Many of you will have read this when it was first published - I remember it and it cracked me up then, the same as it does today.
I've 'pinched it' from another forum after someone took the time a trouble to copy it out a year or two ago............
ENJOY
Up For T'Cup — The Repeat
On Friday the 14th October 1988 my good friend Mike Winney passed away at the age of 41. I could never understand how anybody could write as well as Mike and not take it seriously, but such was the nature of one of life's genuine free spirits.
For the March 1977 issue of Coarse Fisherman magazine Mike sent me a draft of an article, then entitled "The Bogthorpes". I played around with it and sent it back, Mike finished it off. Thus "Up For T'Cup" was born and the pattern was set.
I have often been asked why we didn't do more, the simple answer was that Mike only wrote when he was in the mood. In his defence, when he was in the mood, he had a tremendous gift for humour. As a tribute to Mike, we will, over the coming months, re-run the entire series. Remembering that this series was written some twelve years ago, I apologise in advance if, as a result of circumstances, we give offence to anybody mentioned, it is after all a work of humorous fiction,
Up For T'Cup- In which Mike Winney takes a look at the newly announced East Anglia Cup.
The hardcore of the Bogthorpe Herons match group, crowded round the radio, as the draw for the last 64 names in the cup were drawn out. Leicester. . .versus. . .St. Austell All Stars — Boston. . .versus. . .Rugby — Birmingham. . .versus. . .Bogthorpe Herons.
No one could deny it, there were definitely sounds of muffled laughter at H.Q., as Fred Jennings and others fought hard to restrain their amusement.
'Bloody Brummies, we've drawn Brum!' groaned Albert, the captain and 67 year old mastermind of the Bogthorpe Herons
.'Can they fish?' asked young Robin, 7th reserve and a comparative newcomer to the fishing game.
'Can they fish?' mimicked Stan, 'Course they can fish, you welly head, they're only the National Champions aren't they? They could spit in a bucket and catch fish that lot, you cloth eared burk
.'They've only got two arms and two legs like us,' stated Blakey, philosophically.
'Yea, that's right, and unless by some freak of nature, they all go and break them, we've no chance,' said Albert.
'Maybe we could send Taffy the mad Welshman and the heavy brigade from the motorway to go and do them over?' suggested Nosepicker Nobby.'
No, no, that's not on, we've got to beat them by cunning, you can't go round maiming people — how much do you think he'd want just to break a few arms?' asked Albert.'
Nay lad, we'll take them if it's on the Severn, ten nests per man and we'll have enough grub to sink them without trace,' announced vice captain Bert, and they believed him.
Arrangements were made in due course for the big day, August 6th, the battleground — the Severn.
'What do you think Clive?' asked Ken, over the fence of his neighbour, fellow match angler and Birmingham stalwart. Clive took another sip of Red Eye before replying,
'Never heard of them, they've got no form, but we can't take any chances. They probably take a drink, we will all go out the night before with them, and see what they know.'
'No way!' said Ken, 'I've got my image to think of, in bed by 10.00 the night before a big match, cup of Horlicks and then sleepies; it wouldn't do for me to be seen out on the town the night before a match like this.'
'Ooh, you're no fun anymore, I knew that would happen once you found out about girls. Relax — a few drinks won't harm your image,' said Clive.
The coach carrying the twelve hopeful team members, 120 wasp nests and 24 crates of Brown Ale, set off on its way.
'Good luck, give 'em one for us,' said those not fortunate enough to get on the coach.
By the time they hit the M18, they were three parts pickled, and talk of victory filled the air.
Only Albert, the team captain held back on his reckoning on what the glorious Bogthorpe Herons were able to do to the highly rated Brummies.
By the time the coach hit Birmingham, only the driver was sober, and by some miracle he found his way to the guest house, where Smithy, the home team's captain, had arranged for them to stay.
'Never mind the bedrooms, old luv,' said Albert to the hotel manageress, 'Where's the karsi?' 'It's over there, but you won't all get in,' she said as the 12th member of the party closed the door behind him.
'Aah, that's better!' came the sigh of relief in unison, as the gallant 12 returned. 'Don't go in there for awhile love and don't strike a match,' said Albert to the Guest House's Receptionist. 'Right lads, we'll check the gear, have a quick wash, a team meeting, a bag of "*****s lips", and then we'll go out and have a drink with these here Brummies to cement relations between North and Midlands and see if they know 'owt.'
'Aye, why don't we get 'em so bottled up, they'll see three floats in t'morning?'
'Wouldn't work old lad.'
'Why not?'
"Cos when they struck at them all going under, they'd be bound to hit one and knowing these buggers they'd probably catch all three.'
'What'll you lads have to drink?' asked Maxie, one of the Brum hot-shots.
'Any Newcastle Brown Ale?' asked Albert, 'We train on it.'
'We'll have twelve pints then old cock,' said Albert, brightening visibly.
Can I have a tomato juice please?' said Gilesy.
'Not when you come out with the Bogthorpe Herons you can't!' said Stan, putting a bottle of lunatic broth in front of Ken.
The evening wore on and the Brummies tried hard to steer the conversation round to fishing. Apart from the obvious language barrier, the Herons were more intent on chatting up the local dollies and drinking Birmingham dry of Brown Ale.
'They're a rum crew this lot!' said Maxie, They'll be too plastered in the morning to fish.'
At 1.00 a.m. the last of the home team had departed, none the wiser about their opponents, except that at a drinking contest they would get well hammered. There had been no mention of the GRUB. The dreaded GRUB.
The Bogthorpe heavy mob had been picked on the strength of this strategy and they were all seasoned chub shoal maulers, but not much else. In fact, half of them had never seen a stick float.
The Draw took place and the respective teams moved off to their pegs, suddenly and quite by chance Maxie spotted it, THE GRUB.
They've got the grub Clive, mountains of it!' hissed Maxie to Clive the captain.
Clive grabbed Albert, 'Excuse me pal, I couldn't help noticing that one or two of your lads had the Grub.'
'One or two!' retorted Albert with a smirk,
'We've got bleedin' tons of it, there's chub 'ere isn't there?'
'Aye, there's chub here alright, tons of 'em, but the Grubs banned,' replied Clive. By now the entire Bogthorpe team had gathered round the two captains. 'Banned said a somewhat stunned Arthur, 'Banned!! what do you mean banned, it's not banned on the Tees?'
'Well it's banned here old lad,' said Clive, 'You will have to use your change bait.'
'Change bait — change bait, we haven't got any change bait, our change bait as you call it, is more Grub.' Albert was rapidly loosing his cool. 'You've bleeding cheated us Smithy, lulled us into a false sense of security.' Albert could see the 'Giant Killing', headlines slipping away from him.
Clive took a bottle of Red Eye from his creel and took a swig, then handed the bottle to Albert. 'Listen pal, we don't need to cheat, we're the champions; we'll split our bait with you.' Albert took a swig of the Red Eye, and as his eyes started to water, he squared up to the big Brummie.
'Okay blue eyes, let battle commence.'
Each member of the Birmingham squad handed over 2 pints of casters to a Bogthorpe member and off they went to their pegs.
Nosepicker Nobby arrived at his peg and inspected his casters.
'Okay Nobby?' said Bert, as he passed by.
'Bert, how do I get one of these on to a No. 10's hook?' asked Nobby.
'Put 8 on lad,' said Bert.
The Bogthorpe mob tackled up with rough nasty swimfeeders, 5lb line direct to No. 10's and rods which Fred Bailey would have nodded his assent to. Casters were mulched up and mixed with groundbait and each man had half a pillowcase full of feed. The crowd guessed what was going to happen and sat back to watch the fun. The whistle went and the disgraceful and premeditated bombardment got under way. The chub were not slow to react. Swimfeeders in the battleship class hit the water at every alternate peg.
But the Brummies were on their home water and soon their single casters on 20 hooks incited the roach to feed. Both sides were in action and the contrast in styles was a tonic for the large crowd that had turned out. Where else could you see anglers lift out pound plus fish, whilst at the next peg, stick floats were being used with comparatively light tackle to tempt a string of smaller fish.
'Beauty and the beast!' commented one spectator.
It was all good stuff, and if it hadn't been for the fact that the chub only showed for an hour, it would have been a nasty Severn massacre. As it was the chub went right off — over-feeding, spooked, no-one ever knew but the chub dried up and the Bogthorpe Herons sat out the last four hours with only the odd fish to show.
The Brummies overhauled them of course, 216lbs to 189lbs. It was close and had been a great match. They breathed a sigh of relief at the end, their honour intact, likewise the visitors could hold their heads up.
'Well,' said Clive to Albert, 'You nearly took us there, but why didn't you bring a change bait, a few maggots would have caught you enough barbel to beat us?'
'Well Clive, I'll tell thee, we reasoned that we'd never beat you at home, fishing the bobbin, so we took the gamble on wasp grub, and the feeder, anyway, you beat us fair and square, so let's go and have a reel good drink, including t'funny fella with t'moustache.'
'Not me,' said Gilesy, 'I'm off home to listen to the next round of the draw and I'm praying for an away draw on some quiet canal against a team of teetotallers.'
'Ooh, you're no fun anymore,' chipped in Smithy. Clive turned to Albert, 'He's just found out about girls you know.'
'Well Clive, I'll tell thee, tha's beat us fair and square,' said Albert the captain, and 67 year old mastermind of the now defeated Bogthorpe Herons. 'Mind you, it would 'a bin a different story if we'd 'ad thee up on't Tees.'
The two men settled down for a drink, Albert armed with a pint of Newcastle Brown in each hand, leaned back in his chair, whilst the big Brummy bit the top of another bottle of Red Eye.
'You don't use the feeder down 'ere then?' said Albert slowly.
'Not a lot,' said the big fellow, 'Gilesy tried it once and ruptured 'imself. Max 'as left 'em alone since he fell into one of Fred Bailey's and was missing for three days.'
During the previous 24 hours, the two men had developed a mutual respect for each other: Albert had been astounded by the big man's efficient manner, his super cool squad, his finesse and professionalism. Smithy on the other hand couldn't help but respect a man that had the misfortune to have to motivate the likes of Nosepicker Nobby and Big Bert. Due to a freak of nature, Big Bert had been born blind in his left eye and deaf in his right ear, this meant that unless you stood straight in front of him to speak, he could either hear but not see you, or see but not hear you. To make matters worse, his equilibrium was so affected by this strange affliction, that when he spoke he generally fell over.
Albert looked at the rest of the dejected Bogthorpe Squad who had now gathered at the bar. Gone were the headlines he had seen so clearly in his mind; was this really the team that only 24 hours earlier had downed 36 crates of Newcastle Brown in four hours, were these men really the cream of the North-East?
Albert was at a loss to know how to pick them up off of the floor, when suddenly, a miracle occurred.
'I'll bring my lads up to the North-East and we'll fish against you on the Tees,' said Smith.
[move]To be continued.............[/move]
If you are signing up to the forums, Thank you. You will need to activate your account by clicking a link in an email from the forums.
Please make sure you check your Junk/Spam folder for the email and make sure you spell your email address correctly or you won't get the email.
Thanks again. Dismiss this with the [X] >>>>>>
Please make sure you check your Junk/Spam folder for the email and make sure you spell your email address correctly or you won't get the email.
Thanks again. Dismiss this with the [X] >>>>>>
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
Moderator: TK
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
Max, Ken Smith and Barry Brookes couldn't believe what the skipper had said. Albert and the rest of the lads couldn't believe it either.
'W'em going to the North-East?' said Barry Brookes Albert leaped from his chair and took Smithy by the hand, 'You sir, are a sportsman! A fool but nevertheless a sportsman.' The rest of the Herons were shouting and cheering, Nobby stopped picking his nose and danced on the table, Bert shook hands with Max Winter, 'By we'll give thee some welly,' he managed to say before falling over.
Albert called for some quiet. 'Lads, it's going to cost these lads some brass to come up to Bogthorpe, what d'yer say to us having a side bet of £25 per man, winner take all?' 'Aye,' came the cry from all except Bert, who could neither see nor hear from where he was lying. What d'yer say Clive?' asked Albert. Smithy knew he was on a hiding to nothing, but what could he do but agree? The Herons had got their wish to fish against Brum on the Tees with no bait bans. The rest of the evening was spent in a haze of alcoholic anticipation.
'He'll go berserk when he finds out, he's never drawn that much out of the bank before — £25 plus expenses? That could come to £50. How will you break it to him?' asked Max. 'I daren't think about it; said Clive as he drove the car off the road into his drive. 'Maybe we won't have to tell him — if we win, he'll never have to know.' 'Win?' said Max somewhat hysterical, 'How do you propose to beat that crowd of loonies on the Tees? Half of the swims are only two foot deep and they'll have more bloody wasps nests than there are in the whole of Warwickshire — he'll have to know.'
