I would like to say that as a youngster my fishing was inspired by the great writers like Richard Walker and Bernard Venables, however it would be a lie. This wasn’t a conscious snub, it was simply due to having no angling heritage, I simply didn’t know they existed. Books were bought on the subject of course, but in a very random fashion so much so I can’t really remember any of them, save one. Ironically this was a Crabtree-esque cartoon strip book, and it was by far my favourite, even if it didn’t have the enduring charm of its illustrious predecessor. Unfortunately it wasn’t built to last, being long and thin with pulp pages and a soft cover it was doomed to disintegration. I suppose cartoons are appealing to the young, they were to me at any rate, normally in the ‘Wizzer & Chips’ or ‘Beano’ but a fishing cartoon was even better. While it lasted that book was my escape to another idealised world, a world where success was guaranteed, and usually in less than three frames.

MY FIRST MATCH

I don’t know what possessed me to fish a match; it was never something I had an ambition to do. Yet there on the sideboard leaning against the old silver drinking tankard that the family now used to hold bills, receipts, broken watches and anything else that needed a safe place was a large blue frilly-edged ticket. The rather flamboyant writing on the ticket read; “Cleveland County Junior Open 1975, Venue Albert Park Lake”.

I suppose if I was going to start match fishing this was a good a place as any. These matches were well run, and non too serious. They also had a decent prize table donated by local tackle shops, consisting of things like keepnets and landing nets down to packets of hooks to nylon.

The venue itself was a typical park boating lake, the kind you’ll find in most towns throughout the country, surrounded by railings, quite shallow, with a spattering of island for the plump overfed ducks to roost. Fortunately, for the duration of the match, the boats were kept off. It’s not that the boats upset the fish, moreso the anglers, a point that was graphically demonstrated to me while pleasure fish the very lake in question.

Two boats with full compliments of skinheads and general ne’re-do-wells started a fight in my swim. Normally, with the standard reprobates, a salvo of maggots from your catapult was enough to send them packing, but in this case discretion was the better part of valour, and I also wanted to keep all my teeth. There was nothing to do but wait until they got bored and, sure enough, after several minutes of ore splashing and the kind of language that would make a docker wince they went off to vandalise the miniature golf course, or something equally public spirited. When I made my next half-hearted cast the water was still boiling, however, my float had hardly settled when it slid away, and a pound skimmer was duly netted. Nevertheless, to avoid the possibility of confrontations like the one described, it was better the boats were kept off.

Another concession for matches was that both banks of the lake could be fished, when normally only one side was available. Of course this meant that those taking part all wanted to be drawn on the ‘private side’ as it got called. Knowing this added something new for me on the night before the match. Not only was there the normal excitement of going fishing in the morning, but there was a tinge of apprehension: would I draw on the private side? I don’t know how many times as I lay in bed that night during that strange phase between consciousness and slumber I made the draw, only to be dragged back to reality, and find for better or worse I was still in my bedroom.

“As each lad drew and his peg number was recorded there was either a “good one son” from the organiser, or just a deadly silence, which I assume was not good.”
When the morning came, and I was standing shyly in the queue to make the real draw, all the other competitors seemed older and were taking it all in their stride, which made the nerves jangle even more. There I was, timidly hanging back, would all the good pegs go? Should I have jumped straight in? As each lad drew and his peg number was recorded there was either a “good one son” from the organiser, or just a deadly silence, which I assume was not good. When my turn came and I read out the number on the neatly folded and stapled draw card without pause I got “nice one son”. The relief was wonderful, the tension that had built up my little twelve-year-old mind over this draw was so much I think I could have turned round and gone home happy without even fishing.

On arrival at my peg though, I couldn’t help but wonder if the “nice one son” held a grain of sarcasm, yes it was on the desired side, even better it was an end peg. However it was right next to one of the islands, and there was at best ten yards of water between it and me. The lad next to me, who was slightly older and considerably more competitive, complained bitterly to the organiser as he walked round before the ‘off’ (even though the lucky sod had a good eighteen inches more open water in front of him). We were told; if unconvincingly, we’d be fine.

The lack of water in front me wasn’t the only drawback with this peg, directly behind me was the roller skating rink. This was of course blaring out the hits of the day for the jolly punters to skate to. The trouble was, in good municipal park tradition, they only had about six records. I don’t know how long the average skating session lasts, so perhaps the repetition doesn’t seem too bad, but during a four-hour match it does start to get monotonous.

“Then after about twenty minutes Mr Competitive next to me had a small roach, and I inquired if it made him feel better. I never quite caught the mumbled reply, but I guessed the answer was no.”
All in all, this match wasn’t turning out how I’d expected. In fact it was a touch surreal; there I was fishing on a fairly big lake, but being confined to an area of water not much bigger than a garden pond, all to the sound track of Mud and ‘Tiger Feet’. Still there was nothing to do but get on with it.

The fishing started slowly and a few envious glances started to be thrown down to the competitors with ‘normal pegs’. Then after about twenty minutes Mr Competitive next to me had a small roach, and I inquired if it made him feel better. I never quite caught the mumbled reply, but I guessed the answer was no. Eventually I started to get a few bites, and a sporadic procession of little roach, perch and one minuscule tench followed. Each capture was accompanied by the tinny rattle of my locking shot banging against the bent wire eye of one of dad’s home-made little ducker floats.

I didn’t go without support throughout the match; dad, mum, sister and even auntie dropped by to see how I was getting on. In some ways this was very welcome, because it was actually the first time I’d been fishing on my own (except for the other thirty or so competitors), but in other ways it was a little embarrassing. At the end, after the final whistle when the scales came round, my families’ moral support had seen me to a whooping ten and a half ounces.

Surprisingly this put me higher on the prize table than you might think, not in the keepnet league, but well above the packets of hooks. When my turn came to choose a prize I went for a kind of float / hook wallet affair. It was made from PVC covered fabric, which was folded over and held in place by two press-studs. Inside there were pockets for hooks and some elasticised loops to hold the floats; there was even a small selection already in it. There were two ultralight black topped stick floats (which were neither use nor ornament on any of the venues I fished), and a large, also black-topped, Billy Lane Avon float. A more cynical person might have thought that the tackle shops had donated these prizes because they couldn’t flog them, but that would be ungrateful, wouldn’t it?

None of these thoughts crossed my mind then, and I proudly carried the wallet around the house with me for the rest of the day. In practice the thing turned out to be a bloody nightmare, the elastic loops were so vicious that the snapped several of my floats, and in a couple of weeks the press-studs had gone rusty and fallen off, the whole thing ended up in the bin. Still we can’t all be Ivan Marks.

So that was my first match, and I can’t say the match bug bit me, although I fished the junior open every year until I was sixteen, one year coming second. In my late teens and early twenties the bug did come a biting and it bit deep. So much so that the seriousness and the ‘pounds means prizes’ attitude it brought out in me was quite shocking. A matter of simple mechanics replaced the pure joy of fishing. Although the biggest problem being I was never as good as thought I was, and the eventual disillusion almost saw me pack in fishing altogether.

Fortunately, although it took some time I saw the light again.

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