The Float and Hook, tackle shop in Gripton, West Midlands, had been run by the Seema family for over 60 years, founded by grandad Albert, passed on to his son Robin and now in the hands of grandson Max.
Max Seema had inherited all of his grandfather’s genes; ‘old man’ granddad Seema was well known amongst local anglers for his meanness and spendthrift ways, his customers used to complain about rusty hooks, cracked floats and getting half a pint of sawdust in their pint of maggots. At that time the dingy shop was lit by smoke spewing oil lanterns, whilst in the winter there was just one old log stove to heat the entire building.
Max’s dad, Robin, only had the shop for short time when he upped and left his wife Annette and eight year old Max to run off to Rhyl with a 20 year old woman from Redditch called Crystal Bend, a lady with a sharp tongue and a mouth full of barbed comments.
Its now 2011 and 50-year-old Max has run the shop for 20 years and times are hard, lots of his ex-regulars now fished commercial pools which had their own log cabin-style, centrally heated, tackle shops and cafés with extra fridges for a cold beer. Max often turned his shop’s only fridge off in the winter to save money, the only time he had a chilled beer was when he placed a can or two in his keepnet during a match.
The window display at the shop was a source of much humorous banter; propped up in one corner was a green vinyl rod holdall, the colours of which were burnt out and faded by the rays of the sun, one customer had been banned by Max for attaching a Post-it Note to the holdall with ’10s/6d’ written on it.
The dust covered size 4 moon boots were still there too, left by a rep on a ‘sale or return’ basis. Max had told him he’d never seen an angler with feet that small but as usual the tackle rep was desperate to drum up sales.
Hanging up on the window display board (yes it was one of those where the owner opened a little door and put his head through) were grubby looking packets of silicone tubing, a thermal hat, a weed cutter you screwed into a bankstick, some circular bait boxes, a few plastic packets of pre cooked hemp, a float fishing book by Billy Lane and a set of Newark Needle Floats, (sale or return again). Also amongst the peeling and flaking window display paint there were numerous dead fly carcasses, you could see the whole transition of maggot, chrysalis and fly in the shop window, all it needed was a film crew from the BBC and David Attenborough!
Rod Catchit was a local youngster eager to learn more about fishing and he helped out in the shop on Saturdays, Rod quite fancied himself as an ace match angler as he had won three club contests and finished fifth in an open a couple of years ago. He knew with Max being so tight there would be no wages involved but he turned up every Saturday anyway, it was as near as Rod got to being a ‘star’ and he bored the customers with his ‘in-depth’ knowledge of ‘everything’ he was so into himself he genuinely never realised the customers were taking the piss when they said “I’ll give you a ring Rod” “Here’s a tip Rod” one regular on seeing Rod out with his girlfriend asked him when he was getting spliced!
Max took advantage of the young lad’s eagerness and worked him so hard, giving him all the shop’s dirty jobs, he really should have been paying him something but as ever the miserly tackle dealer convinced the kid he was doing him a favour.
Christmas Eve. 8pm
Max didn’t usually stay over at the shop this late but some of the regulars told him the were having a ‘knock up’ on the local canal after Christmas, so he was preparing bait as he had agreed to open at 7am, for an hour, on Boxing Day to sell them their bait supplies.
As always to save costs and make more profit, he had frozen the leftover casters and was now leaving the trays out on the shop floor to thaw, last weeks’ pinkies and squatts had also been chilled right down and would only be taken out on the morning of the match (if they turned during the match it was always the maggot farms’ fault).
Adding extra sand to the squatts was an old trick and Max did not have any regrets about taking buckets of sand from the kid’s play area at the nursery on his way home each night. The shop was dark and dimly lit, Max had only the tilley lamps on, as this months’ meter readings showed a £10 increase which was unacceptable, even for a freezing December with snow on the ground.
All of a sudden, a huge shadow appeared in front of Max and as the skinflint tackle dealer looked up the shadow began to speak…
“Max Seema I am the ghost of Christmas past and I have been sent here to show you the error of your ways and to show you how your mean and miserly behaviour has affected all those around you in years gone by and how it may do so in years to come. Look into this groundbait bucket and what I will show you will bring you to your Sensas…”
Max Seema looked into the large, green bucket, the contents of which began to swirl; no he wasn’t making up a method mix with a drill, he was looking back into the past.
The ghost began to explain in detail the images that were beginning to appear: “Here’s the club’s Xmas canal match last year when you scooped that dead perch out of the water and placed it into your net, winning the fur & feather and the hamper prize from Lidl, how could you do it?”
Max replied, “Yes, I know it was bad but I really wanted that hamper basket as my wicker creel was falling apart”.
“And here, you tied your mate Ollie Vette’s hooklinks with PVA string instead of braid knowing he would not have a hook attached to his rig for days on end whilst he was fishing for that carp with the silly name”.