'Morning Clive,' said Gilesy across the fence, 'You were late last night — did you stay for a drink with those lads?' The big man knew his 'high noon' had arrived, he braced himself, lit a cigar and looked Gilesy straight in the eye. 'Sit down on your garden seat Ken, I've something to say which could give you acute indigestion of the wallet and maybe a dose of that well known skin disease derma tightarse.' Gilesy felt a tingle move up his back, and his hands felt clammy.
Only that very day he'd written to Trebor deploring their decision to increase the price of Blackjacks from 4 to 2 a penny.
'I've arranged a return match with them on the Tees, with a £25 per man sidestake,' said Smith. Gilesy didn't move, he was visibly shaken, but he didn't move.
After what seemed to be an eternity, he spoke 'When?" A week on Saturday,' said Smith. 'Oh!' said Gilesy smiling, 'That's a pity, I'm going to a wedding.' 'Bloody liar!' snapped Smithy. 'Who's wedding? You don't know anyone that's getting married. Who in their right mind would get married in the middle of the season?' 'A girl who works with Margaret,' said Gilesy. 'Well, I've put you down to fish, we leave here at 6.00 p.m. Friday next.'
For more than a week, the two men hardly exchanged more than a couple of words. Then as the big match drew nearer, Smith called a team meeting 'Well lads,' said skipper, 'Ken Smith has come up with 10 nests, Barry has 5 and I've got 9, so that's approximately 2 apiece, they will probably have above 10 apiece, so we've got to think of something different. Max has been up there practising for two days, he should be here about 9 o'clock, so until he comes — how about some suggestions?'
For the next half hour, various suggestions found their way into Clive's waste paper basket, obviously they hadn't enough grub — and those rub a dubs loves the grubs. At precisely 9 o'clock, the door bell rang, 'Here's Max, let him in somebody.' The door was opened and in strode Max, looking tired and dirty after his long drive. The skipper offered him a shot of Red Eye, but the little countryman refused. 'What's the strength Max, is it chub?'
Max composed himself. There's chub there like big steaming pigs, but they're not in every swim. 25lb will win the match, but if they all fish the feeder, there will be dry nets. Twelve men fishing the feeder will catch 120lb of fish.' That's 10lb per man,' said Clive.
'Not quite,' continued Max. 'At least three of them will have dry nets, if they all stick it out, but somehow I think they 'aint as dumb as they crack on, that Nobby, the one who does the open cast mining on his nose, was hemping it, with tares on the hook. 'Was he catching,' asked Gilesy. 'Was he buggary,' retorted Max. They're up to something.'
The Brummies eventually left their options open, with no hard and fast team plan. At the other end of the country, the Bogthorpes' 'Dirty Tricks Dept' were fast running out of ideas.
'It'll have to be Kidology then,' said Albert at last.
Eleven blank stares met this last statement.
'I passed Biology at school, but I've never heard of this Kidology,' offered Jacko.
'It means mental warfare.. .oh, forget it,' said Albert throwing up his arms.
To put it simply, we have to confuse them to such an extent, that they won't know if they want a poo, shampoo or a haircut. . .get it?'
Eleven faces brightened in unison.
The day dawned and Smithy and the rest of the Brum hotshots, turned out on the selected venue, the lower reaches of the Tees, where it was just tidal enough to create problems for the unsuspecting visitors, but, and this is what the Bogthorpes knew and the Brummies didn't, this match coincided with the biggest spring tide of the year, about an eight foot lift, it was going to create near panic and hysteria.
'Is it tidal here?' Smithy asked Maxie.
'Couple of foot our kid, that's all, it'll slow down and lift a bit then run off.'
'Couple of foot?'
'Positive,' said Maxie.
Albert gathered the team round.
'Right, everyone know what they're doing, Nobby, Jacko, Bert. . .BERT, d'ya know what to do?'
'Er, yea it'll work a treat. . .' THUD.
'Pick him up someone and get him to his peg,' urged Stan.
A shrill whistle started the proceedings and every man stared hard downstream at the next man to see what was going to happen. For a minute, no one made a move. Eventually the Bogthorpes picked up their float tackle and commenced operations close in, loose feeding with hemp and fishing tares. A tactic without precedent. The Brummies were clearly puzzled, but held off on the Grub and followed suit hardly believing their luck. For an hour everyone fished the hemp and tares, with the sluggish flow hardly helping the fish to respond.
At 12.45, the river slowed up to a standstill and crept over the bank, all in the space of a few minutes.
The tide', reasoned Smithy correctly. The tide is slowing the river down, couple of foot,' Maxie said.
Just then, the Bogthorpes opened up at every peg, with a cannonade of groundbait, laced with feed, right in the middle of the river. It went in like nothing ever witnessed before. The Brummies stood in the rising water, watching with fascination as their north country cousins piled in a baby's bath-full each.
'It's not the tide lifting the river, it's all the groundbait,' muttered Gilesy.
As soon as this operation was finished, the Bogthorpes grabbed all their tackle and scrambled up the muddy banks to the top.
The river was now lifting at an alarming rate and the Brummies were soon awash.
Keepnets, baskets and landing nets were being engulfed by the rising water as Smithy's mob fought hard to salvage their tackle from the clinging mud and scramble to safety. The river, under the influence of the big spring tide, started to run the other way, giving it a totally different look.
The Bogthorpes switched to heavy feeders and big lumps of bread and took command of the situation, leaving the Brummy challenge in rags, as they sorted out their tackle, emptied waders and scratched their heads as they looked down on the rising river now running upstream.
'Bread, they're fishing bread not the grub, what's going on.. .the river's going back upstream,' groaned Smithy. . . 'WINTERS.. .' he yelled '. . .you ****er, you said it was a two foot lift, the bleedin' thing's lifted 8 feet.'
Whilst the Brummies were reassembling ranks, Big Bert hit into a chub mid river, Albert hit one, so did Fred. It was too late for the Brummies to feed the middle line as the depth and current made it too inaccurate. Maxi© cracked the alternative method first and took a 10oz dace off his rod end on the tip. The others soon cottoned on, but the Bogthorpes were still getting it on with their feeders.
Smithy's team concentrated on their inside line, where the flow gave them a chance to get some bait down. Barry B started to get chub off his rod end and switched to a bunch of casters on the float and started to cane them. The tide was starting to turn in more sense than one.
At the end of five hours, the river was running back downstream and had dropped off six foot. Since the start it had lifted eight foot, surged upstream, stopped dead, lifted a further foot, run back and dropped off three foot an hour. Even Albert was confused by the biggest tide of the year.
Barry B had 27-11, Albert 24-8, Big Bert 21-9 and then the Bogthorpe challenge had run out. The Brummies consistency had shown yet again, Maxie had 19-0 Smithy 17-8 and Gilesy 16-5. The visitors had danced it.
They all trooped into the Bluebell, the Brummies easily recognised by their mud caked gear, after what Albert described as the penalty for being caught in their 'off tide trap'...
'Just look at my tackle,' said Gilesy, covered in mud.
Tha's lucky lad, a few more minutes and you would have been a gonner, we thought that Maxie Winters would have told you about it,' laughed Big Bert, throwing another wobble and keeling over.
Fortified with 'El Boozo' the wonder drink, the two sides forgot their differences.
'Why didn't you use the Grub?' asked Smithy at length.
The Grub,' said Albert, a sly grin cracking his face. 'Nay lad, bread's the thing up here at the moment, the grubs alright on the Ure, Ouse and Swale, but no good on the Tees till later on. . .didst tha bring some?'
'We brought five nests each.. .you old git!' spluttered Smithy.
'Only five, we hoped you'd bring twenty five, because they won't last the journey back without refrigeration and we'd be pleased to take them off your hands. We reasoned it would be quicker than digging them ourselves...' said Albert.
Smithy laughed, as Albert handed over the £300, the total of the side bet.
'What's this outing, you lot are organising up here?' asked Maxie, looking at a big poster on the wall.
'We're trying to raise funds to send ten of our handicapped youngsters for a week's fishing in Ireland, they're keen as mustard, so we organise charity matches and the like to get them well kitted out,' explained Nobby.
'Well,' said Clive, stuffing the £300 back into Albert's top pocket, 'see they get the best tackle, bait and transport that money can buy.'
Albert gave the big fellow a huge grin and shook his hand.
'Well,' he said at length, 'ya bugga, if that don't beat all.'
To be continued.........
'W'em going to the North-East?' said Barry Brookes Albert leaped from his chair and took Smithy by the hand, 'You sir, are a sportsman! A fool but nevertheless a sportsman.' The rest of the Herons were shouting and cheering, Nobby stopped picking his nose and danced on the table, Bert shook hands with Max Winter, 'By we'll give thee some welly,' he managed to say before falling over.
Albert called for some quiet. 'Lads, it's going to cost these lads some brass to come up to Bogthorpe, what d'yer say to us having a side bet of £25 per man, winner take all?' 'Aye,' came the cry from all except Bert, who could neither see nor hear from where he was lying. What d'yer say Clive?' asked Albert. Smithy knew he was on a hiding to nothing, but what could he do but agree? The Herons had got their wish to fish against Brum on the Tees with no bait bans. The rest of the evening was spent in a haze of alcoholic anticipation.
'He'll go berserk when he finds out, he's never drawn that much out of the bank before — £25 plus expenses? That could come to £50. How will you break it to him?' asked Max. 'I daren't think about it; said Clive as he drove the car off the road into his drive. 'Maybe we won't have to tell him — if we win, he'll never have to know.' 'Win?' said Max somewhat hysterical, 'How do you propose to beat that crowd of loonies on the Tees? Half of the swims are only two foot deep and they'll have more bloody wasps nests than there are in the whole of Warwickshire — he'll have to know.'
'Morning Clive,' said Gilesy across the fence, 'You were late last night — did you stay for a drink with those lads?' The big man knew his 'high noon' had arrived, he braced himself, lit a cigar and looked Gilesy straight in the eye. 'Sit down on your garden seat Ken, I've something to say which could give you acute indigestion of the wallet and maybe a dose of that well known skin disease derma tightarse.' Gilesy felt a tingle move up his back, and his hands felt clammy.
Only that very day he'd written to Trebor deploring their decision to increase the price of Blackjacks from 4 to 2 a penny.
'I've arranged a return match with them on the Tees, with a £25 per man sidestake,' said Smith. Gilesy didn't move, he was visibly shaken, but he didn't move.
After what seemed to be an eternity, he spoke 'When?" A week on Saturday,' said Smith. 'Oh!' said Gilesy smiling, 'That's a pity, I'm going to a wedding.' 'Bloody liar!' snapped Smithy. 'Who's wedding? You don't know anyone that's getting married. Who in their right mind would get married in the middle of the season?' 'A girl who works with Margaret,' said Gilesy. 'Well, I've put you down to fish, we leave here at 6.00 p.m. Friday next.'
For more than a week, the two men hardly exchanged more than a couple of words. Then as the big match drew nearer, Smith called a team meeting 'Well lads,' said skipper, 'Ken Smith has come up with 10 nests, Barry has 5 and I've got 9, so that's approximately 2 apiece, they will probably have above 10 apiece, so we've got to think of something different. Max has been up there practising for two days, he should be here about 9 o'clock, so until he comes — how about some suggestions?'
For the next half hour, various suggestions found their way into Clive's waste paper basket, obviously they hadn't enough grub — and those rub a dubs loves the grubs. At precisely 9 o'clock, the door bell rang, 'Here's Max, let him in somebody.' The door was opened and in strode Max, looking tired and dirty after his long drive. The skipper offered him a shot of Red Eye, but the little countryman refused. 'What's the strength Max, is it chub?'
Max composed himself. There's chub there like big steaming pigs, but they're not in every swim. 25lb will win the match, but if they all fish the feeder, there will be dry nets. Twelve men fishing the feeder will catch 120lb of fish.' That's 10lb per man,' said Clive.
'Not quite,' continued Max. 'At least three of them will have dry nets, if they all stick it out, but somehow I think they 'aint as dumb as they crack on, that Nobby, the one who does the open cast mining on his nose, was hemping it, with tares on the hook. 'Was he catching,' asked Gilesy. 'Was he buggary,' retorted Max. They're up to something.'
The Brummies eventually left their options open, with no hard and fast team plan. At the other end of the country, the Bogthorpes' 'Dirty Tricks Dept' were fast running out of ideas.
'It'll have to be Kidology then,' said Albert at last.
Eleven blank stares met this last statement.
'I passed Biology at school, but I've never heard of this Kidology,' offered Jacko.
'It means mental warfare.. .oh, forget it,' said Albert throwing up his arms.
To put it simply, we have to confuse them to such an extent, that they won't know if they want a poo, shampoo or a haircut. . .get it?'
Eleven faces brightened in unison.
The day dawned and Smithy and the rest of the Brum hotshots, turned out on the selected venue, the lower reaches of the Tees, where it was just tidal enough to create problems for the unsuspecting visitors, but, and this is what the Bogthorpes knew and the Brummies didn't, this match coincided with the biggest spring tide of the year, about an eight foot lift, it was going to create near panic and hysteria.
