Pet Hates

I guess we all have pet hates, but I have one that drives me mad almost every night. It concerns some television programmes which are so badly made that they could make my eyes bleed.

To be specific, the thing I really hate is all of the previews. You sit down thinking you are going to get half an hour of entertainment but what you actually get is only about ten minutes worth of proper viewing. The other twenty minutes are wasted by showing you what is coming up in the programme or a review of what’s already been shown. The rest is just advertising.

If any television people are reading this blog post please take the following into account. When we (the viewers) sit down to watch a programme we have made a decision and have chosen the one we want to watch. We would like it to start at the beginning and then work its way towards a satisfactory conclusion. There is absolutely no need to show us what is coming up because that just ruins our viewing experience. Likewise, there is absolutely no need to show us again what we have already seen.

One can only assume that the previews and reviews are used to bulk out the content of such shows because they haven’t got enough quality content to fill the time slot available.

To conclude, I like my programmes to run like reading a book. You start at the beginning and carry on reading the story till you get to the end. Could you imagine buying a book that gives you a rundown of every chapter before you start reading it and every now and again gives you an appraisal of what you have already read.

I don’t think books like that would ever catch on and television programmes that do the same will only alienate their viewers.

That’s it moan over. I just needed to get it off my chest. Now I’ll get back to my pyrography. If you would like to see any of my stuff please click here.
Just a reminder that I also write books, more infomation about them can be found here

Blanched Maggots

 

When I started fishing there was no such thing as a boily, but suddenly they were everywhere and everybody was using them. They are still popular and can be purchased in a variety of flavours but they are out of fashion when compared with pellets and other more exotic baits.

          Dog biscuits and cat food were all the rage once and most anglers read the angling press just in case there was a new sensation in the offing. It was just after one of these new ideas had appeared in print that Tony, one of my best fishing buddies and I set off on a night fishing trip to a near by mere. The water was gaining a reputation amongst specimen hunters because it had recently produced some very big bream that were close to breaking the record.

          We’d fished the water before and although we’d taken some big tench and here I’m talking fish over five pounds, we didn’t fish it often because it was hard. Now when I say hard, I don’t just mean hard in terms of trying to get a bite, I mean hard in every other sense. The water is relatively shallow, and like all meres this means that it has a thick fringe of reeds around the perimeter. The fishing is done from a small number of wooden jetties that go out beyond the reed line.

          Extreme care was always required because these jetties consisted of just a few posts with planks nailed on the top. Don’t get me wrong, they were probably great when they were first put up, but when we fished there, they were well on their way to being rotten. Getting to the jetty was also a nightmare. First you had to negotiate a barbed wire fence, then a wood full of thick undergrowth, which isn’t easy when you are loaded with tackle. After emerging from the wood you are confronted with a series of planks that lead you to the rotten jetty. I know it doesn’t sound much fun but even anglers like a bit of adventure now and again, plus we might become record breakers before dawn.

          And so it was that just before dark we found ourselves safe and relieved to have made it onto the jetty just in time to set up for the night. There wasn’t a breath of wind or any sign of rain which was just as well because there was no where to stick a brolly in, and once seated it would be foolish to move again until first light. It wouldn’t be possible to get back onto dry land safely that night so we were going to have to make the best of it no matter what happened.

          If you remember earlier on in this book I advised against letting anybody else supply you with bait. In that instance I was talking about match fishing, but if you follow this story you will find that it’s appropriate at all times.

          Like I said we’d set up just in time because the light was beginning to fade.

          “Where’s the bait?” I asked Tony.

          He bent down to his bag and fetched out a bag of brown breadcrumb and four and a half pint boxes of maggots.

          “The half pint is for the hook,” he said, “the others are for mixing in with the ground bait.”

          “What’s the difference?” I asked.

          “I’ve blanched them,” he said, with a big smile and an air of authority.

          “Blanched them, what the hell does that mean? I’ve never heard of blanched maggots. What’s so special about blanched maggots?”

