The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

OUT FOR A SPIN

Damien didn’t need the alarm clock to wake him up, for although a 7am start was planned for today’s spinning trip, he was up at 5.30 and had made the flask and sandwiches and loaded up the car long before Donald made an appearance. Damien had heard him shuffling around upstairs and a thunderous cough and spit announced he was on his way down.

“You’re keen laddie, had your breakfast?”

“Yes, and I’ve done your lunch as well, oxtail soup and Marmite sandwiches. Are you quite sure all that stuff is good for you?” asked Damien.

“Keeps me as fit as a fiddle, laddie, I need to keep me strength up at my age. I’ll just grab a cup of char and a quick bite and we’ll be off.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to have that revolting fried black pudding,” groaned Damien. But of course, Donald did, and not long afterwards a raucous and evil smelling fart rent the air.

Soon after, the pair of them set off for the lake, Damien reminding Donald that he could neither smoke that damn pipe, or fart in his car. Donald remarked that as it was a mild day he felt sure that they might both catch something this trip, unlike last time, when he did, and Damien didn’t. The latter was followed by a quiet chuckle.

“How about a small bet then, seeing as you’re so confident?” said Damien.

“A wager, laddie, good God, haven’t done anything like that since my days at the Rangoon Bridge Club. In fact now you mention it, old ‘Tubby’ Thompson still owes me a bucket full of rupees from the last game. You know, there was this…..”

Damien got in quick, because he knew stories about the Rangoon Bridge Club had been known to span several days.

“Yes, yes, a small bet, one that won’t decimate your pension (another area full of stories). Let’s say a pound for the first fish, and a pound for the biggest.”

“Well now laddie, I thought you said a bet. I was thinking of something along the lines of ten pounds, nothing to a high flying computer whizz like you, but that sort of money could buy a poor old pensioner a few luxuries.” said Donald.

Damien looked sideways at the old git, was he having a pop with that remark? To everyone but a few select friends, Damien’s line of work was always vaguely referred to as ‘something in IT’, when, in truth he actually worked on the computer counter at Dixon’s. No, he couldn’t be, could he?

Anyway, they were at the lake now, and Damien pulled up in the car park, raining gravel over a bewildered coot that half flew, half ran off with a loud squawk. He leapt out of the car and unloaded the gear in double-quick time.

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Damien said. “I will go off along the left bank, and you will take the right. We will meet up for lunch at the old tree and then we’ll swap sides.” He waved to a tree stump in the distance.

“Right-oh.” said Donald, to a fast disappearing Damien, “and may the best man win!”

“I bloody well intend to,” muttered Damien, as he hurried towards the first swim.

When Damien got there he had to stop to catch his breath. Carrying three rods and reels, a ruck bag, two Plano boxes, landing net, etc, had warmed him up a bit. He looked round the swim; it was shallow, snaggy and was surrounded with overgrown bushes – perfect predator skulking territory.

He quickly tackled up and flicked out a Heddon weedless spoon. Or rather, he didn’t, the spoon may be weedless, but it is not branchless, and had formed an immediate attachment to one of the bushes.

“Oh b*ll*cks,” thought Damien. Still, as he was using 45lb braid a straight pull would soon have it back. So he pulled straight, to the left, to the right, up and down, all to no avail. Nothing for it but to pull for a break. He wrapped the braid round his arm, turned his back to the bush and heaved. The trace broke and left the £ 7.99 lure twinkling at him from the bush.

“Just the ******* start I wanted” he mused as he tied on another trace and lure. He looked across the lake and was cheered up to see a cloud of pipe smoke wafted up from the car park. “The old duffer hasn’t even started yet, this will be a piece of p*ss!” Damien chortled to himself.

Fifteen minutes and much water thrashing later, Damien hadn’t had a sniff. Directly across the lake Donald hove into view. The old boy stood looking at the water for a couple of minutes and proceeded to cast along the edge of the bank. Damien was mesmerised by all this. ”What is that old git up to,” he thought. “He isn’t going to catch anything like that!”

Just then Donald’s rod took a bend, and a few moments later he was holding up what looked like a 12oz jack and grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, deep joy, another £ 10 down, the day just gets better and better!” Damien muttered under his breath, and gave up on the snag infested swim and moved on.