'Is it tidal here?' Smithy asked Maxie.
'Couple of foot our kid, that's all, it'll slow down and lift a bit then run off.'
'Couple of foot?'
'Positive,' said Maxie.
Albert gathered the team round.
'Right, everyone know what they're doing, Nobby, Jacko, Bert. . .BERT, d'ya know what to do?'
'Er, yea it'll work a treat. . .' THUD.
'Pick him up someone and get him to his peg,' urged Stan.
A shrill whistle started the proceedings and every man stared hard downstream at the next man to see what was going to happen. For a minute, no one made a move. Eventually the Bogthorpes picked up their float tackle and commenced operations close in, loose feeding with hemp and fishing tares. A tactic without precedent. The Brummies were clearly puzzled, but held off on the Grub and followed suit hardly believing their luck. For an hour everyone fished the hemp and tares, with the sluggish flow hardly helping the fish to respond.
At 12.45, the river slowed up to a standstill and crept over the bank, all in the space of a few minutes.
The tide', reasoned Smithy correctly. The tide is slowing the river down, couple of foot,' Maxie said.
Just then, the Bogthorpes opened up at every peg, with a cannonade of groundbait, laced with feed, right in the middle of the river. It went in like nothing ever witnessed before. The Brummies stood in the rising water, watching with fascination as their north country cousins piled in a baby's bath-full each.
'It's not the tide lifting the river, it's all the groundbait,' muttered Gilesy.
As soon as this operation was finished, the Bogthorpes grabbed all their tackle and scrambled up the muddy banks to the top.
The river was now lifting at an alarming rate and the Brummies were soon awash.
Keepnets, baskets and landing nets were being engulfed by the rising water as Smithy's mob fought hard to salvage their tackle from the clinging mud and scramble to safety. The river, under the influence of the big spring tide, started to run the other way, giving it a totally different look.
The Bogthorpes switched to heavy feeders and big lumps of bread and took command of the situation, leaving the Brummy challenge in rags, as they sorted out their tackle, emptied waders and scratched their heads as they looked down on the rising river now running upstream.
'Bread, they're fishing bread not the grub, what's going on.. .the river's going back upstream,' groaned Smithy. . . 'WINTERS.. .' he yelled '. . .you ****er, you said it was a two foot lift, the bleedin' thing's lifted 8 feet.'
Whilst the Brummies were reassembling ranks, Big Bert hit into a chub mid river, Albert hit one, so did Fred. It was too late for the Brummies to feed the middle line as the depth and current made it too inaccurate. Maxi© cracked the alternative method first and took a 10oz dace off his rod end on the tip. The others soon cottoned on, but the Bogthorpes were still getting it on with their feeders.
Smithy's team concentrated on their inside line, where the flow gave them a chance to get some bait down. Barry B started to get chub off his rod end and switched to a bunch of casters on the float and started to cane them. The tide was starting to turn in more sense than one.
At the end of five hours, the river was running back downstream and had dropped off six foot. Since the start it had lifted eight foot, surged upstream, stopped dead, lifted a further foot, run back and dropped off three foot an hour. Even Albert was confused by the biggest tide of the year.
Barry B had 27-11, Albert 24-8, Big Bert 21-9 and then the Bogthorpe challenge had run out. The Brummies consistency had shown yet again, Maxie had 19-0 Smithy 17-8 and Gilesy 16-5. The visitors had danced it.
They all trooped into the Bluebell, the Brummies easily recognised by their mud caked gear, after what Albert described as the penalty for being caught in their 'off tide trap'...
'Just look at my tackle,' said Gilesy, covered in mud.
Tha's lucky lad, a few more minutes and you would have been a gonner, we thought that Maxie Winters would have told you about it,' laughed Big Bert, throwing another wobble and keeling over.
Fortified with 'El Boozo' the wonder drink, the two sides forgot their differences.
'Why didn't you use the Grub?' asked Smithy at length.
The Grub,' said Albert, a sly grin cracking his face. 'Nay lad, bread's the thing up here at the moment, the grubs alright on the Ure, Ouse and Swale, but no good on the Tees till later on. . .didst tha bring some?'
'We brought five nests each.. .you old git!' spluttered Smithy.
'Only five, we hoped you'd bring twenty five, because they won't last the journey back without refrigeration and we'd be pleased to take them off your hands. We reasoned it would be quicker than digging them ourselves...' said Albert.
Smithy laughed, as Albert handed over the £300, the total of the side bet.
'What's this outing, you lot are organising up here?' asked Maxie, looking at a big poster on the wall.
'We're trying to raise funds to send ten of our handicapped youngsters for a week's fishing in Ireland, they're keen as mustard, so we organise charity matches and the like to get them well kitted out,' explained Nobby.
'Well,' said Clive, stuffing the £300 back into Albert's top pocket, 'see they get the best tackle, bait and transport that money can buy.'
Albert gave the big fellow a huge grin and shook his hand.
'Well,' he said at length, 'ya bugga, if that don't beat all.'
To be continued.........
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
please can we have some more tony 
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
Glad somebodies reading it Manny So just for you ;)
...Part 3 in the never ending saga by Mike Winney
Having beaten the Bogthorpe Herons and Wigstock WMC on their way to the semi¬final of the East Anglian Cup, the BAA squad were in a confident mood, as they huddled around skipper Clive Smith's steam radio, waiting to hear the draw, for this, the penultimate hurdle before the final.
'And now,' said the unseen radio announcer, 'here is the draw for the semifinal of the East Anglian Cup.'
There was a pause, as an unseen, possibly dead NFA official placed his hand into the infamous black bag.
'Bristol Brassier and Corsetry Company AC at home to ... Chelmsford Choppers. London Select at home to ... Birmingham Anglers Association.'
'We've got Mumford's crowd,' said Kenny Smith, as he pulled himself up on one arm from his horizontal position behind the sofa where he was recovering from 14 pints of lunchtime bitter.
Clive switched off the radio, having heard all he wanted to hear and apart from that it saved electricity.'What do you think Clive?' asked Kenny Giles.
The big man thought for a while, took a quick gulp from the bottle of red eye and leaned forward.
If we can't win a 24 peg scramble against a bunch of southern wombles, then I'll walk down Evesham high street, starkers.'
Maxie Winters, who had throughout this series established himself as a thinking angler, suddenly removed an enormous gobstopper from his mouth and placed it in his pocket.
'You've got maggots in that pocket,' gasped young Mark.
'It's all right, they can't eat gobstoppers,' replied the Gloucester dwarf, 'too tough for 'em see ... they likes Mars bars though.'
That'll do Max,' interrupted Clive. 'Well, what do we know about the venue, it's the Thames, anyone fished at Groolers End before?'
There was a short silence, followed by a longer one.
'Anyone heard of it?' asked Clive in desperation.
No one spoke.
'It's got to be some sort of joke,' said Barry at length. 'It sounds like the name you would give to the worst venue in the world'.
'We shall make enquiries then,' summed up Clive.
Just as the meeting was on the point of breaking up the phone rang and Clive sicked up the receiver.
'It's Mumford,' he hissed, cupping the phone with his hands, to deaden the laughter from the BAA squad.
The Brummies' reaction was one of mixed amusement and shock.
'Ask him how he got on in the Junior National,' said Lloyd.
'Quiet a minute lads,' said Clive, switching the phone on to the intercom, so that everyone could hear the conversation.
'Yes Ray, what can I do for you, I presume you've heard the draw,' said Clive, regaining his composure.
It's about the match, the semi-final, I just want to clear up a few points first, so that there will be no misunderstandings,' stated Ray.
That's okay, what's on your mind?' asked Clive.
'Well, to start with, if it rains, before or during the match, we want to call it off,' said Ray.
'I beg your pardon, call it off if it rains, I've never heard a rule like that before, are you serious? asked Clive.
Yes I am serious, it's a new southern rule that we are campaigning to get introduced, if it rains, it means that our tackle will get muddy, and I don't think my team would like that, do you realise that we spend on average 36 hours a week, perfecting and cleaning our tackle?'
'Sorry Ray, I can't agree to that. It's not in any match rules that I've ever come across,' said Clive, looking both puzzled and amused.
'We'll have to take it to arbitration then,' stated Ray.
'You can take it to constipation for all I care, we aren't having that sort of nonsense,' said Clive.
'I'll speak to my solicitors about it, I shall also campaign in the angling press to get this rule brought in, I don't see why we should suffer, do you know how much one of my team's custom built, teak inlaid, tackle boxes cost?' demanded Ray.
'About a tenner?' hazarded Clive.
'£420!' Shrieked Ray, 'and for that, he's entitled to some protection.'
'I think you need securicor, not a wet weather clause, in fact the only time Kenny Smith gets his tackle cleaned is when it rains, or when he takes all his kit out and dunks it in the river in his keepnet,' stated Clive.
'Do leave off, I don't have to listen to this cobblers, just be at the venue, on time and correctly dressed,' said Ray.
'What do you mean by correctly dressed? asked Clive,' genuinely puzzled.
'You know perfectly well what I mean, none of this jeans and tee shirts, I expect you all to be wearing shirts and ties,' said Ray and the phone was put down.
'Is he a nutter?' asked Barry, as the other members of the BAA picked themselves up off the floor, suffering from hysteria and acute stomach pains brought on by laughter.
'No, I think he's serious,' said Gilesy. 'He's suffering from a dose of STICKIE.'
'STICKIE?' chorused the lads.
'Yes, it stands for Southerners Think Immaculate Clean Tackle Is Everything.'
The meeting broke up in disarray.
As the day drew nearer, the BAA were putting the final pieces of their match plan together. A day's practice had given them an insight into what to expect at 'Groolers' and it wasn't to be a lot. What had come to light was that the venue was heaving with bleak and underneath the swarming carpet of midget herrings there were undoubtedly chub and a few better roach, but bleak were going to win, at least that's what the select team would be pinning their tactics on. Clive picked up the copy of Angling Times and read the preview of the match. The BAA team had been announced and so had the London Premier squad. The big fella scanned the list of names and scratched his head. There wasn't a single member in the select team who had fished in the previous round. (Yes, yes, I know you are only allowed to nominate so many members to fish in a team, but I'm writing this, so I can make up my own rules ... ok?)
Why was this, surely the whole squad couldn't have been dropped and a new one selected for this match, thought Clive, as he picked up the phone and prepared to make enquiries with his contact in the deep south, none other than Brawling John McCarthy.
'Clive here, tell me John, what's the reasoning behind a completely new squad for the semi-final of the cup, apart from Ray still being in?
That's easy,' said John, 'none of these lads will fish more than one match, they can't stand it, so they resign.'
Can't stand what?' asked Clive.
'Well, to start with, they have to wear shirts and ties for the match, there's also a kit inspection an hour before the draw and anyone found with a trace of mud or groundbait on any of their kit is flogged and never allowed to fish again.'
'That's incredible,' said Clive. Tell me more.'
'Well, after five matches, he's gone through 53 blokes and they just won't have it now, that's why he never has the same team twice. He means well, but the majority of the good anglers won't entertain it, so he has to recruit anyone who will follow his doctrine to the letter, in fact this squad looks like a replica of 11 Ray Mumfords, you might have trouble spotting the real one.'
At 7.30 am on the morning of the match, the entire London Select squad met at Ray's second floor flat. The walls were papered with pictures of Ray insulting Ivan Marks, pictures of him fighting with John McCarthy, pictures of him suing John Wilkinson, pictures of him ignoring Stan Smith (everyone ignores Stan) and one picture of him winning a match (honest). The squad were impressed.
Ray opened the meeting. 'It is important if we are to win this match, that we have a good team spirit, so for that reason, you may all call me Ray, after all, I'm only human. Now then, have any of you ever fished against any of these men before?
'
The total silence gave Ray his answer. 'Now some of them are okay. Kenny Giles is quite clean, so is Lloyd Davies, but most of them are little short of animals, especially Kevin Ashurst and Ken Smith.'
'What about Mark Downes?' asked one of the squad.
'Good question,' said Ray. 'I've influenced Mark quite a lot, but he's not a threat, he only owns 16 poles, he's not flexible enough.
The meeting was a predictable affair, with Ray placing his faith in bleak as Clive had anticipated. Ray knowning that this, his fifth squad, was hardly the cream of the south east, in reality, they were hardly the cream of anywhere, Ray knew they could be easily confused, so he kept the briefing simple. So conscious was he of their vulnerability that even when, during kit inspection, he found specks of groundbait in a float tray of one of his squad's teak veneered tackle box, that he only rained obscenities on the fellow, rather than thrash him within an inch of his life. At 8.30 am, the bus which Ray had hired to carry the squad to the venue arrived at the flat.
