The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

CHRISTMAS WITH DONALD AND DAMIEN

Christmas time was a traditional affair over at Damien’s house. Lots of long lost relatives around on Xmas Day, some staying over, including Donald of course, whose stay appeared to becoming permanent. Damien’s parents had excused him from buying presents for the majority of aunts and uncles, but they insisted he get one for Donald, as he had been ‘helping’ him with his fishing.

That wasn’t quite how Damien was reading the script, and his flights of fancy to get one across the old git, such as lacing his pipe tobacco with gunpowder, eventually had to give way to something more practical. In the end he decided to get the old duffer a rod pod to replace that mangled old lump of metal he called a rod rest that he currently used. Damien made sure that the one he brought did not require an engineering degree to erect, but at the same time, it didn’t exactly fall into place as soon as you took it out of the bag, either! And he mistakenly threw the instructions away while he was wrapping it up.

“Perfect, that should have the old bugger chewing on his pipe stem in frustration for a while,” he thought.

Present opening at Damien’s house was done in the front room after the Xmas dinner was cleared away. His dad handed round the boxes and they had to be opened one at a time while the relatives looked on. Damien had amassed the required number of ‘fishing’ accessories, such as gloves, socks, cable knit sweaters, etc. His present from his parents didn’t come as a big surprise as there are only so many different ways you can wrap a carp barrow to try and disguise it, and his parents had been given explicit instructions on the exact make and model he required.

As he expected, his gift to Donald had caused the old boy some problems. He really didn’t know what it was and his attempts to assemble it resulted in several items that would have graced a modern art gallery. The funniest moment was when he assumed it was something to prop his bike on, or a tripod for a camera. The whole procedure didn’t pass without comment when he was told exactly what it was.

“Rod hod, whatever next? In my day, if we wanted something to hold a rod we would send word down to the village. Next thing you know there would be a queue of native boys at your door who would hold your rod all day long for five rupees!” Said Donald, his face getting redder by the minute as he struggled to make sense of the infernal contraption before him.

“It’s called a rod pod yer daft t…….” Damien was cut off by his father’s hand that squeezed his shoulder in warning. “Dear Uncle,” Damien uttered, more affably, “I was only thinking of you. It’s got to be easier than trying to bang that old thing of yours into a rock hard bank or landing stage, surely to goodness.”

“I’ll give you that laddie, but that rod rest was given to me by Walker, don’t you know. Told me it was the very one he used the day he caught ‘Clarissa’. I was hoping to hand it on to you one day and…..” Donald tailed off for a moment, his eyes seemed to be glazing over as he motioned Damien’s dad to give him his present.

Damien looked at the proffered package that was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with parcel twine. He wasn’t over optimistic, to say the least.

Donald was burbling away in the background to anyone that would listen.

“Young feller in the shop said they was as rare as rocking horse droppings, don’t you know….”

Damien gingerly took the bundle, and untied the string and peered inside.

“Apparently, first editions are the most sought after….”

Damien just couldn’t believe it! He was looking at a pristine copy of ‘The Deepening Pool’ by Chris Yates, complete with its dust jacket. He very carefully opened the cover – it was a first edition! He turned to thank Donald, who was still rambling on.

“Worth even more if they’re signed, so matey boy in the shop said…..”

Damien was stunned, this was truly unbelievable, a pristine, signed, first edition of a book he had wanted for some time. He could feel a lump in his throat as he turned over the flyleaf.

“So I got my old fountain pen out and did it, but it seems funny to me how that makes it more valuable…..”

Damien looked at Donald’s unmistakable spidery scrawl emerging from a huge ink blot on the pristine page.

Merry Xmas Laddie
Donald Effingham-Mudde

Damien’s face turned purple. “You stupid old git, it’s the author that’s supposed to sign the book, not some bumbling old has-been like you! It’s probably bloody worthless now!” Damien stormed out of the room to leave a lot of tut-tutting and twittering relatives. They seemed to sympathise with Donald’s comment.

“Don’t understand these kids now, never seem grateful for anything. In my day we thought ourselves lucky to get an orange and a shiny penny. If it didn’t fit in a stocking we didn’t get it. Ungrateful young scoundrels don’t know they’re born. If they had to dodge the hun like I did one Christmas they’d learn to appreciate……..”

Damien spent the rest of the day flitting from his bedroom to the kitchen (where the drink was!). The relatives settled down to a fairly standard afternoon of sherry and mince pies, while salad and cold meat was laid out for those who wanted it. Fortified by more than a few drinks, Donald did his party piece. This involved him being comatose in an armchair, complete with paper hat on his head, mouth open and dribbling.

His face would contort in a more than passable impression of a baby trying to fill a nappy, and then he would lift one bum cheek off the seat of the chair. The relatives all held their breath, but nothing happened as Donald just settled back down, his face a picture of contentment. Until three of four minutes later when he would slip a silent one out ‘under the radar’ causing everyone in the room to look accusingly at each other, wondering who the culprit was!

On Boxing Day, Damien’s fishing club always held a ‘Hangover’ match. His parents had insisted that he go and take Donald with him to get some fresh air. This was probably more for his parent’s peace of mind as the result of Donald’s legendary consumption of sprouts and turkey stuffing was a positive danger to the ozone layer! So keen were they to get the ‘boys’ out of the house that they paid for the tickets, and Damien’s dad offered to take them both to the match and collect them from the pub later – what a result! Damien’s idea of a hangover match was to get one during and after, not before!

