out over our new lunar looking home, she had look on her face that really did say “What the fucking hell am I doing”

A huge four wheel drive jeep screeches up to within a few feet of, well my feet, and a tinted glass window is lowered. A hair shrouded mouth full of gold fillings tells me to throw my bags in the back and hop in. It’s our friendly customs guy; he seems very different out of uniform, like an Icelandic, bearded version of Ian Dury. He tells me his shifts over and he’s heading back to Reykjavik, offers me a smoke, and insures me I will make my connection. What a touch, I’m thinking to myself, and I’m positive Anna is secretly enjoying the chaos as it unfolding; well I know she did, but at that present time she kept up a very convincing and water tight look of disapproval, her arms folded, and the corners of mouth turned down, Christ she looked like her mother sometimes, not bad thing really! She’ll get over it once we get stuck into the duty free. I take a long hard drag on one of mateys lucky strikes, as the first signs of the city start appearing on the horizon, colourfully painted zinc roofs, billboards advertising four wheel drives, and a overall look of general human existence.

We disembark from the nicotine stained safety of our saviours twenty wheeled, mad max style moon buggy, wish him all the best, and get into a dirty white rust bucket excuse of a pickup, only fifteen minutes late. At the wheel is a miserable looking women “cow” who is I believe in her thirties but looks like she’s fifty. The smell of animal shit is horrendous; the seats are covered in hay and some unimaginable crap that’s giving off a right hum, our luggage is left to roll about on the flat bed with what looks like engine parts on a pallet, don’t suppose they come into town that often so there probably killing two birds, pick up the slaves and a new overhead oily cam shaft whats it, what ever the fucking thing is it better not damage my tube of carbon antennas, at this time in my life, what the fuck did I know about travel insurance!
There was something I believe included by the travel agent, but I wonder if being sort of homeless might have affected my statutory rights? Mind you, come to think of it the old Purist would have made a nice claim.

I immediately become self aware of my stale gin pant as she informs me that; we shall only get one evening off a week, and that’s the only time they will permit drinking, her old man could drive us the twenty kilometres to the pub, but cant bring us home, which felt like code for “your not going to be drinking anything young man, as the taxi home from the pub will cost you your weeks wages, once food and board is deducted. I asked about the fishing, her husband had stated matter a factley in our email correspondence that they lived on the banks of a very productive salmon river, one would imagine on the banks meant with in sight of possibly, not the two day hike madam has just informed me of. Alarm bells were ringing as we shoot through some pretty breath taking landscape, I felt duped and very thirsty!

“Are you hungry?”

This was her way I suppose of copping out of making an evening meal, we turned into some really pikie looking fast food selling shit hole in the outskirts of Selfoss. Added concelation, river we just passed over looked stunning, like angry milk coloured snake, an unclogged artery in land free from pollution, discarded shopping trolleys. I ordered a 150g burger super meal with large coke, and longed for few cans of red stripe, instead of this litre of oxygenated syrup. I contemplated just grabbing the bags and walking off, Anna looked shell shocked, bless her, whist I was busy speculating our get away, and the fact it may well be tuff finding lob worms in amongst the volcanic rock, we at our over priced junk food in silence,


We made our way further though the Jurassic landscape, bubbling and steaming, sulphur stinking and almost dream like, fairytale land, the burger sauce I had split on my jeans was clashing terribly with the excrement flavoured interior. We passed over some really horny looking rivers, some thunderous unfisherble beasts, and other more refined and delicate with of course little plaques announcing the river, and fact it’s private.
The pickup’s suspension was playing havoc on my cola filled bladder, a terrible case of the Mile End blues was kicking in, I had a mouth like a nuns, and headache made worse from the stink. Anna continued to look shell shocked, numb with a distinct hue of pale! We turned onto a dirt road, after about twenty five minutes we pass a grave yard in the middle of, well no where. Our chauffer/employer master of conversation! Informs us it’s the family grave. Hmm, they burry there own dead, how quaint. After another few minutes driving along a pit holed track we pull up to what looks like a giant shoe box, white with treble glazed glass windows, its surrounded by dogs and dirty looking children playing with broken toys and garden tools, there’s two huge livestock sheds at the back, and not a bloody salmon river in slight.

