40 A DAY, AND I’VE NEVER SMOKED! Up until I was fifteen fishing had always been a fairly private thing, with the exception of the boat trips with my dad’s mates it was usually just him and me. This changed when we started to attend Middlesbrough AC monthly meetings. I can’t tell you why we started going; we’d been members for a few years and like the vast majority never once turned up at a meeting. At the time the meetings were held in the upstairs room of a rather rough pub. I can’t say it really bothered me, even when being underage I was left in the passage with the other one or two juniors while the adults went through the ritual of the pre-meeting drink. I could always amuse myself watching the wild life walking in and out. After the bevies had been sunk, the Landlord would unlock the door to the little, and very poorly ventilated, room, where the first thing three quarters of those present would do was light up. This of course was worse in the winter when no one would open a window, and in no time I’d lose sight of the far end of the room, my eyes would start to sting, and the spotlights in the ceiling would cut beams like stair rods through the thick blue haze. I’ve never actively smoked a cigarette in my life, but in that room I must have passively smoked the equivalent of forty Woodbines per meeting. Health risks aside – well it was quarter of a century ago and attitudes were different – I really looked forward to these meetings. I think the thing that attracted me was the feeling of belonging. They were, after all, a social event, where everyone would swap their triumphs and failures from the last month, and their plans and expectations for the future, there was also a bit of club business done as well. A journey of self-discovery The first thing I discovered about myself wasn’t very profound, but I’m absolutely no good at winning blind cards. The blind card being the traditional opener to the meeting to raise a few quid for the coffers, and in all the times I went I only ever won once. Even that win was disputed, by my father. Did the Secretary say “The winner is (sight pause) D North, or my dads initial E North? Whatever, I was much the faster off the mark, and I never lived it down. Club men and match men – and Walker It seemed my angling path had been pointed out I had tasted match fishing before in local junior matches and I liked the excitement of the draw, the weigh-in and the general banter. It seemed my angling path had been pointed out, and the lack of much discernable talent wasn’t going to put me off. The biggest initial problem on my road to being a perpetual also-ran was the fact that there were very few junior matches, so I had to muck in with the seniors. My dad didn’t share my love of matches, they were never his thing, and this made getting to the matches a problem. He did at times take me to the meet, and pick me up at the end, but this wasn’t always practical. In these cases I would go cap in hand to one of the anglers I knew would be fishing and try to scrounge a lift. To be honest they never often declined, but I couldn’t help feeling like a bloody nuisance. These lifts, in hindsight, were wonderful opportunities missed. There I was sat in a car with an experienced angler, and instead of asking him what he thought would be the best bait or tactic for the day, I’d just stare shyly out of the window looking for magpies, so I could wish them good morning, for luck. At least in those first matches I hadn’t yet fallen into the bracket of ‘pools fodder’: even in these club matches there was a top 10% of anglers who won 90% of the time. This was only due to the fact that I’d spent all my money on the entrance fee, and bait, so the optional pools weren’t really an option. Besides the chances of me getting in the frame were very little. There was one notable exception, when on a high and rain soaked River Tees at Over Dinsdale four eels and a couple of dace, for a total weight I can’t remember put me third. I was delighted, so was the bloke who came fourth because he picked up third place prize money. A strange new world I still hadn’t got a clue what to choose, there was whisky, but I didn’t like whisky. There was gin, my granny liked gin, but I thought (and still do) it smells like cheap scent. I didn’t know how much meat you got for any amount of money, and from what I’d witnessed already the biscuits and chocolates were considered inferior prizes. The anglers who’d blanked would draw for these, and on that day they were many. I didn’t want to hog the limelight, or should I say headlight for too long, a decision had to be made, and quickly. It was obvious liquor was the most sort-after item, that’s when I spotted a bottle of sherry. I thought sherry’s not too bad, I’d even get a little snort at Christmas, and so I stepped boldly forward to claim my bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. It was immediately obvious I’d made the wrong choice when I heard, “dozy bugger” from behind me. I put my head down, and with bottle under arm skulked back into the crowd, and hopefully to obscurity. However, on the way home my illustrious chauffer brought the subject up again. “What did you take the sherry for? You should have gone for the whisky or gin.” “I don’t like whisky or gin,” I replied defensively. “Yeah but they’re worth more” came the retort. Did I say match anglers weren’t just interested in money? |