The match was held on the local canal and involved about forty bleary-eyed anglers. It was not taken very seriously, to say the least. Donald and Damien were pegged at opposite ends, which pleased Damien. The match itself was of little interest, plenty of turkey sandwiches and mince pies being offered round, along with the obligatory hip flasks. Not many fish were caught, either. Damien amassed one skimmer and fluked a small perch which grabbed a gudgeon he was reeling in. At the end of the match he went through the motions and weighed in his three fish. The scalesman wasn’t optimistic, and neither was Damien.

“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s pack up quick and get off for a drink.”

Damien met up with Donald as they were walking back towards the pub. “How did you get on?” he asked, holding his breath. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Last cast you landed a twenty-five pound zander which you hooked on a marmite sandwich, that you had to use because you had run out of bait.”

“No laddie”, Donald replied, obviously not realising that Damien was taking the piss. “I didn’t get a sniff. Heard some of the other chaps saying that worm was the only bait worth using on this canal, so I chucked out a bunch of lobs. Float didn’t move all day.”

“Lobworms! You silly old sod. They meant bloodworms. You throw a lob in here and you’ll scare off every fish for five swims either side!”

“Bloodworms? You can’t get a man’s hook into one of those little blighters. If I had to be reduced to using those blinking things for bait I’d pack up fishing tomorrow. Good lord, when I used to fish the great lakes in India we used hooks like anchors with half a carp on it for bait and an oil drum for a float. Bloodworms? Pah!”

Damien hurriedly interrupted him before he got told half his life story. “So this means that for a change I’ve beaten you today,” said Damien, bragging, “As I actually managed to catch something.”

“Seems so laddie, perhaps you should buy me a drink.”

“Certainly will, what more could I possibly want for Christmas.” said Damien, smirking like the proverbial Cheshire Cat as he patted Donald’s balding head on the way through the pub doorway and then quickly wiping his hand on his trouser leg.

The fishing club had hired a hall at the back of the pub as match HQ. When all the anglers had trooped in the club secretary started the prize presentation. Damien had retired to the bar with a few of his mates and didn’t hear his name being called, but couldn’t ignore Donald digging him in the ribs with his pipe stem that left a brown slobber stain on his light grey shirt.

“It’s you laddie, get up there and collect yer prize.” He urged.

A bemused Damien walked up to the podium, hurried on by the clapping and good-natured booing, and received a “Well done,” and a brown envelope from the club secretary, his reward for coming fourth in the match. He went back to his mates at the bar, opened the envelope and took out the £ 15 tackle voucher. He punched the air, slapped Donald on the back, then bought a huge round of drinks which cost £ 32.50, and five strips of raffle tickets. He was so pleased with himself that he gave the tackle voucher to Donald.

“Here, have this, but make sure you get yourself something modern.”

“Thanks laddie, I reckon I should get some bits for that there rod hod.”

“Pod, it’s called a rod pod.” Corrected Damien.

“Whatever laddie. Anyway, I’m off. Got some important work to do, don’t you know,” he said as he wandered off from the bar.

Damien turned to his mates. “What is he on about, where’s he off to now?” He asked nobody in particular.

“Very important job,” one of the lads answered, “the old boy’s drawing the raffle. Reason he’s doing it is because nobody else will. Takes up too much valuable drinking time!” They all laughed and got back to their pints.

Donald had reached the podium. He cleared his throat and was about to launch into his prepared speech, telling everyone what a great honour this was for him, and if there was time he might entertain them with an anecdote or two about the golden days he shared with Walker and the Taylor boys and….

As he was about to the club secretary grabbed the mike and cut him short. Giving the ticket drum a whirl he reminded everyone that the prize on offer was a much-coveted ticket for Horseshoe Lakes. The drum slowly stopped and Donald stepped forward and, with great ceremony, pulled out the winning ticket. He handed it to the club secretary who announced:

“Number seventy-three. Who’s the lucky winner, number seventy-three?”

There was a hush around the room and everyone checked their tickets, then frantically scanned round the smoke filled hall to see who the lucky b*st*rd was. Damien and his mates, backs to the bar, were doing the same when one of them turned and said, “It’s you, you jammy sod!”

Damien spun round, and there on the bar was the winning ticket amongst the strips he had bought. He picked it up and shouted, “It’s me! It’s me!” while jumping up and down.

The place erupted with clapping, whistling and booing and Damien started to make his way to the podium amid some hearty backslapping. As he approached the stage he could see Donald and the club secretary in animated conversation. The secretary took his hand off the mike and called for order.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, quiet round the room, pleeeease!” The noise slowly subsided. Damien stood still, alone, eight feet from the stage. The secretary continued.

“Mr. Effingham-Mudde has rightly pointed out that young Damien here is a relative. Therefore he has most graciously offered to return the prize on his behalf, and will re-draw another winner.”

The whole room erupted again. Damien just stood and stared at Donald who was puffing his chest out, beaming away and giving him the ‘thumbs up’ sign. He turned and walked slowly towards the bar, accompanied by loud cheering and even heartier backslapping. Donald had made him a hero, what more could he have wanted for Christmas?

He reached the bar and set about making bloody sure he got his hangover.