          “You’ll see when you take the lid off,” he said, and boy was he right, talk about a shock to the senses.

          The smell was overpowering. I used to live near an animal processing plant that burnt dead cows, sheep and the like and that is exactly how these maggots smelt. It was a warm putrid stench and made me gag. Besides the smell the sight of these maggots was enough to turn anybody’s stomach. Long, stretched out and lifeless, they were dead, stinking to high heaven and we had half a gallon of them.

          “What the hell have you done to them?” I asked.

          “Blanched them,” was the reply, “I saw it in the angling paper, somebody recommended it. I put the maggots in a bucket and poured a kettle full of boiling water over them. Pong a bit don’t they?”

          “Pong, they flaming well wreak, and you still haven’t told me why.”

          “It’s to stop them crawling away in the night, it’ll be too dark to keep feeding bait in, we’ll have it all over the place. All we’ve got to do is mix the maggots with the  breadcrumb and chuck half of it in. We can throw the rest in later.”

          “Well there you go then Mr Blancher,” I said to him, as I handed him my share of the maggots. “It’ll be bad enough having to share this jetty with half a bucket of them without getting the stink on my hands.”

          “Fair enough,” he said, and complied with my request without debate. He mixed the stuff up in the bucket and threw half the contents into the water. I guess we must have stuck it out for a hour and in that time blanched maggots had failed to bring us a single bite, the smell however, did manage to attract a huge cloud of midges and mosquitoes. On top of that the pong was getting unbearable so the rest of the contents of the bucket went into the mere before midnight.

          I’m pretty sure the fish couldn’t stand the smell either because we didn’t have a sniff of a bite all night. I say all night, we didn’t really stay all night, as soon as it was light enough we packed up and headed to a small pool close by and there we had some good sport without the need for a single blanched maggot.

The above was a samll extract from my book, “Fishing:Learn from the Tips and Laugh at the Tales” I hope  you enjoyed it. Click here

Down The Chimney

A couple of days ago, my wife and I were in the kitchen making breakfast; nothing fancy just tea and toast. Everything was going fine until we heard a loud fluttering in the chimney.
“Oh dear,” my wife said, with alarm,” It sounds like a bird has fallen down the chimney.”

Now in most cases this wouldn’t be too bad, but the chimney in question had been used to service a solid fuel cooker that we’d taken out a couple of years ago and replaced with a gas model. The chimney was bricked up and tiled over.

“It’ll never get out, we’ll have to listen to it die a horrible death in the dark,” my wife said, with tears welling up in her eyes.

The fluttering had now stopped so I tried to placate her,”perhaps it will have flown back up and escaped,” I said while knowing full well that birds can’t fly straight up like a rocket. I guess I was trying to convince myself that it was true, but then the bird fluttered violently again, bring a fresh look of anguish to my wife’s face.

Our problem is that we are both empathetic people and we couldn’t help but put ourselves in the position of the bird. We were terrified for it and imagined how it must feel trapped in that dark sooty chimney.

We were wondering what to do next when I remembered the extraction fan situated higher up the chimney behind some shelving. I got my screw driver and some steps out and set about removing it. We hoped that the bird would see the light and come out through the hole into the kitchen.

It took about five minutes to remove the fan; then we waited quietly to see what would happen. Ten minutes went by and all we got were more bouts of fluttering. I even found myself making chirping noises hoping that would do the trick, but still the bird fluttered spasmodically down the bottom of the chimney.

Then I had another idea. I opened the kitchen window hoping that the bird would hear other birds chattering in the garden and come out of its tomb. To help matters along I broke up some crusts of bread and scattered them onto the patio under the window in an attempt to get as many birds as possible in on the act.

It didn’t take long and a flock of sparrows and starlings descended on the bread, and with the window wide open my wife and I retired to the hall where we could watch developments without spooking the bird should it make an appearance.
I guess we must’ve waited about five minutes, but eventually the bird appeared and perched in the hole. We didn’t want to scare it back in, so we waited patiently whilst it regained its composure. It was a beautiful young blackbird that must have hatched recently and it looked so vulnerable sitting in the hole where our extractor fan should be. Eventually it took flight across the kitchen and landed on a wall cupboard on the other side of the room. It didn’t seem to understand that the window was wide open for it, but there again, it was in a state of stress.

