| DONALD EFFINGHAM-MUDDE AND DAMIEN |
| Nineteen year old Damien is a mad-keen, cool-dude, ‘up for it’ angler, who won’t miss any opportunity to go fishing. He has an aged uncle, an angler of some renown and a staunch traditionalist, Donald Effingham-Mudde, who spent his earlier years in service to the Viceroy of India. His family jokingly refer to him as WIMDOC, which is an acronym for the phase he uses to start just about every conversation (“Well, in my day, of course….”). The old boy has come to stay with Damien’s parents for an extended visit, giving the pair the opportunity to go fishing together. Donald’s fishing references are impeccable as, according to him, he taught the Taylor Brothers all they know. However, both participants view the opportunity from slightly differing perspectives. Damien really doesn’t want to be landed with babysitting some doddering old fart, whilst Donald sees this as a perfect opportunity to show this young pup how to do things properly. They are bound to get on famously – aren’t they? |
FLYING TONIGHT?
Damien’s life was very quiet. His best friend, Pete, wasn’t speaking to him, and Damien definitely wasn’t speaking to Donald, after the incident at the old biddy’s fish and chip supper. Three weeks of no stars in his diary meant that Pete’s sister, Susan, was hardly ‘speaking’ to him either. She couldn’t understand why Damien was being so nasty to his ‘sweet’ old Uncle Donald. And Damien shouldn’t have complained so much about doing something for the old people just because he lost a silly bet. And if he had won, wasn’t he going to throw all that nice old man’s tackle on the bonfire? How mean was that? After all, apart from suffering from frequent attacks of absolutely horrid, smelly flatulence, he was such a nice old thing.
In an attempt to break the ice, Susan suggested that the two of them should go fishing together again. She talked it over with Donald and he said that a quick session might be best to break the ice, and maybe they might just go flyfishing one evening, and it would be his treat.
Now, flyfishing was not one of the many branches of angling that had so far appealed to Damien. However, he slightly warmed to the idea that they could ‘pop out’ one summer’s evening and bag up. Damien’s throwaway line that he hadn’t got any flyfishing gear galvanised Donald into action and he proudly led Damien out to the garage and showed him his collection.
The rod, split cane of course, and close-whipped, was surprisingly almost straight. Damien couldn’t quite work up the enthusiasm that Donald had for it, “I’m pretty sure it’s a Sharpes, laddie, although it’s been re-ringed, re-whipped, re-varnished, and the label’s come off.” The cork handle had almost certainly been feeding a mouse or two as the ragged hole in the bag confirmed. As for the snake rings, which looked like bent paper clips to Damien’s eyes, they seemed to be grooved beyond redemption.
The reel was certainly not a collector’s item, but the fly line probably would have been, if they could get if off the spool, which it appeared welded to. It eventually succumbed to a screwdriver and came off in lumps.
“Might need a few bits; we’ll pop to the shop tomorrow, soon have us kitted out, they will,” said Donald, rubbing his hands with unbridled glee.
Damien wasn’t that dismayed at the prospect of shopping, as he would have to buy all new gear, so no real hardship there for a confirmed tackle tart.
The game-fishing emporium was not one that Damien had frequented before, and it was like a whole new world to him. Being greeted with a “Hello Sir, please feel free to look around, help yourself to tea or coffee, and don’t hesitate to ask should you require any assistance,” was a far cry from the “Oi, tosser, what d’yer want now?” That normally greeted his arrival at the local tackle shop.
Damien sought advice and was showered with all manner of correctly labelled tackle; his new ‘best friends’ were Sage, Partridge, Hardy, Cortland and Orvis, along with quite a few others. Pleased with his collection he went in search of Donald.
“Did you get what you wanted, to replace that mingin’ old stuff of yours?” he asked politely.
“Got just the thing laddie, a mill end for £ 3.50,” enthused Donald, his watery old eyes sparkling.
“Millend? What the **** is that?” Queried Damien “that’s not a name I’m familiar with. Are they a respected company in fly fishing circles?” He was concerned there was a ‘label’ he had missed.
“Don’t worry, laddie,” said Donald, having great difficulty refraining from laughing out loud. “They’re more suited to the likes of us poor old pensioners who have to watch every halfpenny.”
“Oh, right, won’t bother with any of their gear then, more like Saga than Sage,” quipped Damien.
Donald had to turn away, as he was now almost at bursting point.
Damien was all fired up to go stockie bashing, and the next Saturday afternoon they were at the nearest day ticket water. Donald had asked if Damien would like to practice with his new gear before they went, but the response was, “How hard can it be? If a silly old coot like you can do it, I will crack it in no time.”
At the water’s edge, Damien was raring to go, there were fish rising all over the place. He threaded the fly line through the rings and gave it a waggle. The rod felt as floppy as a certain part of his anatomy after an all-night session with Susan. He smiled to himself at a particular memory, and carried on tackling up.
“Have you got your priest and bass bag laddie?” Enquired Donald as he walked past, towards the adjacent swim.
“Why, have you got a confession to make, or are you just getting me excited at the thought that you are about to need the last rites? And what’s all this about bass, you said we were fishing for trout?” Damien chuckled, mainly to cover up his ignorance.
“Cheeky young pup, I was only checking you have all the right equipment.”
“Don’t you worry about that, I’ve got all the right equipment in every department, and my fishing tackle is all brand new.” said Damien, as he pondered just what to select from the massed ranks in his two brand new fly boxes, all proven ‘killer patterns’ according to the man in the shop.
“I suppose the fly you’re using was tied with hairs you plucked out of Dick Walker’s eyebrows?” He called across to Donald.
“No, no, laddie, I always used to tie my own but the old eyes aren’t up to it any more, but with trout you have to use all your cunning and experience if you’re going to be successful,” came the reply.
“And do tell, just how have you applied all that superior knowledge?” Asked Damien.
“Called in at the tackle shop on the gate and asked ’em for a couple of whatever was catching.” Donald chuckled.
Damien gritted his teeth and pulled out a fly at random. He tied it on and watched Donald casting effortlessly beside him, and copied the action almost to perfection, and cast all of three yards because the back cast had caught in the grass behind him. He tried again, and again but Damien hadn’t noticed the fly line had got caught in a bankside bush at his feet, and after about twelve false casts he let rip, only for the fly to land about twenty feet from the bank.
“Can’t get the hang of this at all, it’s just not fair when that old git can cast nearly thirty yards with a bloody garden cane, and I could throw a fly further by hand than I can cast it…” He muttered away to himself as he tugged the line off the offending bush, but the bush was tugging back!
“What the **** is happening?” He wondered, and then he realised that it wasn’t the bush, but a fish!
By the time Damien had unravelled the fly line, the trout had got tired of messing around and shed the hook.
Undeterred, he carried on, but further trouble was on its way. Damien was far too skilful to suffer from wind knots, oh no, what he created could only be described as wind macram
