The Art of the Bankside Prank

The excitement of a sudden triumph, the satisfaction of a plan coming together, the beauty of the countryside, the smells of mother nature. All these are reasons why anglers face all kinds of hardships and inconveniences in pursuit of their obsession.

But there are darker pleasures to be enjoyed in this wonderful sport.Witnessing a companion ‘coming a cropper’, for example, especially if it involves a soaking, a bull or a swarm of bees, can be as memorable as the catch of a lifetime. And infinitely funnier.

But even better is the bankside prank. A well-executed prank is like a wedding. It needs meticulous planning, attention to detail, timing and creativity. One mistake could lead to disaster. There is no humiliation greater than a back-fired prank, and it is written large in the laws of pranking that the victim’s elation knows no bounds when this happens. Not only is he delighted, but he has justice on his side: the natural laws worked in his favour. The prankster just look likes a complete fool who got what he deserved. The hunter becomes the hunted. More of this later.

During my youth I was accompanied on my fishing trips by various pals, most of who stopped fishing when they discovered the delights of inebriation and copulation.

One such character, Brian, was legendary around my Lancashire home town. He roamed the banks like Jeremy Beadle in Wellingtons and tomfoolery was never too far away. He was actually quite an adept angler when he put his mind to it, but his periods of concentration were interspersed with moments of wickedness; ‘Dodges’, as he called them. As a regular companion of his I was regularly ‘dodged’ and learnt to recognise an unexplained glint in his eye or a prolonged silence as the calm before the storm.

It was suicide to leave your tackle unattended when Brian was around. He had the great talent of seeming to be able to defecate at will and it was a near cert that you would find one of his stinking deposits in your bait box or basket, sitting proud as punch like a fetid Christmas present.

Brian once subjected me to a prank which still wakes me up sweating occasionally. It was summer holidays and we fished quietly for bream at Jack Lodge. I was transfixed on my float, waiting excitedly for a bite.

Suddenly, and this all happened in a flash, it went briefly dark. The next thing I knew I was on the floor vomiting violently.

Brian had followed his nose and sniffed out a ‘dodge’ in the form of a huge, bloated, rotting roach on the bank. He had managed to hook the carcass with a spinner, creep up behind me and swing it directly into my face. It exploded all over me, a mess of tissue, bones, maggots and guts.

If there is a heaven, then there is a hell, and the flatulent bottom of Satan himself could not smell any worse than that roach on that August afternoon. I was sick until my stomach was empty. I heaved and coughed as the incredible smell enveloped me and I had no choice but to jump in the lake and scrub myself. Brian danced gleefully from foot to foot. I was furious and chased him around the lake, retching, while he laughed dementedly.

There were three possible finales to an unsuccessful fishing trip with Brian.

One was the mudfight, which needs no explanation. A ball of wet mud thrown to the head or fishing basket was his favourite way to announce that he felt the session had come to a natural end.

Another was the barrage of bricks and stones into the water. This ritual was usually reserved for a reservoir where large slabs were everywhere. He usually began this ritual with the phrase,

“Let’s teach them a lesson.”

Five minutes later the reservoir could have held the national surfing championships.

His other favourite boredom-reliever was the casting competition. The rules were simple: Tie on a pike bung or the biggest leger weight in your box and see how far you could cast it.

One of these competitions was reaching its climax one afternoon on Isle of Man Pond. Arguments were breaking out and baskets being ransacked for heavier weights. Andy, a couple of years younger than us, was frustrated by his inability to cast to the island. Brian and I both managed it and teased him mercilessly. It was Andy’s final attempt and he gave it his all, running up to his cast like a pace bowler in a test match. However, he mistimed things and his momentum propelled him, arms and rod flailing, right into the lake. Brian and I laughed like hyenas as he wallowed in the deep water, unable to get out. He reached his hand up to Brian with a pleading expression on his face.

Brian, still laughing, lent down to give him a hand, an unusually benign gesture for the master of mischief. And in a second, Andy’s expression changed from that of a pathetic, drowning victim to that of the devil himself. With a heave, he pulled Brian into the murky depths with him and emitted a maniacal laugh. Brian was under water for what seemed like an age. As he surfaced, a startled expression on his face, I laughed so violently my lungs hurt. Justice had been done; the hunter had become the hunted and young Andy had succeeded where many others had failed: Brian had been ‘dodged’.

But something was wrong. Andy was by now grabbing handfuls of reeds and climbing up the steep bank, whereas Brian seemed to be struggling. He bobbed under for a second and surfaced, spluttering like a seal.

“I can’t swim!” he coughed, a clear note of panic in his voice. He thrashed at the surface and attempted a strange form of doggypaddle. He was making no progress but was only a few feet from the bank. The water was obviously deep. Andy, by this time, had heaved himself on the bank and was becoming aware of the drama.

“Help him out!” he yelled, stood up and promptly slipped in the mud.

I knew that Brian’s life was in my hands. Pranks and mischief were OK but this had suddenly got wildly out of hand. I got onto my knees, instinct taking over. Grabbing a rock, I reached out for Brian’s hand. I was terrified as I could only just reach.

“Please!” was all Brian could gasp. My fingers closed around his and he went under the water again. Miraculously, he managed to bring his other hand up and grabbed my wrist. All I needed to do was pull and I could save him from this predicament. Just one feat of strength and…..

Suddenly there was a movement of air around my ears, the world went dark and my mind was plunged into shock. I realised I was under the water and struggled to the surface. As my mind refocused I could hear the sound of hysterical laughter. Brian clambered the bank in seconds and the two of them stood, staggering and pointing, with delight written all over them.

Furiously, I realised I had been ‘dodged’. Again.

The three of us squelched home that night, pushing and shoving each other happily. The sun sank lazily over the Lancashire hills and we all prepared for the inevitable fireworks from our mothers.

Twenty years after those glorious summer days my friend, Alan, and I were spending a week in a caravan on The Dorset Stour

After a slow morning, Alan made the daily walk back to the caravan to make lunch. As we shared a peg and the midday sun had killed the sport, he left his rod fishing for me to watch. As he plodded off the devil appeared in my mind. His horned face was Brian’s. An idea hatched.

“Your quivertip was just moving,” I told him as he appeared, sweating, tray in hand.

An excited expression crossed his face as he picked up his rod, more in hope then expectation. The rod hooped immediately into a satisfying bend.

“I’ve got one!” he said as something broke surface downstream. Within a few seconds he had the net outstretched and the mesh engulfed his prize.

The trap had sprung. He lifted his net and exclaimed,

“It’s a massive bream!”

As he opened the folds of the net, a look of horror swept over his face as the stench hit him. It was the rotting carcass of a bream which I had spotted in the margins earlier. I collapsed in a heap laughing, twelve years old all over again. It wasn’t until revenge was exacted in the form of a live eel in my bait box later that week that I stopped gloating.

Brian, no longer an angler, his spirit quelled by domestic drudgery by this time, would have been proud.