We tried a couple of times to catch it in the landing net that I used for fishing, but it didn’t want to play ball and we were mindful that it had suffered enough already.

Eventually, My wife managed to catch the bird in a tea towel and we took it into the garden to let it have its freedom. When she let it go it went straight into the apple tree where it sat for a while and calmed down, then it gave us a wink and flew off over the fence.

My wife and I looked at each other knowing it was a job well done and then went back into the house for our late breakfast. Toast and marmalade never tasted so good.

The Right Peg (Wasp Free)

How do you choose a summer fishing peg?

Most anglers use instinct and go for a fishy looking spot, but being a bit cranky, I go a step further. Here’s how I go about it.

Step 1
I pick a peg that is well away from other anglers, not because I’m unsociable but because I like to have a bit of peace and quiet when I’m fishing. Listening to other anglers banging on about who they met in the pub last night can be interesting, but I can do without it.

Step 2
I check which way the wind is blowing and take into account that as the day goes on the wind will get stronger. Many a day I’ve picked a peg where the breeze is as gentle as a fairy’s kiss but an hour later it blows my brolly inside out.

I know the experts say that you should fish into the wind. Well I don’t, I would sooner fish in comfort than sit in wind with the hope of catching a few more fish. I think about it like this; even if there are more fish at the end of the lake where the wind is blowing a gale, my chances of presenting a bait correctly are non existent. So nice and calm and good bait presentation win every time for me.

Step 3
I check the direction of the sun and track where it will go during my fishing session. If you’ve ever fished into the sun and tried to see what your float is doing through the glare that is coming off the water you will be well acquainted with misery.

Step 4
Think about the depth. I once went to the trouble of setting up in a lovely peg. It was quiet; the wind and sun were in the right direction, but when I cast out to plumb the depth I found the water wasn’t deep enough to drown a weasel. No wonder the anglers who passed me on the way to the other end of the lake gave me funny looks.

Step 5
I like a peg with a bit of weed cover bcause big fish always bagsie the house under the weeds. Fishing against weeds also helps me to concentrate my free offerings in a tight area. If I’m fishing a featureless swim I finish up catapulting sweetcorn and maggots all over the place.

Step 6
This is the biggy. When I’ve achieved steps 1-5, I take a few minutes to check the bank around the peg for any holes that might contain a wasps’ nest. I hate wasps, not only do they sting a bit, they can ruin a fishing session. Ignore the half-wits, who say leave them alone and they won’t hurt you. This is a bigger lie than “the cheque is in the post.” I know anglers who have been quietly watching their floats and behaving as impeccably as nuns only to be stung somewhere painful. One angler I know got stung on his lip and it swelled up so much it looked like he was eating a bouncy castle.

Anyway, once I’ve checked the surrounding area for holes and potential wasps’ nests I check for wasp flight paths. There are few things more irritating than being stuck on a wasp’s flight path. Let me explain: when wasps are buzzing around your head or trying to share your cider, they are outward bound and looking for trouble, just like some bored teenagers, but when they are heading back to their nest they fly in a straight line.

I once fished the river trent with a stick float. For eight hours I stood in the water taking a nice succession of gudgeon, roach and chub. The only downside of the day was that every couple of minutes a wasp flew upstream and passed over my right shoulder on its way back to a nest somewhere upstream. Several hundred wasps went by on that day and although only a couple stopped to eye-ball me, a perfect day’s fishing was marred. So before I start the tedious job of tackling up I always take a couple of minutes to make sure I’m not on Nasty Mr Wasp’s flight path.

I once had the misfortune at a fishing match to draw a peg with a wasps nest in it. I only managed to fish the match because my need to win was stronger than my fear of wasps, but that’s a another story and is covered in my Fishing book.click here for more info.