Clive and the boys had been walking the banks, Kenny Smith had found a pub, with an understanding landlord and had been having a quick snort to put him in a relaxed frame of mind. At 10.30, the London Select transport rolled up and the first squad members alighted, sniffing the air with suspicion, in case they were downwind of any unsavoury Brummies.
Unbeknown to London, the BAA had recruited a 60 year old into the squad for the match and the secret weapon was sorting through his tackle in the car park. On hearing the London team behind him, he had turned round, given them a grin and bade them his customary 'Good morning me duck's.
'AAAAAGGGGHHH!' yelled one of the select squad members ... RAY, RAY, it's him, look who they've brought.'
'Mornin' me duck,' purred Fred.
'Fred Bailey, they've brought Fred Bailey,' muttered Mumford in disbelief.
At that moment in time, the stench of Fred's decomposing groundbait drifted downwind and caught the Select squad's nostrils off guard. Several of them recoiled, one fainted and another leaned over a wall and had an action replay of his breakfast.
The appearance of a Sherman tank couldn't have had a bigger impact.
'Look at his tackle, I've never seen anything so disgusting in all my life,' spluttered out one of the Select squad. 'He can't possibly fish with that reel, it's encrusted with dry groundbait, ugh! It's too revolting to watch.'
Fred, oblivious to the remarks, opened up a bag of three-month-old casters and mixed them into his groundbait bowl, a rusting biscuit tin. Seagulls, homed in on the smell and began circling and shrieking above him. Meanwhile, Ray had ushered his squad away from the gruesome spectacle and was trying his best to restore calm and order.
Clive and the rest of the team came back from their walk, as the officials arrived to commence the draw. London drew odds, Brummies drew evens. The two sides walked silently along the river bank. The first select team man arrived at peg one.
I'm not fishing there,' he stated resolutely.
'Why, what's the matter with it,' asked the steward.
'What's the matter with it, it's muddy you don't expect me to put my tackle box in that do you, seriously, do you?'
'Yea,' replied the steward. 'You'll be wanting me to lay my coat down in that puddle next, so you won't get your matt black waders dirty'.
Eventually, everyone got settled down at their pegs. Ray found himself with Kenny Smith on one side and Fred Bailey on the other, all were in full view of each other. Ray's dazzling collection of floats and poles were laboriously laid out and assembled. Paint and varnish sparkled in the sunshine, as Ray tackled up, with a growing audience of awed spectators behind him, watching his every move.
Kenny Smith on the other hand, showed none of Ray's refinements. On arriving at his peg, he had lifted his tackle box up, turned it upside down and emptied the contents on to the bankside. Selecting a reel, an unpainted piece of peacock and a few shot, he had tackled up in about three minutes. Ray watched in disbelief as he grubbed around in the mud for pieces of silver paper. Eventually when he found the one he was looking for, he unfolded it and extracted a hook length with some difficulty and tied it to the reel line.
On the other side, Fred put up two salmon rods, two Mitchells and two massive feeders, with holes bitten out of the side, to speed up their rate of emptying. The seagulls had found Fred already and were wheeling and diving all around him, the smell of his groundbait driving them crazy.
After about 40 minutes, the whistle went and a dozen poles were put into action on the odd numbered pegs. This is what Clive and the boys had expected and they put their plan into action.
On every even number peg, the BAA began to rain in floaters, dry groundbait, floating squalls, a continual barrage. The river lifted with bleak, thousands upon thousands of them boiled on the surface and still the barrage of floating feed went in.
For 10 minutes it went on and then the BAA sat back to watch. The bleak rose right across the river and they followed the feed down, too much for them to eat in one go, they dropped further down and further down, as the last one passed peg 24, Kenny Giles breathed a sigh of relief and gave his lucky teddy bear a hug and picked up his beloved waggler rod and prepared to do battle with some chub.
London Select couldn't quite take in what was happening. There they were, all kitted out for bleak, with poles and silly aprons and the nearest bleak was 400 yards away, heading for London Bridge and all stations east.
'Stop blubbering,' yelled Ray, 'and use your imagination.'
The last piece of advice was drowned out by Fred's swimfeeder puncturing the water.
Meanwhile, in a tackle shop in Tudor Road, Leicester, a well known angler, fully conversant with the BAA plan, looked at his watch. 11.10 am. He allowed himself just a trace of a smile, 'pick the bones out of that Ray,' he said to himself.
Casters showered the far bank, as the BAA squad went into action. Eleven wagglers sailed across in hot pursuit. The Select squad were in trouble. Ray never mentioned two swan shot wagglers, two olivettes maybe but certainly nothing of the magnitude of swan shot.
Suddenly Fred opened up with five balls of festering groundbait and feeders. The Select team member, St John Berry on the next peg and sadly for him, downwind, tottered as the aroma infiltrated his delicate nostrils. He had always been a sickly child. Fred, seeing that St John was in some distress, turned to him.
'You okay me duck?'
St John tried to put on a bold front, for he knew that Ray would thrash him within an inch of his life with a 10 foot Garbalino, if he fraternised with the enemy. He managed a weak smile.'
'You not catching?' stated Fred.
'It's a bit slow' admitted St John.
'You'd do better if you had some of my stuff going in, I found some casters in my garage I've had for four years ... it was a good year 73, them chub loves em'.
St John weakened and for a millisecond, allowed himself to think of casters that were four years old. It was enough. As he lost consciousness, he fell face first into the river, his head following a stream of vomit downwards.
The crisis came at an opportune moment for Ray. The match was halted, whilst St John's quivering body was dragged from the river. Mouth to mouth resuscitation was called for. Unfortunately, St John was not a pretty sight, so Ray settled for jumping up and down on his chest, until he recovered.
'We'll have a break for 10 minutes Ray, give you a chance to get your squad back together again,' said Clive.
The BAA gathered around Fred's peg and slipped on their Acme portable gas masks.
Anyone caught,' asked Ken Giles.
Two chub,' said Mark.
'One,' said Ken Smith.
'I've had two chub and a small barbel,' said Fred.
'How are you fishing it Fred,' enquired the Gloucester dawrf.
Two maggots on a 10s hook, direct to 8lb line,' said Fred.'
'As fine as that', croaked Kenny Smith sarcastically.
That'll do Kenny,' interrupted Clive. 'Everything seems to be going to plan, just keep at it and we should have this match sewn up by midday.'
Ray called his squad together, around the still limp body of St John Berry.
'Right, we've been outflanked with the bleak, but at least we know what their tactics are and that's to fish the far bank, except of course for that disgusting little man next to me. He, no doubt will continue to pollute the river with that decomposing poison in the feeder. When you get back to your pegs, each of you loose feed two pints of hemp a rod length out, set up a 16 foot pole and fish a single pinkie on a 20. Now, this is important, so listen. Before you start feeding that inside line. I want you all to mix up five pounds of dry, white groundbait, into concrete type consistency and fill in the far bank swim, that should put paid to their chub fishing. It doesn't matter if it goes way off beam, just get it across the river. If they want to play it rough, they'll remember that we have our own dirty tricks department as well.'
'Great Ray, just great,' intoned the London Select nodding dogs squad.
The match got underway again. The Brummies started to recommence operations on the far bank, when all of a sudden the Select team opened up with their premeditated barrage. The sound of wall bricks hitting the water, brought howls of protest from the Brummies.
'Keep filling it in,' commanded Ray, 'show no quarter, put it all in.'
Now the match was really on.
The select started to hemp it and after an hour of this, some quality roach began to feed and the balance of power was tilted. The Brummies moved to a different line, a third of the way across the river, still feeding casters and fishing the waggler. Fred was oblivious to all going on around him. Every two minutes, he reeled in, filled the feeder, cast it in, catapulted a ball of gunge out and kept repeating the process. Then suddenly his rod end gave that familiar rattle, a sign that the barbel had moved in and were hanging themselves. Fred picked up his rod and beached a fine Thames barbel of 5lb plus.
In the time it had taken Fred to land the fish, Ray had played to a standstill a 3oz roach and was netting it, as Fred's feeder winged its way through the air back into the gathering of barbel, slowly amassing in front of him. The rest of the Brummies were struggling and between them had only added a couple of pounds since the fateful Select bombardment had put them out of business.
Ray's plan began to pay off. The hemp had attracted some decent roach and the whole team were scoring well.
Kenny Giles at the last peg had been struggling. In the last three hours, he had only had one small chub and was beginning to despair. He glanced downstream momentarily and noticed out of the corner of his eye a rowing boat, crewed by a dozen dazzling female beauties. Using his natural animal magnetism (Kenny often wondered why dogs relieved themselves on his trouser leg) he summoned the craft of delectable young ladies over into earshot and persuaded them to row up the river, about a rod length out from the bank, a move that would effectively sabotage all the Select's inside swims. Promising them rewards of alcohol at the nearby hostelry in two hours time, the crew were happy to oblige. Such was the effect on the London team, at having this array of young ladies row provocatively through their swims that verbal resistance was negligible. The effect was like a hammer blow, killing the roach stone dead.
Only Fred kept on catching. Fishing the middle, he had the river to himself and the barbel and chub were competing with the mob of seagulls to get at the feed. Fred's score was seven big barbel, 12 chub, two cormorants and a herring gull. He'd also hooked a cruiser that was coming past, but broke off on purpose after half an hour, as it would have taken too long to land.
The whistle went and the weigh in started. Ray was easily top weight for Select, with a fine net of roach and skimmers, weighing 12lb 1oz, with some consistent backing weights, the Select's team weight went 76lb 5oz. Fred on his own weighed in 43lb and the'BAA supplied the balance, plus another 16lb, to make them winners of the semi-final. Nobody could deny it. It had been a fair contest. Both sides had played as equally dirty, underhand and devious as the other.
They retired to the local pub.
The rowing crew were there as well.
'You must be Ray Mumford, said Miss Gloria Flashpiece to Kenny Giles. Before Kenny could deny the serious allegation, Gloria continued, 'I hope we sabotaged their swims like you asked, it was a good idea to get us to come along and distract them and splash our oars in the water, now, how about the £50 you promised?'
A smile broke Kenny's face. 'So, that was it, the rowing crew were laid on by Ray to sabotage the BAA's pegs,' thought Kenny.
'Oh, I'm not Ray Mumford,' said Kenny, 'He's over there and he says he's not going to pay you a penny you ruined the wrong swims'.
'Right, we'll see about that,' said Gloria and she led her 11 strong army of beauties across to where Ray was holding a post mortem.
In a loud voice Gloria Flashpiece addressed Ray.
'You said that if we came along at one o'clock and ruined their swims, you would pay us 50 pounds and we want paying.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' flustered Ray, as everyone turned around to see what was going on.
'Well, you soon will, right girls, get him!'
It wasn't a very pretty sight seeing Ray being debagged on the side of the river bank and then unceremoniously being tossed into the Thames.
'Well,' grinned Kenny, keeping his secret closely guarded. That'll teach him to organise a dirty trick like that.'
'Look at that,' gasped Clive.
'Where, where,' asked the rest of the BAA squad.
'Look, tattoed across Ray's chest.'
As Ray dragged himself from the river, dressed only in a pair of underpants, emblazoned across his chest were the immortal words.
"IVAN MARKS MY HERO"
To be continued............
So just for you ;)...Part 3 in the never ending saga by Mike Winney
Having beaten the Bogthorpe Herons and Wigstock WMC on their way to the semi¬final of the East Anglian Cup, the BAA squad were in a confident mood, as they huddled around skipper Clive Smith's steam radio, waiting to hear the draw, for this, the penultimate hurdle before the final.
'And now,' said the unseen radio announcer, 'here is the draw for the semifinal of the East Anglian Cup.'
There was a pause, as an unseen, possibly dead NFA official placed his hand into the infamous black bag.
'Bristol Brassier and Corsetry Company AC at home to ... Chelmsford Choppers. London Select at home to ... Birmingham Anglers Association.'
'We've got Mumford's crowd,' said Kenny Smith, as he pulled himself up on one arm from his horizontal position behind the sofa where he was recovering from 14 pints of lunchtime bitter.
Clive switched off the radio, having heard all he wanted to hear and apart from that it saved electricity.'What do you think Clive?' asked Kenny Giles.
The big man thought for a while, took a quick gulp from the bottle of red eye and leaned forward.
If we can't win a 24 peg scramble against a bunch of southern wombles, then I'll walk down Evesham high street, starkers.'
Maxie Winters, who had throughout this series established himself as a thinking angler, suddenly removed an enormous gobstopper from his mouth and placed it in his pocket.
'You've got maggots in that pocket,' gasped young Mark.
'It's all right, they can't eat gobstoppers,' replied the Gloucester dwarf, 'too tough for 'em see ... they likes Mars bars though.'
That'll do Max,' interrupted Clive. 'Well, what do we know about the venue, it's the Thames, anyone fished at Groolers End before?'
There was a short silence, followed by a longer one.
'Anyone heard of it?' asked Clive in desperation.