“And finally here, how could you sprinkle poor young Rod Catchit’s maggots with that new wonder bait liquid knowing full well he wouldn’t catch anything as it was just another daft product backed up with huge amounts of advertising revenue? Shame on you Max Seema”
The ghostly shadow disappeared like a club angler in the pub after the match when it’s his round.
Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes Max decided he must be dreaming and poured himself a coffee from his ten-year-old, tartan patterned, thermos flask and decided to continue with the jobs that needed doing in the shop. He began by filling up empty branded line spools with cheap line from a bulk spool he had bought off the internet, “They’ll never realise” he said.
Just then the tackle shop went colder than normal (minus ten) and another huge ghostly apparition appeared, this one looked a bit like that angler who won Fish-0-Mania but with a slightly smaller grin.
“Max Seema, look into your flask cup and you will see images of Christmas present. Yes, even now whilst you are here making plans to rip even more money off your customers they are out there determined to have a good time; they may not have much but they know that Christmas is a time for sharing and being friendly and generous to all men (and indeed all women – as these days you have to be politically correct)”.
“Look, here are some of the customers you have swindled, they are trying to make the best of Christmas: Ernie Muchmoney, the veteran soldier, who you charged £500 for a defective old rod, you told him that was why they called them split cane rods… And here is your German customer the carp angler Herr Rigg, you sold him all those instructional videos for £11:99 each that you had bought from the pound shop… And, finally, your young assistant Rod Catchit, who has very little money to buy his parents a present because you refuse to pay him wages; he may even have to go a few weeks without buying a float because of your mean and stingy attitude”.
The spirit disappeared like a top angler at an open after he had just drawn the flyer.
Max was thinking what both of the ghostly spirits had told him about the consequences of his ways but continued to bulk out the groundbait bins by adding more maize meal flour.
The curtains that had been bought from the closing down sale at Woolworths blew up in the air and a strong pungent wind roared through the tackle shop, at first Max thought it was one of his regulars Sid Marks, also known as methane man but no it was yet another ghostly apparition (you never see one, then three come together).
“I am the ghost of Christmas future, Max Seema, mend your ways or you will surely sink” said the ghostly spirit, trying to make an angling related pun.
“You, Max Seema, should tow the line (there we go again) and not (ha) continue with your mean and miserly ways which some would say you enjoy in a twisted (hee hee) sort of way. Therefore look into the pouch of this dust-covered bait apron and I will show you what is to come, the strain of which can not be overstated (groan) on those really nice people that you take for granted; your crimes against them are so bad you would not even be let out on bail (now that’s a pun).
The pouch of the bait apron was deep, full of cobwebs and dust, it had never held the two pints of maggots it had been made for; river anglers are now a dying breed like French polishers, telephone repair men and 30 goals a season Premier League strikers.
Suddenly, in the dark depths of the bait apron, Max Seema saw himself walking through a graveyard followed by the huge figure of the Christmas future ghost, he looked at each stone in turn and mumbled the inscriptions out loud to himself as he read them: “1980-2012, Ollie Vette, for the bulk of his life an angler, here he is now lying two thirds down, stopped by a number 4…bus”.
Then on a huge stone Max read the inscription, “Sergeant Major Ernie Muchmoney, tragically killed by a broken cane rod”
“Oh dear…” said Max, then added, “Sergeant Major Ernie loved his tench fishing, as soon as he hit a bite he used to stand up straight and shout, ‘A tench on!’ ”.
Max then saw a grave with no headstone, just a paving slab with an inscription which simply read, Money’s too Tight to Mention. (No it didn’t that’s a feeble music pun!). It actually read ‘Rod Catchit’.
Max Seema recoiled in horror on seeing the dates inscribed: Born 10 Jan 1990 Died 26 December 2011. “Spirit, that’s in just two days’ time on Boxing Day, what on earth happened to young Rod?
The ghostly apparition roared with anger, “Max Seema is your memory that bad? The super-duper bait liquid you secretly poured onto young Rod’s maggots got onto his fingers and as he ate his sandwiches it triggered the same feeding responses in him that it was supposed to in the fish and the poor lad ate and ate. He got to 37 stone walked under the promenade walkway at Blackpool and was instantly crushed as the structure collapsed on top of him…just 20 years old and killed by pier pressure…”
The ghost of Christmas future disappeared like a pinkie in a bowl of groundbait.
Christmas Day
Max knew it wasn’t a dream, all those things he had been shown were true all right but was he going to mend his ways? NO, was he hell.
Max Seema didn’t mind being shot at and was content to have Christmas Day all on his own, he was a loopy individual with incredible abrasive properties, a real individual who realised he didn’t need anyone’s backing, all of which seems an excellent line to end on…
Tight Lines (He certainly is)