Anyway here are my top tips regarding fishing and wasps.

1 Don’t pick a peg with a wasp’s nest in it.
2 Keep a bait box lid handy so that if one comes within striking distance you can give him a good smacking.
3 Don’t take jam butties with you in the summer.
4 Ignore the expert advice that says if you kill a wasp all its mates will smell it and come after you. Think about it logically, if some giant monster battered one of your mates to death with an enormous lid would you go to do battle with it or run like hell?
5 If you come across a wasp’s nest, dig it up and use the grubs for bait; chub love them.
6 If you are at home and wasp comes into your house, don’t husher it quietly out of the window, roll up a newspaper and splater it.
7 Invest in a wasp catcher and hang it outside you window or take it fishing with you and hang it in a bush.

I hate wasps.

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Fishing My Way Through

My sixtieth birthday came and slithered past without fanfare or party. My only alcoholic indulgence was a glass of Drambuie from a bottle that my wife had bought to mark the special occasion – at £28 a bottle it had to be special.

 The autumn of my life had arrived and fuelled by the drink I got all nostalgic and looked back to see how the journey had been so far. Rollercoaster would sum it up.

The ups -I’d had a good career that saw me promoted continually and well beyond my expectations. I won competitions and trophies when taking part in various non-strenuous activities like; darts, dominoes, match fishing and writing short stories. I also fathered two sons who have turned out to be hard working lads that have made me proud.

 The downs – Although I was successful in my career, the thirty four years I spent working in a factory could’ve been better spent working for myself. My first marriage went down the pan after 21 years – a sad time not least because she left me with two sons to look after. Then the indigestion I thought I was having turned out to be a major heart attack. I had stents fitted and now take so many pills that life can never be the same again. Still, I’m lucky to be here, my second wife saved my life by calling for help.

 Enough of being maudlin – let’s get back to the plot.  I was going over this stuff and I realised that through all the highs and lows, fishing had been a constant in my life. Regardless of whatever else was going on, the fact that I could pick up my rods and go fishing kept me going.

 I’ve got my dad to thank for starting me off. He bought me a rod when I was about ten and taught me about watercraft. Keeping quiet and blending into the countryside was as important as catching fish.

 However, when I reached sixteen my fishing habits changed dramatically when my father declared that we were going to Australia. As far as fishing was concerned it was a disaster because freshwater fishing around Melbourne was scarcer than the Loch Ness Monster. I had to make do with sea fishing from a pier at the docks.

 I survived the two years down under, but was glad to get back to England and do some proper fishing. I spent a lot of time fishing ponds and stalked some very nice chub on a small river. That was how it stayed until I met Neil Dale.

 Neil, who worked in the same factory as me had a big influence on my fishing. He too was an angler, but he wasn’t an ordinary angler he was a match angler who took the sport very seriously. To cut a long story short, the factory was big enough to have its own fishing club and every year it held an inter-departmental fishing competition. Neil was trying to get a team together and he asked me to join it.

 I could wax lyrical for a fortnight (2 weeks) about what Neil taught me and about match fishing and over the next few years I would fish a match almost every week. The lessons I’d had from my Dad and Neil paid off and I did my share of winning. In fact, I won my local angling championship for two years in succession and I was very proud of that.

 Neil eventually left the factory and became fully involved in the sport he loves. He now owns and manages Heronbrook Fishery, near Stafford and I’m sure he’s still passing on his knowledge. I also left the factory and now write books where fishing is often the subject.

 The next change in my fishing habits came when my first wife left me – perhaps I spent too much time fishing. Anyway, I was devastated and almost packed up fishing altogether. Actually, I did pack it up for a while during the process of courting my second wife, but the urge to get the rods out eventually returned. Ironically it was my new wife who pushed me into going again and she has accompanied me on almost every trip since.

She doesn’t fish, but she is content to sit behind me and read her Kindle. We both enjoy the fresh air, the countryside and the wild life, and if I should happen to catch a fish now and again it’s just a bonus.

Yes, fishing has been good to me.
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