We shake farmer Giles’s dirty shovel hand, and are ushered in; leaving our shoes next to about thirty pairs of Wellington boots in every size and colour imaginable, the bloody stink from the pickup has impregnated me! She mutters something in Iceland to her old man, I’m then duly offered a glass of fresh milk, I reach at warm and thick consistency, not the most refreshing of beverages; I smile as we’re shown the amenities, and told we should rest now, as it’s an early start in the morning. Once in the privacy of our room. Bare with nothing more than a stained mattress and some seen better days curtains, we got started on the Famous grouse; both laugh and cry then fall asleep in each others arms.

I dreamt lucidly of falling into the icy cold, and murky depths of melting glacial river, I couldn’t breath under water, gold coins were falling like snow flakes, the more I collected the faster I sank, in a blind panic I jettisoned the coinage, and rose to the surface together with a dozen or so huge salmons with human breasts.
I woke in a cold sweat, Anna fast a sleep, I drank from the tap, opened the widow for a smoke, it was soon dawn, soon time to start work, I speculated about breakfast as the cigarette sparked hunger pains that tested my somewhat delicate constitution, I needed the toilet fast, Mr turtle head had quite possibly melted.

Once seated round the breakfast table with the Adams family, it became apparent that it was yet another helping of acrid milk and corn flakes that weren’t Kellogg’s! Not some hearty rustic buffet I had imagined whilst spraying there toilet bowl with the remnants of the last twenty four hours. I tried to spark up conversation about the salmon fishing, but was cut off, told there would be plenty of time that later, we must eat at once and make our way to the cow shed. Missy Farmer then throws old shovel hands a look like a smacked puppy. They both get up and wonder in the kitchen. Ever feel like you don’t really know what the hells going on. I was struggling with the cereal from hell, and the evasiveness and all together unwillingness to talk about the fishing, Fuck the cows, I came to catch a salmon, I looked out the grimy window, and surveyed the altogether bleak and barren landscape, I smile decline more of the delicious pig feed, as the box is rustled just inch’s from my nose, by one of ten or so dirty looking offspring, quite apparent there’s not much on old TV, judging by the shear amount of procreation that’s been going here. I start feel a little peeved, it seemed just the shear mention of salmon is enough to spark the pair off in what sounds like pretty aggressive Icelandic! A right ruckus is unfolding in the kitchen, a door slams, and the sprogs disperse, I’m left fantasising about the possibilities of home births in place like this, what they call in the local vet? And whether the clutch on my old 4010 would cope with a large salmon, it had handled a few Swedish asp recently, but possibly could do with a service, Anna draws me back from oblivion! Time to get started!

We wondered up to the cow shed, I was decked out in brand new Gore-Tex hiking boots, trousers, topped of with a Fjällräven anorak. Mobile phone, twenty Marlboro Lights clutched firmly in my paws, out pops matey from a small door way in what looks like yellow chest waders totally covered in cow shit, and says;

“Is this the clothes you have come to work in?”

I don’t consider myself a townie, but that moment I felt like a fish out of water, he laughs and gestures for us to follow him in, I’m hit with a wall of hot ammonia, cows are standing around in there own shit, the ceiling is low, no real ventilation to speak of, this sets off a chain reaction, you just cant fathom how disgusting it was, first up comes my cornflake breakfast, Anna and the farmer looked slightly confused as I heave and choke, leaving a exceptionally neat pile of almost digested morning flakes, I then turn round coughing and spluttering, and get the hell out of what I can only describe as fucking hell on earth, once out in the fresh air I spark up a fag, and crouch down for moment, the ammonia stink is lingering in my nasal passages, I reach again before I get up and start making my way back to the house, I’ve had enough! Anna chases after me saying the farmer says it can take a bit of getting used too, the cow shed that is.

As we pack our bags, we wonder how the hell we are going to escape. Yes as you can imagine they were not at all pleased about our abrupt departure, but then again where was that bloody salmon river ehh? Bastards!
We walked that morning god knows how many kilometres, loaded up with rucksacks, holdalls and assorted bits and bobs, after there point blank refusal to drive us. I spent a small fortune on calling the Icelandic equivalent of the job centre on my numerous fag breaks, the old bags where chaffing something rotten, past the grave yard and first on your left after god knows where!

