The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

In the last episode Damien had challenged Donald to a match, to which Donald had replied: “Okay, if you lose, both of you will have to act as waiters at our next over 60’s fish and chip supper.”

THE MARTINI MATCH

The day of the ‘Martini Match’ had arrived. For the week running up to it Damien had been busy building a bonfire at the back of the garden, he had even told Donald that his old fishing jacket and hat were going on top. “Make a lovely Guy,” he said, shaking a box of matches under Donald’s nose.

Donald had made no preparations at all, except to insist that this was all done ‘proper like’ and had roped in Damien’s dad as referee. Damien was suspicious that the old boy was trying to wriggle out of the bet, as he was insisting on an umpire, and some strange rules that included football whistles, and a special code. But he convinced himself there was no way he and his mate Pete were about to lose this match, whatever the conniving old git was up to.

Damien and Peter slung all their gear into the back of the Peugeot and set off behind Damien’s dad to be shown to the mystery venue. Donald and Bert had chosen a small, overgrown sidestream as the battleground for the big match. It was the sort of place you would normally jump over on the way to somewhere else, so it didn’t look that promising to Damien.

“Watercraft laddie, that’s what this is all about. There’s some big fish in here, chub and the like, but you’ve got to stalk ’em, Indian style,” said Donald, the corner of his mouth curled into a wry grin that suggested only he knew what that was all about.

Damien brightened up a bit “What, crawling around on your hands and knees, with your arthritis, this will be easier than we thought!” he nudged Peter in the ribs and winked. “The only good ‘joint’ on his entire body is one of my special fags he helped himself to last night. Can’t wait to see what happens when he smokes it! He hasn’t got a bloody clue what it is.”

“And you young ‘uns can have first pick of the swims. There’s about half a mile of stream up to the footbridge, so we’ll meet you back here in two hours.”

“Right,” said Damien, purposefully, “we’re off!”

“Remember the rules boys, one blow on the whistle if you catch a fish, and your dad will come and weigh it in, two blows if we do. Three blows and start making your way back to here for the final whistle in two hours time.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, that will be the two hundredth time you’ve told us.” Damien and Peter grabbed their gear and were up and running.

To say the swims were neglected would be an understatement. After fifty yards or so the two boys were having to use banksticks to hack down nettles, just to get to the water’s edge. But peering over the edge they could see that the fish were there! Chub mostly, and big ones!

The problem was they had brought 12ft rods, not the easiest thing to manoeuvre through undergrowth to fish a water 4ft wide. They decided to work as a team, one standing well back operating the rod, the other issuing instructions as to which unsuspecting nose to drop the sure fire ‘Chub Chomper’ boilie on.

But every time the bait hit the water the chub just melted away. After hacking through the undergrowth and trying about ten swims, they were hot, bothered, stung all over, and fishless. A change of bait to worm or maggots had brought nothing but a plague of suicidal minnows, and time was nearly up. They heard the three blasts on the whistle and packed up and headed for the car park with heavy hearts. They were almost back to the starting point when Damien suddenly said.

“Hang on, that’s the first whistle we’ve heard. That means the old coots haven’t caught any either!”

The boys got back to the clearing to find Donald, Bert and Damien’s dad, sat where they had left them, enjoying a chat and a smoke. Damien was puzzled.

“What have you been doing, don’t tell me you haven’t been fishing?”

“Not yet laddie,” said Donald, slowly getting up from his chair and taking a long draw of a cigarette, which Damien recognised as one of his ‘specials’.

Peering at Damien through glazed and watery eyes, Donald said, “‘ere, you got any more of these cigarettes laddie? I used to roll me own before I took to the pipe full time yer know. Don’t taste bad at all, at all, at all, at all. Tee-hee, it’s the oirish in me!” And then went off in a fit of giggles.

He picked up the top section of his ‘Wallis’, which had about five feet of line tied to it, and what looked like a matchstick for a float, about a foot from the hook, and then stumbled down to the water’s edge. He turned to Damien’s dad.

