It’s 3 o’clock on Sunday morning and it’s freezing. I was woken from a doze by a beep on my indicator, but it was only weed so I slither down the dew-slick grass, reel in, replace the soggy Halli Hooker and recast. I pause for a moment to admire the magnificence of the night sky: Orion the hunter, Cassiopeia the swan, the little smudge of the Pleiadies. With no moon and no light pollution every constellation is pin-sharp, highlighted by the diamond shimmer of the Milky Way. I’m brought back to earth by the subsonic rumble of a snore from the little ghetto of Pauls further down the bank – probably Lord Paul sleeping off the port and stilton. I settle back into my seat, shivering, and pull the damp sleeping bag around me. I’m cold and tired, and I haven’t had a fish in the past 24 hours. 
“What am I doing here?”
Let’s wind back to find out…..
It all started a couple of months ago when Matt Corker decided it was time to have another Trent fish-in. A call to our resident Trent Guru and a quick session on the ouija board and “Big Swordsy’s Michael Jackson Memorial Trent Fish-in…. Shamoan!!! Whoohooo!” was born. Well it obviously seemed like a good idea at the time!
Friday afternoon saw Matt Corker, Lord Paul and I racing for peg 56 which Swordsy had informed us was the hot peg. Matt got his bank stick in first, by cunningly blocking the track with his car, forcing me to drive across the field, and burying Lord Paul’s tackle under a mountain of his own gear (well you’d find it difficult to run with your tackle trapped under a bed chair, wouldn’t you?).
Muttering curses, Paul and I dropped into the swims on either side of him. For some reason Paul decorated the top of his bivvy with a monkey and he didn’t look best pleased when I asked him why he’d come to a Michael Jackson do dressed as Johnny Vegas.
Friday’s complement was completed with the arrival of Paul B later in the afternoon. The highlight of the evening was when Corker donned a penguin suit, spread a starched white table cloth on the ground and prepared a magnificent repast for his lordship. I downed my tinned sausages and beans to the smell of tender, lightly seared lamb steaks and the gentle chink of cut glass as Matt decanted a fine South African red for the drunken old buffer.
The fishing was slow with a decent chub for Matt on Friday evening and a barbel and a bream for Paul B at first light on Saturday.
Neil Maidment, Pikey Paul, Grumpy Git and Grumpy Git’s rat deterrent all arrived at about the same time on Saturday morning, with Pikey Paul showing solidarity with his fellow Pauls by occupying the swim between them and Grumpy and Neil opting for the pegs at either end of us.
Mr Swords chose to nurse his hangover from a wild night in Sheffield a mere 36 pegs upstream of us in peg 20, although he later moved to his second home, peg 1A, having scared the life out of its previous occupant by “showing him his machete.”
Neil brought an uneventful morning to a close by announcing that it was time to sample the 5 gallon box of beer that he’d brought and we spent a pleasant couple of hours lounging in the warm sunshine drinking beer and eating fairy cakes (thanks Grumpy!). Lord Paul decided that now was the time for the port and stilton, so he washed his beer down with a nice bottle of ruby port and retired to his bivvy to sleep it off.
The highlight of Saturday evening was a chub of about 4lb and a nice barbel of 8lb 13oz to Neil, but soon everyone retired to their bivvies leaving me alone to fish on into the night.
It looks like Saturday afternoon is wash day for the good ladies of Nottingham and I can only surmise that this week they added a bit too much washing powder as they beat their smalls (ooerr!) on the rocky shores around Trent Bridge. The resultant masses of foam drifted downstream and arrived at Collingham just after midnight. First light brought a surreal sight as glistening foam-bergs drifted down through the mist.
Still fishless, I shared a welcome cuppa with Neil as we watched a superb sunrise.
As the sun rose into a cloudless sky most of us decided to call it a day. It had been a bit of a grueller, but all things considered it had been an enjoyable weekend.