It was hard to think then in that desperate and somewhat fraught moment that that evening, the very same day, I would be sitting at the kitchen table drinking Nescafe and spinning my centrepin reel in eager anticipation, for what snaked slowly past just 200m from my porch. I had landed a job, that included its very own house, and a car “A Nissan” I wasn’t complaining! All of which was as luck would have it situated on a bona fide stretch of salmon river! SORTED! That night we just lay looking at the ceiling, listening to Moseley shoals and the Small faces, on the hi-fi, yep a bloody hi-fi as well!! Whist we thanked our lucky stars and killed the grouse…



Part Two of Three Preview

Bouquets & the Spiritually Sensitive

The escape, the unbelievable stroke of luck, dirty voyeuristic house bugging employers who only employ couples, and arctic charr,

Which I hope to finish in between dirty nappies and some really heavy school work!!

Phantom Red

The red Power Pro arrived this morning, I spooled up my new Mitchell 300 with it, and to be honest it looks absurdly stunning! Plus the line lay is as good as anything coming out of Japan or China these days, not at all bad for a reel in her forties! The red PP really does look very handsome. Having used moss green PP for donkey’s years I know what to expect performance wise. Only bought red stuff for the fancy colour!

Magic Beans

Magic Beans!Garbanzo Beans (Chickpeas) & Black eyed beans. Soaked, cooked and Marinaded over the weekend in a delicate blend of Aniseed, Cinnamon, Pepper, Clove & Ginger. AKA Chinese Five Spice.

Chasing Carp & Dragons

By W.Wyatt

“I’m well up for spot of fishing, Willy”

I woke with start, what the fuck was that, sounded like a dead body being dragged up the bare boards. The carpet had fucked off shortly after my mother, since then Derby Road had become a hive of criminal activity and fallen into what can only be described as anarchy.
As I sat up in bed I heard that nasty bastard Tony outside the bedroom door, another thud followed by narcissistic giggling. I lit up a Marlboro light, took a long hard pull, wrapped the duvet round my waist and went so see what the cat had dragged in.

Opened the door to find my brother Chas and Tony dragging what must amount to an Aladdin’s cave of Hilti drills, compressors and assorted implements up on the landing, both bugged eyed, the look on Tony’s ashen face said it all.
Now Tony was the real deal, wide boy for want of a better word. He came from Canning town, unlike my suburban raised coward of a brother, Tony on the other hand was a truly hard bastard, not a talker; he scared the shit out of me, you have steamers, talkers and fighters Tony was the later. A knock out merchant with knuckles so deformed his fist was like bone club.
I’ve witnessed him destroy a pair of big Jamaicans out side a McDonalds in Leytonstone once, also watched the evil fucker bend the rod rings of my powermesh Avon as it poked from between the front seats I caught him in the mirror flexing them back and forth! That’s Tony through and through.

“Alright Billy Boy! My life you wont f@cking believe this little lot, your governor Steve has gotta want a few of them Hilti’s”

“I don’t know Tone, we aint had much work lately, in fact I’m off fishing in the morning as it happens”

As soon as the word fishing rolled of my tongue I knew I had made a huge mistake! I could have said, sign on, or even going visit my mother in her new place. The reply came with lightning speed.

“I’m well up for spot of fishing Willy, what time we leaving?”

My heart sank, involving Tony; well it always ended up twisted. The mans newly acquired taste for diamorphine was not helping the situation, it pacified him half the time, but the rest of it he was like a one man crime wave. Still he hadn’t hit anyone since his new vocation in life smack head.

“Alright Tone, what is it now a quarter to two, how about you meet me outside Threshers at about six thirty”

“Sweet! Willy boy! Chas you coming?”

Charlie through me a glance, that looked like a wounded puppy, talk about a rock and a hard place. He had been Tony’s bitch on the night shift; and he knew I wasn’t happy about the impending outing. I never did anything with my brother well half brother, we never really got on, and it wasn’t really surprising when you think it was him graced us with Tony in the first place, amongst other things.
“No you’re alright I got to dot on in the morning Tone”

W@nker! I thought, still with out old Chas about Tony would drop the bravado. I declined the chance to have smoke, and went to sleep.