No one spoke.
'It's got to be some sort of joke,' said Barry at length. 'It sounds like the name you would give to the worst venue in the world'.
'We shall make enquiries then,' summed up Clive.
Just as the meeting was on the point of breaking up the phone rang and Clive sicked up the receiver.
'It's Mumford,' he hissed, cupping the phone with his hands, to deaden the laughter from the BAA squad.
The Brummies' reaction was one of mixed amusement and shock.
'Ask him how he got on in the Junior National,' said Lloyd.
'Quiet a minute lads,' said Clive, switching the phone on to the intercom, so that everyone could hear the conversation.
'Yes Ray, what can I do for you, I presume you've heard the draw,' said Clive, regaining his composure.
It's about the match, the semi-final, I just want to clear up a few points first, so that there will be no misunderstandings,' stated Ray.
That's okay, what's on your mind?' asked Clive.
'Well, to start with, if it rains, before or during the match, we want to call it off,' said Ray.
'I beg your pardon, call it off if it rains, I've never heard a rule like that before, are you serious? asked Clive.
Yes I am serious, it's a new southern rule that we are campaigning to get introduced, if it rains, it means that our tackle will get muddy, and I don't think my team would like that, do you realise that we spend on average 36 hours a week, perfecting and cleaning our tackle?'
'Sorry Ray, I can't agree to that. It's not in any match rules that I've ever come across,' said Clive, looking both puzzled and amused.
'We'll have to take it to arbitration then,' stated Ray.
'You can take it to constipation for all I care, we aren't having that sort of nonsense,' said Clive.
'I'll speak to my solicitors about it, I shall also campaign in the angling press to get this rule brought in, I don't see why we should suffer, do you know how much one of my team's custom built, teak inlaid, tackle boxes cost?' demanded Ray.
'About a tenner?' hazarded Clive.
'£420!' Shrieked Ray, 'and for that, he's entitled to some protection.'
'I think you need securicor, not a wet weather clause, in fact the only time Kenny Smith gets his tackle cleaned is when it rains, or when he takes all his kit out and dunks it in the river in his keepnet,' stated Clive.
'Do leave off, I don't have to listen to this cobblers, just be at the venue, on time and correctly dressed,' said Ray.
'What do you mean by correctly dressed? asked Clive,' genuinely puzzled.
'You know perfectly well what I mean, none of this jeans and tee shirts, I expect you all to be wearing shirts and ties,' said Ray and the phone was put down.
'Is he a nutter?' asked Barry, as the other members of the BAA picked themselves up off the floor, suffering from hysteria and acute stomach pains brought on by laughter.
'No, I think he's serious,' said Gilesy. 'He's suffering from a dose of STICKIE.'
'STICKIE?' chorused the lads.
'Yes, it stands for Southerners Think Immaculate Clean Tackle Is Everything.'
The meeting broke up in disarray.
As the day drew nearer, the BAA were putting the final pieces of their match plan together. A day's practice had given them an insight into what to expect at 'Groolers' and it wasn't to be a lot. What had come to light was that the venue was heaving with bleak and underneath the swarming carpet of midget herrings there were undoubtedly chub and a few better roach, but bleak were going to win, at least that's what the select team would be pinning their tactics on. Clive picked up the copy of Angling Times and read the preview of the match. The BAA team had been announced and so had the London Premier squad. The big fella scanned the list of names and scratched his head. There wasn't a single member in the select team who had fished in the previous round. (Yes, yes, I know you are only allowed to nominate so many members to fish in a team, but I'm writing this, so I can make up my own rules ... ok?)
Why was this, surely the whole squad couldn't have been dropped and a new one selected for this match, thought Clive, as he picked up the phone and prepared to make enquiries with his contact in the deep south, none other than Brawling John McCarthy.
'Clive here, tell me John, what's the reasoning behind a completely new squad for the semi-final of the cup, apart from Ray still being in?
That's easy,' said John, 'none of these lads will fish more than one match, they can't stand it, so they resign.'
Can't stand what?' asked Clive.
'Well, to start with, they have to wear shirts and ties for the match, there's also a kit inspection an hour before the draw and anyone found with a trace of mud or groundbait on any of their kit is flogged and never allowed to fish again.'
'That's incredible,' said Clive. Tell me more.'
'Well, after five matches, he's gone through 53 blokes and they just won't have it now, that's why he never has the same team twice. He means well, but the majority of the good anglers won't entertain it, so he has to recruit anyone who will follow his doctrine to the letter, in fact this squad looks like a replica of 11 Ray Mumfords, you might have trouble spotting the real one.'
At 7.30 am on the morning of the match, the entire London Select squad met at Ray's second floor flat. The walls were papered with pictures of Ray insulting Ivan Marks, pictures of him fighting with John McCarthy, pictures of him suing John Wilkinson, pictures of him ignoring Stan Smith (everyone ignores Stan) and one picture of him winning a match (honest). The squad were impressed.
Ray opened the meeting. 'It is important if we are to win this match, that we have a good team spirit, so for that reason, you may all call me Ray, after all, I'm only human. Now then, have any of you ever fished against any of these men before?
'
The total silence gave Ray his answer. 'Now some of them are okay. Kenny Giles is quite clean, so is Lloyd Davies, but most of them are little short of animals, especially Kevin Ashurst and Ken Smith.'
'What about Mark Downes?' asked one of the squad.
'Good question,' said Ray. 'I've influenced Mark quite a lot, but he's not a threat, he only owns 16 poles, he's not flexible enough.
The meeting was a predictable affair, with Ray placing his faith in bleak as Clive had anticipated. Ray knowning that this, his fifth squad, was hardly the cream of the south east, in reality, they were hardly the cream of anywhere, Ray knew they could be easily confused, so he kept the briefing simple. So conscious was he of their vulnerability that even when, during kit inspection, he found specks of groundbait in a float tray of one of his squad's teak veneered tackle box, that he only rained obscenities on the fellow, rather than thrash him within an inch of his life. At 8.30 am, the bus which Ray had hired to carry the squad to the venue arrived at the flat.
Clive and the boys had been walking the banks, Kenny Smith had found a pub, with an understanding landlord and had been having a quick snort to put him in a relaxed frame of mind. At 10.30, the London Select transport rolled up and the first squad members alighted, sniffing the air with suspicion, in case they were downwind of any unsavoury Brummies.
Unbeknown to London, the BAA had recruited a 60 year old into the squad for the match and the secret weapon was sorting through his tackle in the car park. On hearing the London team behind him, he had turned round, given them a grin and bade them his customary 'Good morning me duck's.
'AAAAAGGGGHHH!' yelled one of the select squad members ... RAY, RAY, it's him, look who they've brought.'
'Mornin' me duck,' purred Fred.
'Fred Bailey, they've brought Fred Bailey,' muttered Mumford in disbelief.
At that moment in time, the stench of Fred's decomposing groundbait drifted downwind and caught the Select squad's nostrils off guard. Several of them recoiled, one fainted and another leaned over a wall and had an action replay of his breakfast.
The appearance of a Sherman tank couldn't have had a bigger impact.
'Look at his tackle, I've never seen anything so disgusting in all my life,' spluttered out one of the Select squad. 'He can't possibly fish with that reel, it's encrusted with dry groundbait, ugh! It's too revolting to watch.'
Fred, oblivious to the remarks, opened up a bag of three-month-old casters and mixed them into his groundbait bowl, a rusting biscuit tin. Seagulls, homed in on the smell and began circling and shrieking above him. Meanwhile, Ray had ushered his squad away from the gruesome spectacle and was trying his best to restore calm and order.
Clive and the rest of the team came back from their walk, as the officials arrived to commence the draw. London drew odds, Brummies drew evens. The two sides walked silently along the river bank. The first select team man arrived at peg one.
I'm not fishing there,' he stated resolutely.
'Why, what's the matter with it,' asked the steward.
'What's the matter with it, it's muddy you don't expect me to put my tackle box in that do you, seriously, do you?'
'Yea,' replied the steward. 'You'll be wanting me to lay my coat down in that puddle next, so you won't get your matt black waders dirty'.
Eventually, everyone got settled down at their pegs. Ray found himself with Kenny Smith on one side and Fred Bailey on the other, all were in full view of each other. Ray's dazzling collection of floats and poles were laboriously laid out and assembled. Paint and varnish sparkled in the sunshine, as Ray tackled up, with a growing audience of awed spectators behind him, watching his every move.
Kenny Smith on the other hand, showed none of Ray's refinements. On arriving at his peg, he had lifted his tackle box up, turned it upside down and emptied the contents on to the bankside. Selecting a reel, an unpainted piece of peacock and a few shot, he had tackled up in about three minutes. Ray watched in disbelief as he grubbed around in the mud for pieces of silver paper. Eventually when he found the one he was looking for, he unfolded it and extracted a hook length with some difficulty and tied it to the reel line.
On the other side, Fred put up two salmon rods, two Mitchells and two massive feeders, with holes bitten out of the side, to speed up their rate of emptying. The seagulls had found Fred already and were wheeling and diving all around him, the smell of his groundbait driving them crazy.
After about 40 minutes, the whistle went and a dozen poles were put into action on the odd numbered pegs. This is what Clive and the boys had expected and they put their plan into action.
On every even number peg, the BAA began to rain in floaters, dry groundbait, floating squalls, a continual barrage. The river lifted with bleak, thousands upon thousands of them boiled on the surface and still the barrage of floating feed went in.
For 10 minutes it went on and then the BAA sat back to watch. The bleak rose right across the river and they followed the feed down, too much for them to eat in one go, they dropped further down and further down, as the last one passed peg 24, Kenny Giles breathed a sigh of relief and gave his lucky teddy bear a hug and picked up his beloved waggler rod and prepared to do battle with some chub.
London Select couldn't quite take in what was happening. There they were, all kitted out for bleak, with poles and silly aprons and the nearest bleak was 400 yards away, heading for London Bridge and all stations east.
'Stop blubbering,' yelled Ray, 'and use your imagination.'
The last piece of advice was drowned out by Fred's swimfeeder puncturing the water.
Meanwhile, in a tackle shop in Tudor Road, Leicester, a well known angler, fully conversant with the BAA plan, looked at his watch. 11.10 am. He allowed himself just a trace of a smile, 'pick the bones out of that Ray,' he said to himself.
Casters showered the far bank, as the BAA squad went into action. Eleven wagglers sailed across in hot pursuit. The Select squad were in trouble. Ray never mentioned two swan shot wagglers, two olivettes maybe but certainly nothing of the magnitude of swan shot.
Suddenly Fred opened up with five balls of festering groundbait and feeders. The Select team member, St John Berry on the next peg and sadly for him, downwind, tottered as the aroma infiltrated his delicate nostrils. He had always been a sickly child. Fred, seeing that St John was in some distress, turned to him.
'You okay me duck?'
St John tried to put on a bold front, for he knew that Ray would thrash him within an inch of his life with a 10 foot Garbalino, if he fraternised with the enemy. He managed a weak smile.'
'You not catching?' stated Fred.
'It's a bit slow' admitted St John.
'You'd do better if you had some of my stuff going in, I found some casters in my garage I've had for four years ... it was a good year 73, them chub loves em'.
St John weakened and for a millisecond, allowed himself to think of casters that were four years old. It was enough. As he lost consciousness, he fell face first into the river, his head following a stream of vomit downwards.
The crisis came at an opportune moment for Ray. The match was halted, whilst St John's quivering body was dragged from the river. Mouth to mouth resuscitation was called for. Unfortunately, St John was not a pretty sight, so Ray settled for jumping up and down on his chest, until he recovered.
'We'll have a break for 10 minutes Ray, give you a chance to get your squad back together again,' said Clive.
The BAA gathered around Fred's peg and slipped on their Acme portable gas masks.
Anyone caught,' asked Ken Giles.
Two chub,' said Mark.
'One,' said Ken Smith.
'I've had two chub and a small barbel,' said Fred.
'How are you fishing it Fred,' enquired the Gloucester dawrf.
Two maggots on a 10s hook, direct to 8lb line,' said Fred.'
'As fine as that', croaked Kenny Smith sarcastically.
That'll do Kenny,' interrupted Clive. 'Everything seems to be going to plan, just keep at it and we should have this match sewn up by midday.'
Ray called his squad together, around the still limp body of St John Berry.
'Right, we've been outflanked with the bleak, but at least we know what their tactics are and that's to fish the far bank, except of course for that disgusting little man next to me. He, no doubt will continue to pollute the river with that decomposing poison in the feeder. When you get back to your pegs, each of you loose feed two pints of hemp a rod length out, set up a 16 foot pole and fish a single pinkie on a 20. Now, this is important, so listen. Before you start feeding that inside line. I want you all to mix up five pounds of dry, white groundbait, into concrete type consistency and fill in the far bank swim, that should put paid to their chub fishing. It doesn't matter if it goes way off beam, just get it across the river. If they want to play it rough, they'll remember that we have our own dirty tricks department as well.'