Then his day got a lot better very quickly. First cast, a take, and after a short but spirited fight, a pike of 6lbs was in the net. Quickly onto the mat, unhooked and weighed – 6lbs 4ozs. Donald was still visible on the far bank and Damien held up his trophy with pride. The old boy waved back and Damien happily slipped the fish back. He knew deep down that he could beat the old sod, and now he had. And he had got £ 10 back into the bargain. Bloody brilliant!

Damien worked his way round to the lunchtime venue without catching any further fish. He had only seen glimpses of Donald through the trees, so he couldn’t be sure if the old fart had had any luck. A few moments later the old boy ambled up to the tree stump.

“Any more fish?” asked Damien, politely.

“Not a sniff after that tiddler, laddie. Was sorely tempted to put on an Archer flight and try for the big ‘uns. Did you get any more after that little ‘un of yours?”

“That ‘little’ fish was a six pounder, so that makes us even on the bet so far.” Damien could fell himself getting wound up again.

Lunch continued in silence, Damien made sure he was upwind of the oxtail soup, marmite sandwiches, the dessert course of a bowl of dark shag and the inevitable fart.

They changed banks and worked their way back to the car. Damien tried all three rods and almost the entire contents of both lure boxes, but there was nothing doing. Nearly back at the car he was approached by Bill, the club bailiff, who stopped for a chat.

“Lovely old boy, that uncle of yours, met him on the far bank. All those stories about his time in India, and fancy him knowing the Taylor brothers and Dick Walker. He says you are coming along really well for a young ‘un. You are so lucky to have him to teach you all he knows,” said Bill.

“Aren’t I just,” said Damien. “I don’t know how to thank him.” B******!

“Well, there is one way. He did say, as he was your guest, that you wouldn’t mind paying for his day ticket, as he is a pensioner. That will be £ 5, thanks.” Bill stood with his hand out, awaiting payment. Damien wasn’t too pleased about that.

“Cheeky git! I’m already ten pounds down as I saw the jammy old codger catch a piddling jack, first cast.”

“He had another fish while I was with him.” Bill said. “I witnessed the weight, 3lb 12 ozs, a new club record. The old boy was chuffed when I told him that he is in line for a cup at the end of the season” said Bill.

” Have you been drinking after shave again?” asked Damien “The club record pike is 27lbs, you should bloody well know that. Don’t go confusing the old tw*t with stories of silver cups, or I will never hear the end of it”

“But he has caught a new club record – a 3lb 12oz perch, and if no one catches a bigger one, he will get a silver cup at the end of the season, as well you know. Now give me the fiver and I’ll be off.” Bill took the money from Damien and ambled off, chuckling to himself.

B*ll*cks to the power of ten. I might just as well pack up and go home now, thought Damien. He trudged off to the car and slung his gear in the back. He walked off to get Donald and found in him in the ‘tree’ swim.

“Is it about time to go laddie? I’ll have one last cast and we’ll be off. That nice bailiff chappie says I might get a silver cup for my perch. Did you do anythi……” Donald was stopped in mid-sentence as the old tank aerial was nearly pulled from his grasp.

Damien could only watch open mouthed as Donald expertly played the fish through all the snags in the swim and brought him into the bank, with the battered Colorado spoon visible in the scissors.

“Net ‘im for me would you, laddie,” said a puffing Donald. Damien scooped the pike up onto the bank. He could see it was a double and his heart sank. The scales confirmed a weight of just under 14lbs and Donald was dancing around like a two year old.

“Don’t feel too bad laddie, its just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. And remember I’ve got a lot more experience with you. When I used to fish with Walker……….”

“Oh, for ***** sake, I can’t take any more of this.” Damien cringed and closed his mind to the next ten minute tale of yet another Walker exploit.

“And there’s still some life left in that old tackle of mine, don’t always need that new-fangled gear you know! Let’s get home for some tea and we can tell your mum and dad about my silver cup.” Damien was gutted, he helped Donald pack up and headed off to the car park.

When they got back to the car, Damien reached into his pocket and grudgingly offered the £ 20 to Donald. “A bet is a bet, you caught the first fish, and the biggest, so here you are.”

Donald turned to Damien and frowned. “I really feel bad about taking your money like this, especially as you bought my ticket as well. Let me at least give you something for the petrol.”

Damien looked at the pound coin that had been thrust into his hand and shook his head. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Could he possibly take another fishing trip with the old git, and still stay sane? Another session like today’s and he would probably have to be restrained from running him through with a bank stick.