“Don’t be late Tone, early start in the morning”

Once awake, and laced with Nescafe and few tugs on Marlboro, I duly retrieved my Wchwood holdall from behind the water tank, and for the life of me I could decide what gear I could lend Tone for the day. The thought of his bony clubs handling my delicate and exquisite fishing tackle sickened me! I should get one of those telescopic jobbies from Shakespeare for such occasions. But with any luck he wouldn’t turn up, wishful thinking. I heard a cough from my brother’s room, followed by the sound of someone falling over what could only be a crate of power tools. He hadn’t gone home to Vicky, the bastard; there was no way out now. Still the taxis were starting to add up, at least the lift would be a help on the old pocket, unless of course we got pulled over on route.

He dropped a trail of fag ash all the way to the toilet, took a piss with door open. I was chopping up luncheon meat into random shapes, thoughts miles away, seeing a 2BB Drennan peacock sail away, when I heard

“You got any foil at home Willy”

“Na, sorry! Sure you should be f@cking around with that now Tone; we got a fair way to go”

I lied, the dirty bastard always dribbled on the floor, never toilet trained. He mumbled something about the 24hour garage and flushed. I opened up three tins of sweet corn, bagged it up and went out side to see what the weather was doing.

I had planned to have a morning on a lake that was run by a very strict syndicate, not the place to turn up with your very own psychopath, especially as I only had a kind of guest ticket situation and I was on the list for a permanent place once the time arouse. I would instead have the morning on a small farm pond on the Sewarstone Road, five quid for day’s pastie bashing, and I was certain Tony would be right at home there, maybe even bump into one his extended family. It seemed we couldn’t go anywhere without some cousin of long lost relative crawling out the wood work. Maybe even the pikie farmer was a distant relation.

I walked over to the garage in the glow of the street light, opened the big heavy doors, the screw driver marks in the paint reminded me to think about alternative tackle storage. I took down a length of pipe from the rafters, and slide out a bundle rods, laid them carefully on my grandfathers bench. I wouldn’t take any of the good ones, instead I went for a nice old 9ft through action leger rod, and old Daiwa whisker spinning rod also around 9ft, both unbreakable and suitable for today’s experience. I brushed the saw dust of the others and returned them to there stench pipe home.

We loaded up the ford fiesta, and went shooting off to the local all-nighter; I waited in the car as Tony nicked a few Ribinas and bought a roll of foil. I eyed up a couple of dirty stop outs as they waddled past the car, in shoes that made them look more like pantomime ducks than girls. Once back in the car Tony’s nicotine stained club clutched an unlit Benson, and his head went back and forth like of them plastic dogs you see on the parcel shelves of Rovers or Granada’s, to sound of some fucking shit him and my brother listens too.

“So then Willy what we after? how about that place in Waltham Abby they got right nice little cafe there, lovely little bird, tits like fried eggs, but the fucking ass on her!”

“I thought we should give the farm lakes up Sweardstone a try”

Just the thought of him giving it the biggun in cafe full of regulars sent a shiver down my spine, it was chilly but I wound down the window as he lit up, what was this shit banging on the stereo, still in twenty minutes it would be in fresh air, piece and quiet and a newly baited swim.

“Ok Willy, big Willy styles! Left at the roundabout?”

“Yea, then it’s straight through, just do a left at the King George”

Funny thing Tony actually drove like a car thieve, the gears crunched and we went catapulting towards the resies, I looked out the window on my left side and saw a guy getting in his plumbers van, I cast a thought for the chap who had lost a good few hundred quid’s worth of power tools last night. I could accept it on some kind of level; the guy would get a nice claim on the insurance, and more than likely had pulled a fast one from time to time himself. And I’m in no doubt he would buy stolen gear if approached, still the thought of my tackle getting nicked, or anyone else’s for that matter frightened me, fucking horror show that would be, and I would never knowingly buy stolen tackle either, it would always be tainted, an irremovable stain that would beckon bad luck for ever. The same didn’t seem to apply to Hilti drill some how.