'Great Ray, just great,' intoned the London Select nodding dogs squad.
The match got underway again. The Brummies started to recommence operations on the far bank, when all of a sudden the Select team opened up with their premeditated barrage. The sound of wall bricks hitting the water, brought howls of protest from the Brummies.
'Keep filling it in,' commanded Ray, 'show no quarter, put it all in.'
Now the match was really on.
The select started to hemp it and after an hour of this, some quality roach began to feed and the balance of power was tilted. The Brummies moved to a different line, a third of the way across the river, still feeding casters and fishing the waggler. Fred was oblivious to all going on around him. Every two minutes, he reeled in, filled the feeder, cast it in, catapulted a ball of gunge out and kept repeating the process. Then suddenly his rod end gave that familiar rattle, a sign that the barbel had moved in and were hanging themselves. Fred picked up his rod and beached a fine Thames barbel of 5lb plus.
In the time it had taken Fred to land the fish, Ray had played to a standstill a 3oz roach and was netting it, as Fred's feeder winged its way through the air back into the gathering of barbel, slowly amassing in front of him. The rest of the Brummies were struggling and between them had only added a couple of pounds since the fateful Select bombardment had put them out of business.
Ray's plan began to pay off. The hemp had attracted some decent roach and the whole team were scoring well.
Kenny Giles at the last peg had been struggling. In the last three hours, he had only had one small chub and was beginning to despair. He glanced downstream momentarily and noticed out of the corner of his eye a rowing boat, crewed by a dozen dazzling female beauties. Using his natural animal magnetism (Kenny often wondered why dogs relieved themselves on his trouser leg) he summoned the craft of delectable young ladies over into earshot and persuaded them to row up the river, about a rod length out from the bank, a move that would effectively sabotage all the Select's inside swims. Promising them rewards of alcohol at the nearby hostelry in two hours time, the crew were happy to oblige. Such was the effect on the London team, at having this array of young ladies row provocatively through their swims that verbal resistance was negligible. The effect was like a hammer blow, killing the roach stone dead.
Only Fred kept on catching. Fishing the middle, he had the river to himself and the barbel and chub were competing with the mob of seagulls to get at the feed. Fred's score was seven big barbel, 12 chub, two cormorants and a herring gull. He'd also hooked a cruiser that was coming past, but broke off on purpose after half an hour, as it would have taken too long to land.
The whistle went and the weigh in started. Ray was easily top weight for Select, with a fine net of roach and skimmers, weighing 12lb 1oz, with some consistent backing weights, the Select's team weight went 76lb 5oz. Fred on his own weighed in 43lb and the'BAA supplied the balance, plus another 16lb, to make them winners of the semi-final. Nobody could deny it. It had been a fair contest. Both sides had played as equally dirty, underhand and devious as the other.
They retired to the local pub.
The rowing crew were there as well.
'You must be Ray Mumford, said Miss Gloria Flashpiece to Kenny Giles. Before Kenny could deny the serious allegation, Gloria continued, 'I hope we sabotaged their swims like you asked, it was a good idea to get us to come along and distract them and splash our oars in the water, now, how about the £50 you promised?'
A smile broke Kenny's face. 'So, that was it, the rowing crew were laid on by Ray to sabotage the BAA's pegs,' thought Kenny.
'Oh, I'm not Ray Mumford,' said Kenny, 'He's over there and he says he's not going to pay you a penny you ruined the wrong swims'.
'Right, we'll see about that,' said Gloria and she led her 11 strong army of beauties across to where Ray was holding a post mortem.
In a loud voice Gloria Flashpiece addressed Ray.
'You said that if we came along at one o'clock and ruined their swims, you would pay us 50 pounds and we want paying.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' flustered Ray, as everyone turned around to see what was going on.
'Well, you soon will, right girls, get him!'
It wasn't a very pretty sight seeing Ray being debagged on the side of the river bank and then unceremoniously being tossed into the Thames.
'Well,' grinned Kenny, keeping his secret closely guarded. That'll teach him to organise a dirty trick like that.'
'Look at that,' gasped Clive.
'Where, where,' asked the rest of the BAA squad.
'Look, tattoed across Ray's chest.'
As Ray dragged himself from the river, dressed only in a pair of underpants, emblazoned across his chest were the immortal words.
"IVAN MARKS MY HERO"
To be continued............
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
Before I continue with part 3, gunna slip this in at this point.......
This is Part Two of the original series taken from the October 1978 issue of Coarse Fisherman.
UP FOR T’CUP by Mike Winney
with a little help from my friend (Ed: his only friend)
Elated by their victory over the totally inept Circle AC, the Nottingham Fed team, huddled around Pete Palmer's transistor in the bar of the Waggler and Horses, awaiting the draw for the second round of the East Anglian Cup.
'Get 'em in Slaymaker', barked the Nottingham headcrusher Frank Barlow.
Don (Giz a f*g) Slaymaker responded immediately. 'Certainly Frank, a pint is it?'
'Get us one whilst you're there Don', butted in the clown prince of the Trent, Terry Dorman. 'Mine's a mild', chipped in the feeder king, RoyToulson.
'Bloody hell, I'm not a waiter you know', protested Slaymaker. 'You're not an angler, but we still let you go fishing', shouted Barlow. Slaymaker trooped off dejectedly.
"It's on', said Wayne Swinscoe, downing his third lemonade of the evening, he turned up the volume control and Palmer's transistor crackled into life. 'And now', started the announcer in his best Wheel Tappers and Shunters voice, 'Here is the draw for the second round of the East Anglian Cup. Birmingham v London . . . Leicester v Kettering . . . Dorking v Nottingham Federation . . . Isaac Walton v Durham County'. . .
Turn it off Wayne', said Barlow, 'We've heard enough'.
'Dorking? That's the other side of London isn't it', asked Pete Brough, a man rumoured to have reached the age of 52 without ever being kissed, a man who thought a whore was something used by rowers.
'It's nearer to Brighton than London', offered John Handforth, 'We could have some fun down there'.
'What d'ya mean', enquired Dorman, ripping into a pork pie, with all the fervour of a half starved man.
'A night out like, after the match, a few jars and a few mucky women', went on Handforth.
Ted Stokes looked on in amazement, barely able to believe his eyes, which were riveted on Dorman, as he gouged and disposed of great lumps of pie. Terry', he asked. 'Did you or did you not just pick that pie up off the floor?'
'No,' said Dorman.
'Yes you did'.
'No I didn't.'
'You bloody did, I saw you'.
Dorman's face took on the look of a small boy, caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
'Well yes, I did pick it up ... but I dropped it'.
'You didn't drop it', said Ted, 'It's been there all night'.
Dorman stuffed the final remains into his mouth and wiped his face. 'You've only got the hump 'cause I spotted it first', said Dorman.
Stokes looked up at the roof in disbelief.
'Can we come to order', bellowed Barlow.
'Depends what she's like', quipped Roy Toulson, a man reputed to have done a bit of belly boxing in his time.
'Don't be disgusting', said Ted Stokes, a staunch Mary Whitehouse supporter.
'Right', said Barlow, 'What do we know about Dorking?'
'Load of southern poofters', offered Dorman.
'Anything else?' asked Barlow.
The room fell into silence, which was only broken by the entry of the landlord.
There's some youth called Kenny Ceilings on the phone for you Frank'. Barlow left the room, returning ashen faced some two minutes later. 'Old Bury Hill lake . . . it's a bream job on the lead', he announced with about as much enthusiasm as a British Leyland shop steward announcing a return to work.
'Can't they be caught on the float?' enquired Rolfey.
'He says not', said Barlow. 'But we'll disprove or prove that in practice'. The room once again fell into silence for everyone present knew that stillwater bream artists they were not (shaddup you lot... you aren't — M.W.)
Meanwhile at Kenny Collings's condemned home in Surrey, the mainstays of the Dorking team were gathered around a faulty electric fire. Brawling John McCarthy broke the silence.
'It's bloody cold in here Ken, I'll bet you don't need to keep your bait in a fridge'.
There's no need to be rude, just drape another sack around your shoulders', commented Kenny.
'What are Nottingham like on bream', asked Dorking regular Steve Gardner. 'Well, let's put it this way', offered Brawling John McCarthy, They think swing tips are places where old playground equipment is dumped'.
'Ha ha ... that's funny', said Bogey Bartlett after an interval of three minutes, when McCarthy’s wit had dawned on him.
Bob Leadbetter and Rob Mittens had until that time said little. Instead they had been sat in a corner, holding hands and making eyes at each other.
'Well, what do you two think then?' asked Mr Nice Guy, Kenny Collings.
'What about?' said a starry eyed Rob Mittens.
'About the venue and the match against Nottingham of course', said Kenny.
'Well, I'll only fish, if I can be pegged next to Bob', said Rob.
That goes for me too' said Bob.
'Look', said McCarthy, 'It's all very funny you two clowning on like a couple of gingers at matches, it's very entertaining, but you can drop the act now'.
'It's not an act', said Rob Mittens, looking hurt.
'Well, I'm sure we're all very happy for you both, but do you think we could get down to talking about tactics', chipped in Steve Gardner.
'Right', started Kenny, 'We all know the venue, it's bream, at that game we can out fish them and I think with our home advantage, we should all set our stall out to do just that. There will be a team practice midweek, in which every member of the Dorking team will be present. Any questions?'.
'Any point?' asked McCarthy.
The luxury 24 sealer coach pulled out of the car park of the Waggler and Horses and with its engine headed in the direction of London, started out on its epic journey. The entire Notts Fed team, had all taken a couple of days holiday for a match practice and for the match itself and they were in mixed spirits. Dorman, Barlow and Handforth were positively radiant at the prospect of a mucky weekend away, Swinscoe and Palmer weren't so pleased, as it would mean missing a valuable Shakespeare 3000 match on the Saturday and besides, Pete Palmer had had a lot of trouble in finding someone to feed his beloved racing pigeons, he had solved this by bringing them on the bus in a large whicker basket, with the plan that he could release them at the other end. Little did he know that Terry Dorman had other plans for them, namely gozzer fodder.
After a long and riotous journey down the M1, which had resulted in large quantities of alcohol being consumed, the coach had managed to circumnavigate London and eventually pulled in to the car park of the Rat and Ferret, an hotel with an alleged minus two star rating.
The Notts Fed team disembarked and weaved their way into the crumbling reception area.
'I know Dorking is meant to be an old Roman town', commented Ted Stokes looking around the batter decor, 'but you would have thought they would have had a tidy up after 2,000 years'.
'You're right Ted', grunted Barlow, 'It's a bit grim'.
Typical trick of the opposition, putting us up in a ramshackle doss house', said Terry Dorman.
'Are you the party from Nottingham?' enquired a seductive voice from the reception desk.
Twelve pairs of eyes were now riveted on the gorgeous honey blonde with the GT chassis.
Wayne Swinscoe was the first to recover and with the agility of a cat, moved to the front of the rabble and took control of the situation. 'Yes my love we are and I'd like a single room please, not too far from yours, preferably with connecting doors'.
The other 11 members of the squad listened with amazement as young Wayne delivered his bold approach.
'I think that can be arranged', she said as coolly as possibly, handing Wayne a key to a room. 'Some of the other girls are arranging a party later on tonight and we're short of a few men, would you and your friends like to come along, it's in the staff quarters'.
'We'll be there', said Wayne, looking as pleased with himself as if he'd just drawn one below the dyke at Caythorpe.
'I don't think my wife would like me to go to a party with a lot of young girls', offered Don Slaymaker.
'Well, don't tell her then', said Roy Toulson, barely able to take his eyes off Gloria, the receptionist.
'That's not a bad idea Roy, why didn't I think of that', said Don.
'Because you're very bright Don, as far up as your ankles', said Barlow, picking up his old canvas groundbait bag, in which were stuffed his change of clothing.
The Notts Fed team went to their respective rooms, washed, changed and met down in the bar, an hour later.
'Phew!', exclaimed Stokes, 'It's like a perfume factory, what have you lot been smearing on yourselves?'
'Eau de wasp grub', said Wayne, 'Let's hope it proves just as fatal to women as it does to chub'.
'Fatal is the right word, a lungful of that and you'd be out for the count, anyway, I think we should all have an early night and be up early and go down to this lake and have a full day's practice', said Don Slaymaker. The torrent of abuse showered on this suggestion put the seal of approval on the arrangements for the party.
The scene at breakfast, the morning after, was reminiscent of a group of meths drinkers huddled round a fire on a building site.
Barlow, Dorman and Rolfey looked like death warmed up, Palmer, Stokes and Moult little better, the only member of the squad who looked barely alive was the young stud, Wayne Swinscoe. Roy Toulson was still missing, last seen demonstrating his donkey top to one of the chambermaids.
'What would you like for breakfast?' asked the young waitress, who was on duty.
