| 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? |
Sunday morning and Donald was in the dining room with the papers and supplements spread everywhere. Damien breezed in. He had obtained the necessary ingredients for a cunning plan he had cooked up.
“Right, you old coot, here’s a chance for you to do some more pot hunting.” Damien placed two tickets on the table in front of Donald. The old boy squinted at them.
“What do they say laddie? Haven’t got me reading glasses to hand.” Damien sighed, picked up the tickets and started to read.
“It says, ‘Annual Specimen Challenge Cup Match’. Prizes for top three fish, sideshows, BBQ and beer tent, and presentations to be made by a ‘mystery’ celebrity’. What do think about that then?”
“A day’s fishing, bellyful of grub and a snifter at the end, I’m up for that laddie. Although I’m not much cop at the match fishing lark though, never took to them roach poles and as for them size 24 hooks and bloody jokey worms, well, never saw the like in my day…”
“Bloodworms and jokers,” corrected Damien. “And it’s not that kind of match. The winners are those who catch a fish which is nearest to the weight of the current club specimens, so you can fish for what you like, how you like.” Damien rubbed the side of his nose. “And I happen to know that the ‘mystery celebrity’ is someone you’ll want to meet.”
“Is it Gloria Hunniford? I’ve always wanted to meet her.” Enthused Donald.
“No, you sad old git, it’s not, and by the way, your bloody glasses are on top of your head!”
“Ah thanks laddie, I was looking for them. Now then, please tell me it’s not that dippy weathergirl off the telly, is it?” Donald said to Damien’s back as he left the room.
“Not even warm.” came the smug reply.
The next few days were filled with Donald pestering Damien for the name of the ‘mystery celebrity’ and discussions as to the best species to go for if he was going to be in with a shout of doubling his tally of silver cups, as of course, he had one, and Damien didn’t.
Donald’s assertion that spinning for pike would be a safe bet, was thrown out early on. Damien pointed out that it was a pegged match, and anglers sitting ten yards away on either side may, just possibly, take offence at having Donald’s soup plate sized Colorado spoon churning up their swims.
After a long deliberation they finally settled on tench as being the easiest club record to crack, as the club best so far was only just over 7lbs, so anything over five should leave them in with a chance. Damien went to the garage and started to get the ‘tench’ gear ready. Matching bomb rods, plenty of different feeders, float tackle, antenna floats, etc, etc.
Donald rummaged around in his pile of bits, whilst giving Damien a running commentary.
“If it’s tench were after, there’s only one proper way to catch ’em. Good stir up, plenty of groundbait, then out with the float laddie. And this here is the very piece of kit you need for the job.”
Damien was slightly disappointed when Donald pulled out a length of peacock quill, as going on past experiences of the old git’s tackle, he was expecting most of the peacock to still be attached. Donald rambled on.
“Those Taylor boys got their ‘lift’ method off me, don’t you know. Went fishing one day without any rubbers.”
Damien interrupted.
“What! You went fishing and didn’t take precautions. Shame on you!” And then burst out laughing.
A bemused Donald carried on. “So I tied the float on, bottom end only. Crafty little beggars saw what I was doing and modified the design.”
“Well, you’ll be able to take that up with the man himself at the weekend. Probably time the record was put straight, don’t you think?” Damien’s slightly turned head and raised eyebrows begged a response.
“What d’yer mean laddie, putting the record straight?” Donald looked puzzled.
“You can put Fred J Taylor in his place, because he’s presenting the prizes.”
“Oh, does that mean he’ll be there then?” Donald’s voice was quivering.
“Well, unless he’s going to teleport the cups and appear by video link-up that’s who the mystery guest is. Thought you would be chuffed at a chance to meet one of your star pupils.”
“Well….. errrmm……I suppose so. Been a long time though. Lot of water under the bridge, and all that.” Donald seemed flustered, which just seemed to confirm what Damien suspected.
The day of the match came, and Damien almost had to drag Donald along; the old boy seemed very reluctant to be there, even after Damien had been kind enough to haul his tackle round to the swim he had drawn, and plonked him down. He left the old git hunched over, staring out at the water and rushed off to get himself ready before the ‘all in’.
“Stupid old t**t, day’s free fishing, food and drink and a chance to show off one of his supposed prot