Out of no where I thought about my governor’s habit of going through the undies draws of women we worked for, even roofers needed access to the house from time to time, he never wasted any getting in amongst it, toys were like the holy grail, if he found a double dong he would be beside him self with possibility it posed. Then his brother with a gut problem, from too many painkillers, back trouble! He had shit attacks regularly where he wouldn’t have the time to get down the ladder, real touching cloth situations; he must have left more shit under peoples lagging than I’ve had tasty fish dinners. Trades men like me, trades men for ever maybe.

We turned in by the farm; there were already a few cars down by the lake. The mist was rolling across the water like a film set swamp, as we approached the water and pulled over bank side I saw a few fish rolling, with any luck Tony will be gouching in the back seat in no time, leaving me to concentrate on snaring a few of the lakes carp well obese juvenile excuses for carp, and manage to get bend in my rod, before numb nuts mind turns to knocking out his nights work.



Travel Agents Called Wendy


The reeds to my right were getting knocked left right and centre, violently being shaken, there must have been dozens of small carp competing for few handfuls of corn. I scanned the lake for any signs of bigger fish, but apart from the rather theatrical mist and odd rolling pastie there was just two bivved up wannabe specimen hunters, asleep I might add, why sleep, well you know the type1. You have a terrible wife, but don’t have the heart to leave her, so you take up carp fishing.2. You have Boy Scout tendencies that you haven’t grown out of; carp fishing gives you a great alibi, for playing with tents and portable kitchens.3. You’re too tight to rent a room near by for a few hours, that night or the day after, before the drive home.4. Just maybe, if you didn’t spend 48hours on the water, you might miss catching big bertha a ½lb bigger than your mate did.5. All real specimen hunters sleep over! Don’t they?6. Sleep over to justify and validate my expensive electronic bite indication. That I’m normally 40m away from most of the time anyway, with its silly baby alarm vibrating thingy in my pocket that tell me its time to wind in.7. Silly, that’s what bed chairs are for! 8. You have real trouble getting up in the morning, and you may get turned on by being violently woken from a beer induced stupor by a freshly snared leviathan or pastie, which you tackle in your under pants at 3.00am!9. You have a terrible wife and even more unpleasant kids, but don’t have the heart to leave her or them, so you take up carp fishing.10. Just an excuse to see your mates and get drunk without the wife and kids jumping on your head in the morning.

And one lone pensioner under a damp brolli, this is about his sixth bite I’ve seen him miss, poor old bugger, I bet he fucks off before farmer Gilles does his rounds. His swim selection and the manor in which his car is parked would suggest a quick get away and a bloodly good vantage point for keeping tabs on pikie farmerss with dirty bum bags, he can see house from there the wily old git.

Water was up to the timber boards of the manmade stage, with a good depth of water in front, possibly two or more, I dropped a free-lined chunk of luncheon meat against the wood, a few feet away from the gang of marauding adolescents. Opened the bail and sat back. The denizen farmer has stated clearly in rules that anglers are not allowed to fish between provided swims, that I must use barbless hooks at all times, strictly no nuts; I heard Tony rustling about and thought there was no mention of psychopaths but he fell well with in the nut category. The line twitched, the lack between the rod rings raised and fell slightly.

“Willy you want a go on this mate”

“Was that the gear you got of Mal?”

“Yea! fucking blinding!

“Na, not for me Tone, I try and keep away from that these days”

“Big Willy! Da fisha man, eh”

“Yea whatever!”

A reply like that could only be construed when he was well pacified, he slammed the car door, and wound down the window, the sickly sweet smell of burning baby formula and Heroin wafted down from the car, mingled with the damp grass and sweet corn. It turned my stomach over, and reminded me of a time I wished to forget. How long would it before they started main lining, with there lack of character they would fall for sure, I had seen to many times before, lost fucking souls forever.

The line twitched again and was followed by a steady pull, why do white kids talk like there black these days, I wondered as I struck into a plump mirror. It shot off into open water, and then as if new the drill rolled over and considered defeat. Fuck me even the carp are lacking character these days. It looked helpless in the landing net, a Charlie carp for sure I thought swimming round in a shit hole, a shit hole I shared.

