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It’s a short time since I have been able to get out fishing properly and therefore bring you, the reader, further reports on our merry little band of matchmen. A combination of torrential rain, copious quantities of mud, work commitments and two children with a wife on shifts, all seem to have conspired to prevent me getting out, but hopefully, now the better weather is here I may be able to find some more time to get out. In any case it’s easier to motivate yourself when there is a chance of putting 20 or so pounds on the scales, better anyway than scratching for a couple of ounces of eyes with fins as we tend to do in the winter.
I’m not really a fair weather fisherman, but having tried both I can now conclusively and honestly tell you that it helps.
Before I start with the current set of matches I will quickly fill you in with the last matches of the clubs season.
Milton Green.
With two matches to go in our championship the race was very tight for a number of the trophies which were still up for grabs. The Annual points championship was neck and neck between Don ‘Mr Cool’ and Keith, our ever so nearly, but not quite ‘National Disabled team member’, whilst those two and myself were contesting the trophy for the highest aggregate weight over the year. Naturally things were at times fraught between all of us and not many secrets were being discussed prior to these last two matches. I also believe that Don was putting in so much practice at the last two venues that the local council sent him rates demands for the pegs he was using.
Club fishing, not competitive, who are you kidding.
The penultimate match was being held at a small local water on a farm at Milton Green. The main lake seems more like a small pond in a farm field but my, does it have some fish in it.
Don’s admitted mid week practice, (well he had to admit to it as another member also visited the same day so he was found out) resulted in 50lb. of roach and carp. (for Don’s weights' read double the admitted weights). The roach and perch grow big here, it could be something to do with the adjacent slurry tank and the resultant worms as thick as your wrist, so we all were quietly confident at the draw. How many times have you heard that one.
Hello is that Ladbroke's...
Caught short? (odds!)
To cut a 5 hour wasted story short, something had happened between the Thursday and the Saturday, leaving the main event of interest to report as Dave (look no teeth) Roberts’ last gasp rush to the car 2 minutes before the all in. No one had a clue what he was up to. He just as quickly reappeared clutching a copy of the days newspaper and headed off round the lake back to his peg, however he took the route which conveniently passed the WC on his way. The penny dropped, as must something else, to have provoked such a animated dash from one so old, however he passed the loo and continued back to his peg and sat on his box just in time to hear the all in shouted. Still confused we watched as rather than start potting in his feed into all of his eleven swims, he dialled someone on his mobile and proceeded to pass on an obviously urgent request, probably to his nearest and dearest, to pop to the bookies to put a couple of quid on each of around a dozen nags appearing at the races that day. Such commitment!
The only other two things that I can remember of this match is the persistent rain, the consequent knee deep mud and the ancient farm dog using my very expensive pole as a high jump, when in reality just one look at the dog didn’t give any confidence to anyone for the possibility of it being able to get its body weight more than an inch off the floor. I think I spent most of the match looking behind me.
Swan Lake matineé performance!
The weekend prior to this match was spent on one of my few ‘guest’ appearances for my own team in a winter league fixture, a time when I again had ‘animal’ trouble. By the time of the Milton Green match I was beginning to think that I was jinxed. In the previous match I’d had two maniacally copulating swans either thrashing the water to a lather directly over my 15m chopped worm swim, you know the one in the really shallow water up against the island, or locked in a near fatal ecstatic embrace, the male on top (as usual) with his beak holding her beneath her neck in a vice like grip, motionless, until the deed was done.
Well, 1 minute 45 seconds seemed like hours, (it does to me as well), and anyway, I’d not have missed it for the world as I’ve never seen a swans face go purple before. The only misfortune of being able to witness this wondrous natural act, an act which would have befitted a David Attenborough Sunday teatime spectacular, (puts you off you diner doesn’t it) and enjoyed in all it’s glory by the 60 anglers on my lake, was that it unfortunately happened whilst the two of them were sat on the butt section of my pole up the bank behind me.
Thanks for nothing!
I decided not to go out to full length again after that. I felt that the either the disturbance on that line would have frightened or fed off what little in the lake was feeling like feeding or that the swan sperm may have clouded the water too much. Both seemed good enough reason not to have to handle the pole on that butt section for the time being. Big Ian Brocklehurst (Rivacre) of Match Angling Plus fame was only on the other side of the lake to me that day and couldn’t have failed to see this event in it’s entirety, however, has he mentioned it in his piece's? Has he mentioned that I beat him that day ? No has he hell, just proving you get a better class of article written by a better class of duffer at Matchangler.com.
Offas Dyke (again)
The last match of our club year was to have been on the River Weaver, a favourite of mine, on the Marina stretch in the centre of the town of Winsford. Unfortunately our Treasurer had written our match calendar and described the venue as River Reaver at Wisford. Similarly, the club membership card, which he also ran off on his home computer, suggested that I was the ‘Chairmam’ of the club, and the Secretary was a certain ‘Doe’ Parkinson. He claims that he does use a spellcheck after writing such items, however I suspect he has the only dyslexic computer spellchecker in the world or that it only works in Cantonese.
For some reason the match had to be rescheduled for our own water at Offas Dyke as the normally benign navigable river was to be found several feet into the lounge of the adjacent pub. I think that it could have been something to do with the 62 straight days of rain that we had had at that point.