“How long to go?” he asked, boss-eyed and dribbling down his whiskery chin.

“One minute.” Came the reply from Damien’s dad.

Donald placed a single maggot on the hook, and dropped the rig onto the water.

Damien’s dad looked hard at his watch and put the whistle to his lips as Donald lifted the rig out of the water and swung a plump minnow under Damien’s nose and said, “Watercraft. Or, some would say, ‘watercrafty’. Oh, I am a scamp, where’s me fag?” As the shrill blast rang in his ears.

“No, no, no! That doesn’t count, you cheating old bas….”

Damien’s dad held up his hand to stop the tirade from his enraged son.

“Hold on, it’s a fish, isn’t it?” He asked.

“Well, yes, but he hasn’t played fair.” Damien whined.

“You agreed the rules, didn’t you?” His dad went into referee mode.

“But he said there were big fish in here, that’s what we’re supposed to catch.” Damien whinged on.

“Them chub laddie, did you see ’em?” Donald enquired. Damien nodded. “Bloody impossible to catch, they are. Thought you would have given up straight away on them.” He added, failing to stifle a massive yawn and letting go a long, drawn out fart.

Still grumbling the two boys followed Damien’s dad down to the venue for the fish and chip supper, where they were to act as waiters as punishment for losing the bet. They met Donald inside, and he issued their instructions.

“Here you go laddies, you’ll need your costumes for tonight.” Said a gleeful Donald. Damien peered into the proffered bag. He gingerly put his hand in and pulled out some strange bits of material.

“What do you mean, costumes?”

In his hand he had appeared to be a pair of black bow ties.

“These are what you have to wear to serve dinner, the old girls have been told to expect something akin to the ‘Chippendales’, so they’re wound up and raring to go.”

“Just what the **** have you let us in for, you said it wouldn’t be so bad, just doing our bit to help the aged, you said.” Peter wailed at Damien.

“Hurry up and get changed lads, they don’t like to be kept waiting.” Donald showed the boys a side room. “Take your shirts off, put on and the bow ties and let’s get going.”

Damien and Peter came sheepishly out of the room, wearing their ‘costumes’ of jeans and a bow tie, arms folded over their bare chests.

Donald could hardly contain himself. “Don’t worry lads, there’s only about forty of them, and if you’re cold they will soon warm you up when they start rubbing in the baby oil. Mind you, there are three courses to serve, and coffee. T’will be a busy old night.”

Like lambs to the slaughter they stood by the entrance, Donald swung open the double doors and pushed the two boys in. The whoops and screams that greeted their entrance were enough to turn their blood cold.

Ninety minutes later the two boys came out of the hall, as the tables were being readied for Bingo. Both were walking with a strange gait, and had a pained expression on their faces.

“Apart from have my bum pinched so much it’s probably black and blue, the mad old biddies were tucking money and phone numbers into my trousers.” moaned Damien.

“And my chest is on fire,” said Peter. “One of those crazy grannies slapped Deep Heat on it instead of baby oil.”

“Could have been a lot worse had she slapped it somewhere else,” Damien observed.

“There you go then laddie, made a few bob as well, not such a bad night after all.” chortled Donald between wheezes as he led the two boys back to the side room to get changed.

“Might have been if it was fivers, but this lot will probably amount to £ 1.50 if we’re lucky.” And as he spoke both of them both dropped their trousers and a cascade of coins and bits of paper fell to the floor. A quick adjustment to their underpants and another small shower appeared.

Donald bent down and started scooping up the coins. “Well now, lads, there’s enough here for a drink or two.” More chortling.

“Mind them 50 pence pieces, at least one of them has been up the crack of my a*se for the best part of an hour.” said Damien.

Donald gingerly put the money he had collect on the table and wiped his hands on the back of his trousers.

“You boys get dressed and we’ll meet you in the bar.”

As Donald was leaving the room, Damien turned to Peter and said, “that is absolutely the last time, we are so going to have to nail that old git once and for all.”

Peter nodded agreement.