There was an underlying tension building up as the sun rose the bites dwindled off, and it became very uncomfortable, the sun in my eyes and the wannabe specimen hunters had finally risen. I was dreading any kind of contact with them. A car pulled over by a large oak tree in area that was for parking if you didn’t want your car lake side.
A young mum hoped out and started helping two young lads with there tackle boxes, packed lunches and what not. I knew what was going happen next, it didn’t take a rocket scientist, they wouldn’t want to get to close to the seemingly professionals with there Ron Thompson complete carp outfits or for that matter the old boy hunched with a fag in his mouth looking rather unsavoury to say the least. Having not seen my gouching psychopath side kick, they no doubt come and plonk them self’s down in my vicinity.

She must have been in her early thirties, slim unattractive, mouth like a cats ass, lips pursed hard to show the fact she didn’t particularly want to have anything to do with this lark, but the old man had fucked off no doubt leaving her to do boy things, one was hers for sure, the other a mate. They came up between the car and this made fishing stage, my stage. I looked around and smiled, Christ talk about a bull dog chewing a wasp, she looked contorted, poor cow I thought.
One of the lads, hers I imagine, sparks up some conversation.

“Alright mate, caught anything?”

I just get “yea” out, when the car door fly’s open and there’s Tony hanging out, doing a first-class impression of cat with a huge fur ball, you have never seen anything like it, there’s this yellow putrid goo coming out of is mouth, the women recoiled so much she looked as if she owned four chins. The two boys looked decidedly frightened.

“Hes not very well, been on the piss all night love,”

Something caught my eye, line was pouring from the reel, and in the insuring chaos I sent a small common carp airborne, unceremoniously I swung the poor blighter into the wooden stage. Tony was convulsing horribly and our group of accidental on lookers melted off back towards there parked Clio; I brushed the grit of the fish, and returned it none the worse for wear.

Tony mean while was coughing his left lung up; the old boy had packed up. Fast approaching from the east was farmer Giles in an almost fluorescent shell suit, donning a dirty bum bag. I’m going get my hook checked and fleeced for a fiver, fucking great. Christ he stuck out like a sore thumb, not your Barbour jacket wearing creep up from behind some vegetation with a spaniel type! But then we were still in E4.

By lunch time Tony’s glint had returned, I took this opportunity to pack up and suggest a halt in the proceedings, a spot of lunch wouldn’t go a miss anyhow. I felt shallow, empty and little embarrassed.

Work was thin on the ground; my fishing was taking turn for the worse. Two mates were banged up for robbery, one fucked of to Australia, a good handful became fulltime junkies, on the white and brown full time, like out of control cars mowing down friends and family breaking hearts and wreaking lives. Others got rich some died, some got married. I felt for alteration I felt for a getting out the roofing game, I felt for going home and caressing the couple of grand I had under the floor boards, always made me feel better.

Once I got rid of Tony, thanks to Vicky poor bitch, I sat in the White heart and had few with Tyron a wiry Irish piss head regular, ex angler, bar stool preacher! He started telling about me barbel in the Roding and some kitchen in Stoke Newington he’d done a plastering job, and shagged the bird that lived there. Wasn’t impossible I thought, he the gift after all, but I drew a line when it came to barbel in the Roding.

“Alright Bill how’s things”

I looked up to see Julie the landlady,

“You look like you need a holiday Bill! You wanta go down to Abbott’s and see my sister Wend, shell see you right”

I think she was the bird who booked my recent trip to the Canneries; she didn’t look like her sister, there must have been ten years between them at the very least, Julie was coarse, Wendy somewhat more refined, suppose it went with the job.

Alternative Tackle Storage


I took her advice and wondered down to see her sister, walking gingerly through discarded kebab, and fag packets, the shops had all changed of late. where there had once been a butchers there was now shops selling pine furniture with slimy looking guys with grey pony tails, you know the type oldest swinger in town, where there was once a bakers there was a wine bars.

So In Stella driven haze I booked a trip to Sweden, and never looked back. I think seeing Tyron sitting there like Kermit the fucking frog on his bar stool clinched it, scared the shit out of me. But I certainly found some alternative tackle storage in the end!