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.

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 club meeting was another crossroads in my angling life; it was ultimately responsible for sending me on something of a journey of self-discovery. The thing with that kind of journey is you can discover something you didn’t expect; also you never know quite how long that journey will be.

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
Something else I was soon to discover was that the inhabitants of this fag smoke grotto could be divided into two separate groups, club men, and match men, not that there was any open bitterness or rivalry, but there was a clear demarcation. The funniest thing is now I look back, the differences in styles and approach of these two groups in our little angling backwater was very little, perhaps just the difference between using a size 18 hook to 1.7lb line and a 20 to 1.1. Crazy as it sounds it was accepted that you must fit into one camp. Perhaps it was my age, after all when you’re in your teens you want to be with the new and cutting edge, and I was really taken by the match side who seemed new and exciting, their names paraded at each meeting when the months match results were read out. I also think match stars were more exulted in the press than they are now, Ivan Marks was having his high profile, if totally contrived, ding dongs with Dick Walker. I took all this as gospel, and always came out on the side of Ivan. As I’ve said before I had no angling heritage, and to me this Walker bloke was someone who’d caught a big carp donkey’s years ago, and now just seemed to be having a go at anything new. He even wanted people to dig leatherjackets out of their lawns to use as chub bait when you could just go and buy some maggots from the shop for God’s sake! However, please forgive me – I was young and foolish.

It seemed my angling path had been pointed out
It is easy to give match anglers a bad press, after all they seem to fish for money rather than pure enjoyment, but I think that is unfair, especially in this case. These were not big open circuit match stars just good club anglers, who for the most part fished club matches more for the social side than cut throat competition. After all the amount of money you stood to win in a season would no way cover the outlay.

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
It was a strange new world I’d entered, like the first Middlesbrough AC Christmas Fur & Feather match I entered, again at Over Dinsdale. In these matches everyone gets a prize, anglers taking turns to choose from the prize table in order of weight caught. It was in essence the same as the junior matches I’d already fished, but the prizes were considerably more alcoholic. At the weigh-in I brought a single chub to the scales for exactly 1lb. Surprisingly, as the river had fished rather poorly, this chub had put me well up the picking order, which was the problem. As the results were read out I knew it was getting closer to me, and I hadn’t got a clue what to choose. Then the Match Secretary read out, “Next is Dave North, with 1lb.” There was a small ripple of applause, I think they’d got a bit cheesed off with clapping by the time it got to me. Then the Secretary added, “and he is a junior.” The applause increased a bit. Meekly I pushed my way through the throng and stood in front of a spread tarpaulin covered with bottles, cans, tins of biscuits, boxes of chocolates, and most intriguing of all, envelopes containing meat vouchers with their value emblazoned on the front with bold red marker pen. The whole array was illuminated by car headlights in the gathering December afternoon gloom.

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?

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