'A jug of Alka Seltzer, 12 straws and a bucket of Philosan', muttered Barlow, praying that the room would stop moving.
Three hours later, the Notts Fed squad, still minus Toulson, were at Old Bury Hill lake.
Jovial Graham Rowles, the owner of the lake, surveyed the rag tag army, as they collapsed on to the car park tarmac. '12 day tickets, is it lads, that'll be £12 please', he announced.
'Get stuffed, you big southern womble, we're guests', growled Barlow. 'If you want any money, get it off that Kenny Collings'.
Rowley wasn't exactly prepared for this sort of outburst. 'It's £1 a head to fish', he tried to explain, 'Everybody pays'.
'Listen pal, we only want a day's fishing, we don't want to rent the place for a year', shouted Dorman from the back of the bus, slinging his basket over his shoulders and misjudging his strength, as the basket swung in an arc, hitting Ted Stokes and sending him sprawling. 'Get the money off Collings', snapped Barlow again, 'Now where's this lake?'
Rowles decided that cowardice was the better part of discretion, took a couple of paces backwards out of Barlow's path and pointed him down the footpath.
The practice session had been time well spent and whereas Old Bury Hill lake seemed to respond to traditional bream tactics, heavy feed at distance, it responded better to a little and often two to three rod lengths out on the float, with not only bream showing, but several quality tench, a good stamp of roach and plenty of rudd.
'We can do 'em on the float Frank', whispered Wayne to his captain, as the team settled in the guest lounge for their final match tactical meeting.
'Listen Swinno, just because you're getting your name in lights at the moment, don't get carried away — I decide tactics, you fish to order, don't tell me what you think we should do, I'm the captain, is that clear', snarled Frank.
'Yes, Frank, sorry Frank, I just thought that the float would be the method'.
'Well, next time, keep your half baked ideas to yourself . . . right, are you all sitting comfortably? I've given this a lot of thought and I've come to the conclusion . . .'started Barlow.
'What conclusion have you come to Frank?' asked Rolfey.
'We can do 'em on the float', stated Barlow.
Wayne was on the point of opening his mouth, but wisely decided against it.
'Is that it?' asked Ted Stokes.
That's it, we fish tomorrow as we did today', stated Barlow.
That'll be difficult for some of us', snarled Terry Dorman and 11 pairs of eyes focused on the shattered figure of Roy Toulson, now back after being absent without leave for 18 hours.
'Filthy little man', said Johnny Moult, barely able to disguise his disgust, 'You should be ashamed of yourself, you're old enough to be her father'.
'Well Roy's been reprimanded for his behaviour, so let's forget all about it and think like a team once again'.
'I haven't been reprimanded', said Roy.
'You have', said Barlow, 'You're buying the beer for the rest of the night'.
The day of the match was dull, but warm. The two teams checked over their kit in the carpark.
'Frank Barlow?' asked Kenny Collings.
'Wanna make something of it?' said Frank swinging round and tensing himself. Collings jumped back about five paces in one step. 'Er. . . no, I just want to know if you're Frank Barlow, I'm Kenny Collings, the captain of Dorking'.
'We all have our crosses to bear', said Frank, dropping his guard and relaxing a bit.
The pegging was decided, Nottingham Fed chose evens and by a slow process of elimination, Dorking worked out that they had odds.
"Ere', said Terry Dorman, "Ave you seen those two blokes over there, they're holding hands'.
Rob Mittens and Bob Leadbetter, were oblivious to the jeers and catcalls from the Nottingham mob, instead they were grappling with the problem of being parted for five hours and Kenny Collings was desperately trying to resolve the situation.
'Look', said Kenny, five hours isn't a lifetime, you'll soon be back together again, there's no way you can fish at the same peg, now be sensible about the whole thing'.
'Listen you two', snarled Brawling John McCarthy, 'Cut it out and get to your pegs or you'll never fish for Dorking again'.
'Big deal sweetie', said Bob.
'Ooh, isn't he butch', said Rob pouting his lips, 'So masterful'.
The match eventually got underway and the Dorking team fished as planned.
Kenny Collings put the level of the lake up by an inch or two after a heavy cannonade and the rest of the Dorking team followed suit, with varying degrees of accuracy. Rob Mittens and Bob Leadbetter, spent the first half hour of the match throwing love letters packed into balls of groundbait over the distance of the three pegs that separated them.
The Notts Fed tactics paid off immediately and they began to put a weight together at every peg. The Dorking lead artists had to wait longer for their action to begin. Brawling John McCarthy was first into the action, netting a big bronze slab. A grin cracked his face. Old Bury Hill lake had been good to him in the past and there was no reason to suspect that his run of fortune was suddenly going to dry up, as he leaned back into his second fish.
'You'll loose that one in the weeds', stated Barlow, when McCarthy’s fish was three rod lengths out by a bed of lilies. McCarthy strengthened his resolve, determined not to be put off by the remarks of a man whom he regarded as a waste of space. Putting the pressure on the fish to steer it past the danger zone, his heart sank as his rod tip went slack. Told you you'd loose it', laughed Barlow, netting another skimmer.
McCarthy’s frustration and anger were climaxed when he saw a bobbly-hatted pleasure angler walk behind him, followed closely by Graham Rowles, the owner of the lake. 'Yea', said Rowley, 'You'll get in between these two, no problem'. 'Hey', yelled McCarthy, 'What's your bleeding game, there's a match on here, the East Anglian Cup'. 'I've got news for you pal', said Rowley, pocketing the £1 day ticket money, 'You're in the wrong county'. McCarthy crushed a dozen valium tablets up, put them in his tea and drank deep. The pressures of match fishing were taking their toll. The bandit of Old Bury Hill lake managed to squeeze another seven pleasure anglers into the prolific Front Bank match length.
Sheer disbelief turned to frustration and anger, as floats and leads became hopelessly entangled. The Dorking squad's tactics fell down, as amateur long distance bream anglers pounded groundbait out on fish that were just becoming settled. The effect was predictable, swingtips jerked upwards, as startled bream made for the sanctuary of settled water and crashed into lines cutting through the shallow water. The Nottingham team, used to chronic short pegging on some stretches of the Trent, were quite at home and whittled away at the shoals of skimmers, rudd and roach.
‘What a fiasco', groaned Steve Gardner, the Dorking ace, who had drawn and blown another flyer, seeing it ruined by the halfwit pleasure angler who had set up shop not seven yards away, 'What a fiasco', he repeated, '72lb 9oz to 12lb 6oz, we'll have to keep it out of the press, it wouldn't do for that to get out, okay, so we got knocked out of the cup, but beaten by 60lb at home, we'll be the laughing stock of the angling world’.
Kenny Collings nodded in grim agreement. At that moment the familiar shape of ace cub reporter Colin Mitchell's car pulled up. 'How did you get on lads?' he asked the Dorking squad, who were casually throwing their tackle into the boots of their cars, with about as much finesse as a Sherman tank. 'Shaddup Mitchell or we'll boot you so hard you'll end back up in Middlesbrough without touching the ground'.
'You didn't win then?' asked Colin, taking out his notepad and sensing a story. 'No we didn't, leave it at that', said Brawling John McCarthy, casually snapping three inches off one of his rods to make it fit in the boot. 'Close, was it?' asked Colin, hoping to prolong the interview. 'Depends how close you call 60lb', shouted Barlow.
'60lb!' exclaimed Colin, scribbling furiously and mentally typesetting head¬lines 'Dorking's Dream is Demolished'. 'If you print the weights, without mentioning that we had pleasure anglers at every other peg, there'll be a bit of bovver', continued McCarthy. 'I think there were pleasure anglers at all the odd pegs as well', laughed Dorman a bit unfairly. At that moment, fishery owner Graham Rowles came walking across the car park.
'Right Kenny, are you going to settle up for the pegging then, the Nottingham lads have had two sessions, that's 11 and 12, let me see . . . that makes £23 and there's your £12, in all that's £35', said Rowley cheerfully. Without a word passing between them, the Dorking squad dropped what they were doing and rounded on the bandit of Old Bury Hill Lake. Rowley was lifted aloft and carried down the path to the lake, screaming in protest. The splash he made as he entered the shallows, chest first, could only be matched that day by Kenny Collings' groundbaiting procedure.
'Funny lot, weren't they', said Palmer, breaking radio silence for the first time in nine hours, as he went to release his pigeons for their return flight home. 'Hey . . . where's my pigeons gone?' he asked, 'The basket's empty.' Palmer's eyes came to rest on Barlow and Dorman, who were sat round a small camp fire, turning an improvised roasting spit, made from a bankstick.
'Hey', said Pete, nearly getting excited, 'Are you roasting my pigeons'. 'Your pigeons?' said Barlow innocently, 'We thought they were the packed lunch.' By now the Dorking team had got over their upset sufficiently enough to be joining in the potential feast. They're my pigeons', spluttered Pete Palmer, 'My very own racing pigeons'.
'Well', said Brawling John McCarthy, biting into a succulent side of fresh roasted bird, 'Racing pigeons are they, well if this one's going to Hounslow, it'll win'.
PS — I'm very grateful to the Dorking squad and Graham Rowles for allowing themselves to be thoroughly humiliated. They did not give their permission, but I'm grateful just the same.
Next month in Up for T'Cup, read what happens when the Nottingham Federation draw deadly rivals Barnsley in the third round. What is John Allerton's dark secret, does Bob Walker really wear a surgical support, does Bionic Bleaker Tom Pickering really study ballet dancing and why does Keith Hobson roll his own cigarettes and keep falling off his basket and laughing like someone not right? All this and lots lots more in next month's thrilling instalment, soon to be published as a book, without all the naughty bits taken out.
This is Part Two of the original series taken from the October 1978 issue of Coarse Fisherman.
UP FOR T’CUP by Mike Winney
with a little help from my friend (Ed: his only friend)
Elated by their victory over the totally inept Circle AC, the Nottingham Fed team, huddled around Pete Palmer's transistor in the bar of the Waggler and Horses, awaiting the draw for the second round of the East Anglian Cup.
'Get 'em in Slaymaker', barked the Nottingham headcrusher Frank Barlow.
Don (Giz a f*g) Slaymaker responded immediately. 'Certainly Frank, a pint is it?'
'Get us one whilst you're there Don', butted in the clown prince of the Trent, Terry Dorman. 'Mine's a mild', chipped in the feeder king, RoyToulson.
'Bloody hell, I'm not a waiter you know', protested Slaymaker. 'You're not an angler, but we still let you go fishing', shouted Barlow. Slaymaker trooped off dejectedly.
"It's on', said Wayne Swinscoe, downing his third lemonade of the evening, he turned up the volume control and Palmer's transistor crackled into life. 'And now', started the announcer in his best Wheel Tappers and Shunters voice, 'Here is the draw for the second round of the East Anglian Cup. Birmingham v London . . . Leicester v Kettering . . . Dorking v Nottingham Federation . . . Isaac Walton v Durham County'. . .
Turn it off Wayne', said Barlow, 'We've heard enough'.
'Dorking? That's the other side of London isn't it', asked Pete Brough, a man rumoured to have reached the age of 52 without ever being kissed, a man who thought a whore was something used by rowers.
'It's nearer to Brighton than London', offered John Handforth, 'We could have some fun down there'.
'What d'ya mean', enquired Dorman, ripping into a pork pie, with all the fervour of a half starved man.
'A night out like, after the match, a few jars and a few mucky women', went on Handforth.
Ted Stokes looked on in amazement, barely able to believe his eyes, which were riveted on Dorman, as he gouged and disposed of great lumps of pie. Terry', he asked. 'Did you or did you not just pick that pie up off the floor?'
'No,' said Dorman.
'Yes you did'.
'No I didn't.'
'You bloody did, I saw you'.
Dorman's face took on the look of a small boy, caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
'Well yes, I did pick it up ... but I dropped it'.
'You didn't drop it', said Ted, 'It's been there all night'.
Dorman stuffed the final remains into his mouth and wiped his face. 'You've only got the hump 'cause I spotted it first', said Dorman.
Stokes looked up at the roof in disbelief.
'Can we come to order', bellowed Barlow.
'Depends what she's like', quipped Roy Toulson, a man reputed to have done a bit of belly boxing in his time.
'Don't be disgusting', said Ted Stokes, a staunch Mary Whitehouse supporter.
'Right', said Barlow, 'What do we know about Dorking?'
'Load of southern poofters', offered Dorman.
'Anything else?' asked Barlow.
The room fell into silence, which was only broken by the entry of the landlord.
There's some youth called Kenny Ceilings on the phone for you Frank'. Barlow left the room, returning ashen faced some two minutes later. 'Old Bury Hill lake . . . it's a bream job on the lead', he announced with about as much enthusiasm as a British Leyland shop steward announcing a return to work.
'Can't they be caught on the float?' enquired Rolfey.