Unsettled accounts
The match had a lot riding on it as the previous one had settled none of the important trophies and we were all to be found deeply competitive again. I was still only a pound behind ‘Doe’ Parkinson in the weight competition and Keith was still within a couple of points of him in the Annual Championship.
Although this was the middle of winter and our lake is rather shallow, it does usually fish reasonably well in such circumstances, as it is often mild when we are rained off a river venue, however the switch did lessen my chances of winning the Trophy for the aggregate weight as it was likely to be a very close low weight affair as small roach were to be the main target. Although I felt confident of making up that on the river, where I would naturally feel more comfortable, Don is a dab hand at fishing on Offas and would be exceptionally difficult to beat.
In addition the Golden Peg was still unclaimed and as this was to be the last match of the season we had all agreed to blow it on the Clubs Annual Presentation night if it wasn’t won by the end of this match. Although £148 sounds good close to Christmas doesn’t it. I think that we were all hoping to pull that stunt off that day.
Now I don't believe you wanted to do that...
Draw made, I got my usual low number, (2), doesn’t get any lower. I wasn’t unhappy at this, as peg 3 is normally pretty good and I’d draw that particular low number before. Don got 24, one of two real winter fliers, the other being 31, (more about Dons affinity with that peg and his enviable drawing arm next time). Rick was last to draw from the remaining two or three pegs in the bag. By a simple process of elimination he knew that peg 10 was still in the bag, which he obviously didn't fancy. It can be good in warmer weather when you (or more usually Brian Woodall) can fish a piece of meat on the bomb across to the island, but not so hot when it’s cold. Does that make sense?
‘Please don’t let it be 10’ he says dipping in the bag with his eyes closed. Upon opening he finds that written on the ball, in the centre of his clasped hand, is the number 10. I’ve never seen him look so sad since the day his brothers dog Rover, got run over. Rover was in fact killed by a Mk II Ford Escort and I heard that this final deed was carried out with such style, grace, and artistry, that the witnesses awarded the driver with both ears and the tail.
 ...yeeeesssss!
Golden Bollocks !!!
His grief on this particular occasion was soon turned to that of near ecstasy when the same number 10 appeared on the golden peg drawn moments later. He nearly did a lap of honour around the field, however he limited it to just the short circuit as a trip around the whole field could have taken most of the allotted 5 hours as it covered most of North Wales and Snowdonia National Park. That reminded me of the time on the River Severn when I was informed that the walk from the draw to the pegs on the match was 50 acres. Upon pointing out that an acre is a unit of area and not distance I was informed that the walk was across a single 50 acre field, which was only 1 acre wide!!!
Back to Rick and his golden peg, I was more than slightly bemused at his reaction as how could drawing the GP turn the peg that only two seconds ago had seemed so disastrous to something to be wildly celebrated ?
Golden Bollocks - not!!!
Anyway, the match followed the same format, not as good as we had all hope, (nothing changes does it), Don out of sight and suspiciously quiet, (nothing changes does it), and I plodded away on the small roach that I was getting on single pinkie. Rick was within eyesight, and set his stall out for the carp, as I would have done, all day, as I would have done, on the bomb, as I would have done, but not on the meat ? Now call me stupid, Brian Woodall fishes this peg all the time and empties the place and has nothing but meat in his carryall. Now I would have fished the meat all the way through, but only a smaller cube than Brian would normally use in the summer. Big mistake we thought on hearing this at the end, why not the meat then ? Didn’t have any, he replied coyly. Everyone else had meat with them for such circumstances, but fortunately no one had the nerve to tell him of that. The Result, he blanked, but valiantly, (probably as I would have done).
Just like that (Tommy Cooper, get it!)
Sonny Cooper had drawn the other flier, being peg 31 and struggled towards the end, this was almost entirely due to inserting his rig into the topmost branches of the tree that overhangs the peg. In his struggle to retrieve his rig he snapped his fourth section of his pole and therefore could no longer reach the lilly pads that held all the fish, that were now also out of range!
 ...not enough for champion's titile
Tight finish
I knew Don was unerringly quiet and when it came round to his turn to weigh in I found out why. I had heard that he’d had a few crucian carp from the bankside grapevine and had already resigned myself to being nearly but not quite, especially as I thought that he would therefore have at least 8lb. He in fact tipped 6lb odd onto the scales. Still not bad for a mid-winter match here. It turned out that he was alternating between double pinkie and big maggot and there lies the difference that I felt there was between us. I had been putting small roach into the net throughout the match on single pinkie and he capitalised on the better stamp of fish on the bigger bait.
We got around to my peg to find that the result rather closer than either of us had imagined with just 5 ounces between us but not unfortunately the pound that I needed in my favour.
Not completey a waste of time then!
It had been a good match and a good series particularly as everything had come down to the final match. Don took both the annual trophies for Championship and the aggregate weight, Keith had been runner up in the Championship and third in the weight and I held onto second in that competition but on reflection I had been up against it having fished four matches less than most of the others. However I came away with one trophy at least, It had been the final match in the river trophy so I at least had that to bring home even if it was won on a still water venue for about the third time in four years.
Above: Rick present's Don with the spoils of the season - Championship Trophy
On that I’ll end with a new piece of Country 'LORE' for you based on our recent experiences.
Red sky at night, shepherds delight,
Drowned sheep in the morning, GLOBAL WARMING.
Takes all sorts doesn’t it.
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