'He says not', said Barlow. 'But we'll disprove or prove that in practice'. The room once again fell into silence for everyone present knew that stillwater bream artists they were not (shaddup you lot... you aren't — M.W.)
Meanwhile at Kenny Collings's condemned home in Surrey, the mainstays of the Dorking team were gathered around a faulty electric fire. Brawling John McCarthy broke the silence.
'It's bloody cold in here Ken, I'll bet you don't need to keep your bait in a fridge'.
There's no need to be rude, just drape another sack around your shoulders', commented Kenny.
'What are Nottingham like on bream', asked Dorking regular Steve Gardner. 'Well, let's put it this way', offered Brawling John McCarthy, They think swing tips are places where old playground equipment is dumped'.
'Ha ha ... that's funny', said Bogey Bartlett after an interval of three minutes, when McCarthy’s wit had dawned on him.
Bob Leadbetter and Rob Mittens had until that time said little. Instead they had been sat in a corner, holding hands and making eyes at each other.
'Well, what do you two think then?' asked Mr Nice Guy, Kenny Collings.
'What about?' said a starry eyed Rob Mittens.
'About the venue and the match against Nottingham of course', said Kenny.
'Well, I'll only fish, if I can be pegged next to Bob', said Rob.
That goes for me too' said Bob.
'Look', said McCarthy, 'It's all very funny you two clowning on like a couple of gingers at matches, it's very entertaining, but you can drop the act now'.
'It's not an act', said Rob Mittens, looking hurt.
'Well, I'm sure we're all very happy for you both, but do you think we could get down to talking about tactics', chipped in Steve Gardner.
'Right', started Kenny, 'We all know the venue, it's bream, at that game we can out fish them and I think with our home advantage, we should all set our stall out to do just that. There will be a team practice midweek, in which every member of the Dorking team will be present. Any questions?'.
'Any point?' asked McCarthy.
The luxury 24 sealer coach pulled out of the car park of the Waggler and Horses and with its engine headed in the direction of London, started out on its epic journey. The entire Notts Fed team, had all taken a couple of days holiday for a match practice and for the match itself and they were in mixed spirits. Dorman, Barlow and Handforth were positively radiant at the prospect of a mucky weekend away, Swinscoe and Palmer weren't so pleased, as it would mean missing a valuable Shakespeare 3000 match on the Saturday and besides, Pete Palmer had had a lot of trouble in finding someone to feed his beloved racing pigeons, he had solved this by bringing them on the bus in a large whicker basket, with the plan that he could release them at the other end. Little did he know that Terry Dorman had other plans for them, namely gozzer fodder.
After a long and riotous journey down the M1, which had resulted in large quantities of alcohol being consumed, the coach had managed to circumnavigate London and eventually pulled in to the car park of the Rat and Ferret, an hotel with an alleged minus two star rating.
The Notts Fed team disembarked and weaved their way into the crumbling reception area.
'I know Dorking is meant to be an old Roman town', commented Ted Stokes looking around the batter decor, 'but you would have thought they would have had a tidy up after 2,000 years'.
'You're right Ted', grunted Barlow, 'It's a bit grim'.
Typical trick of the opposition, putting us up in a ramshackle doss house', said Terry Dorman.
'Are you the party from Nottingham?' enquired a seductive voice from the reception desk.
Twelve pairs of eyes were now riveted on the gorgeous honey blonde with the GT chassis.
Wayne Swinscoe was the first to recover and with the agility of a cat, moved to the front of the rabble and took control of the situation. 'Yes my love we are and I'd like a single room please, not too far from yours, preferably with connecting doors'.
The other 11 members of the squad listened with amazement as young Wayne delivered his bold approach.
'I think that can be arranged', she said as coolly as possibly, handing Wayne a key to a room. 'Some of the other girls are arranging a party later on tonight and we're short of a few men, would you and your friends like to come along, it's in the staff quarters'.
'We'll be there', said Wayne, looking as pleased with himself as if he'd just drawn one below the dyke at Caythorpe.
'I don't think my wife would like me to go to a party with a lot of young girls', offered Don Slaymaker.
'Well, don't tell her then', said Roy Toulson, barely able to take his eyes off Gloria, the receptionist.
'That's not a bad idea Roy, why didn't I think of that', said Don.
'Because you're very bright Don, as far up as your ankles', said Barlow, picking up his old canvas groundbait bag, in which were stuffed his change of clothing.
The Notts Fed team went to their respective rooms, washed, changed and met down in the bar, an hour later.
'Phew!', exclaimed Stokes, 'It's like a perfume factory, what have you lot been smearing on yourselves?'
'Eau de wasp grub', said Wayne, 'Let's hope it proves just as fatal to women as it does to chub'.
'Fatal is the right word, a lungful of that and you'd be out for the count, anyway, I think we should all have an early night and be up early and go down to this lake and have a full day's practice', said Don Slaymaker. The torrent of abuse showered on this suggestion put the seal of approval on the arrangements for the party.
The scene at breakfast, the morning after, was reminiscent of a group of meths drinkers huddled round a fire on a building site.
Barlow, Dorman and Rolfey looked like death warmed up, Palmer, Stokes and Moult little better, the only member of the squad who looked barely alive was the young stud, Wayne Swinscoe. Roy Toulson was still missing, last seen demonstrating his donkey top to one of the chambermaids.
'What would you like for breakfast?' asked the young waitress, who was on duty.
'A jug of Alka Seltzer, 12 straws and a bucket of Philosan', muttered Barlow, praying that the room would stop moving.
Three hours later, the Notts Fed squad, still minus Toulson, were at Old Bury Hill lake.
Jovial Graham Rowles, the owner of the lake, surveyed the rag tag army, as they collapsed on to the car park tarmac. '12 day tickets, is it lads, that'll be £12 please', he announced.
'Get stuffed, you big southern womble, we're guests', growled Barlow. 'If you want any money, get it off that Kenny Collings'.
Rowley wasn't exactly prepared for this sort of outburst. 'It's £1 a head to fish', he tried to explain, 'Everybody pays'.
'Listen pal, we only want a day's fishing, we don't want to rent the place for a year', shouted Dorman from the back of the bus, slinging his basket over his shoulders and misjudging his strength, as the basket swung in an arc, hitting Ted Stokes and sending him sprawling. 'Get the money off Collings', snapped Barlow again, 'Now where's this lake?'
Rowles decided that cowardice was the better part of discretion, took a couple of paces backwards out of Barlow's path and pointed him down the footpath.
The practice session had been time well spent and whereas Old Bury Hill lake seemed to respond to traditional bream tactics, heavy feed at distance, it responded better to a little and often two to three rod lengths out on the float, with not only bream showing, but several quality tench, a good stamp of roach and plenty of rudd.
'We can do 'em on the float Frank', whispered Wayne to his captain, as the team settled in the guest lounge for their final match tactical meeting.
'Listen Swinno, just because you're getting your name in lights at the moment, don't get carried away — I decide tactics, you fish to order, don't tell me what you think we should do, I'm the captain, is that clear', snarled Frank.
'Yes, Frank, sorry Frank, I just thought that the float would be the method'.
'Well, next time, keep your half baked ideas to yourself . . . right, are you all sitting comfortably? I've given this a lot of thought and I've come to the conclusion . . .'started Barlow.
'What conclusion have you come to Frank?' asked Rolfey.
'We can do 'em on the float', stated Barlow.
Wayne was on the point of opening his mouth, but wisely decided against it.
'Is that it?' asked Ted Stokes.
That's it, we fish tomorrow as we did today', stated Barlow.
That'll be difficult for some of us', snarled Terry Dorman and 11 pairs of eyes focused on the shattered figure of Roy Toulson, now back after being absent without leave for 18 hours.
'Filthy little man', said Johnny Moult, barely able to disguise his disgust, 'You should be ashamed of yourself, you're old enough to be her father'.
'Well Roy's been reprimanded for his behaviour, so let's forget all about it and think like a team once again'.
'I haven't been reprimanded', said Roy.
'You have', said Barlow, 'You're buying the beer for the rest of the night'.
The day of the match was dull, but warm. The two teams checked over their kit in the carpark.
'Frank Barlow?' asked Kenny Collings.
'Wanna make something of it?' said Frank swinging round and tensing himself. Collings jumped back about five paces in one step. 'Er. . . no, I just want to know if you're Frank Barlow, I'm Kenny Collings, the captain of Dorking'.
'We all have our crosses to bear', said Frank, dropping his guard and relaxing a bit.
The pegging was decided, Nottingham Fed chose evens and by a slow process of elimination, Dorking worked out that they had odds.
"Ere', said Terry Dorman, "Ave you seen those two blokes over there, they're holding hands'.
Rob Mittens and Bob Leadbetter, were oblivious to the jeers and catcalls from the Nottingham mob, instead they were grappling with the problem of being parted for five hours and Kenny Collings was desperately trying to resolve the situation.
'Look', said Kenny, five hours isn't a lifetime, you'll soon be back together again, there's no way you can fish at the same peg, now be sensible about the whole thing'.
'Listen you two', snarled Brawling John McCarthy, 'Cut it out and get to your pegs or you'll never fish for Dorking again'.
'Big deal sweetie', said Bob.
'Ooh, isn't he butch', said Rob pouting his lips, 'So masterful'.
The match eventually got underway and the Dorking team fished as planned.
Kenny Collings put the level of the lake up by an inch or two after a heavy cannonade and the rest of the Dorking team followed suit, with varying degrees of accuracy. Rob Mittens and Bob Leadbetter, spent the first half hour of the match throwing love letters packed into balls of groundbait over the distance of the three pegs that separated them.
The Notts Fed tactics paid off immediately and they began to put a weight together at every peg. The Dorking lead artists had to wait longer for their action to begin. Brawling John McCarthy was first into the action, netting a big bronze slab. A grin cracked his face. Old Bury Hill lake had been good to him in the past and there was no reason to suspect that his run of fortune was suddenly going to dry up, as he leaned back into his second fish.
'You'll loose that one in the weeds', stated Barlow, when McCarthy’s fish was three rod lengths out by a bed of lilies. McCarthy strengthened his resolve, determined not to be put off by the remarks of a man whom he regarded as a waste of space. Putting the pressure on the fish to steer it past the danger zone, his heart sank as his rod tip went slack. Told you you'd loose it', laughed Barlow, netting another skimmer.
McCarthy’s frustration and anger were climaxed when he saw a bobbly-hatted pleasure angler walk behind him, followed closely by Graham Rowles, the owner of the lake. 'Yea', said Rowley, 'You'll get in between these two, no problem'. 'Hey', yelled McCarthy, 'What's your bleeding game, there's a match on here, the East Anglian Cup'. 'I've got news for you pal', said Rowley, pocketing the £1 day ticket money, 'You're in the wrong county'. McCarthy crushed a dozen valium tablets up, put them in his tea and drank deep. The pressures of match fishing were taking their toll. The bandit of Old Bury Hill lake managed to squeeze another seven pleasure anglers into the prolific Front Bank match length.
Sheer disbelief turned to frustration and anger, as floats and leads became hopelessly entangled. The Dorking squad's tactics fell down, as amateur long distance bream anglers pounded groundbait out on fish that were just becoming settled. The effect was predictable, swingtips jerked upwards, as startled bream made for the sanctuary of settled water and crashed into lines cutting through the shallow water. The Nottingham team, used to chronic short pegging on some stretches of the Trent, were quite at home and whittled away at the shoals of skimmers, rudd and roach.
‘What a fiasco', groaned Steve Gardner, the Dorking ace, who had drawn and blown another flyer, seeing it ruined by the halfwit pleasure angler who had set up shop not seven yards away, 'What a fiasco', he repeated, '72lb 9oz to 12lb 6oz, we'll have to keep it out of the press, it wouldn't do for that to get out, okay, so we got knocked out of the cup, but beaten by 60lb at home, we'll be the laughing stock of the angling world’.
Kenny Collings nodded in grim agreement. At that moment the familiar shape of ace cub reporter Colin Mitchell's car pulled up. 'How did you get on lads?' he asked the Dorking squad, who were casually throwing their tackle into the boots of their cars, with about as much finesse as a Sherman tank. 'Shaddup Mitchell or we'll boot you so hard you'll end back up in Middlesbrough without touching the ground'.
'You didn't win then?' asked Colin, taking out his notepad and sensing a story. 'No we didn't, leave it at that', said Brawling John McCarthy, casually snapping three inches off one of his rods to make it fit in the boot. 'Close, was it?' asked Colin, hoping to prolong the interview. 'Depends how close you call 60lb', shouted Barlow.
'60lb!' exclaimed Colin, scribbling furiously and mentally typesetting head¬lines 'Dorking's Dream is Demolished'. 'If you print the weights, without mentioning that we had pleasure anglers at every other peg, there'll be a bit of bovver', continued McCarthy. 'I think there were pleasure anglers at all the odd pegs as well', laughed Dorman a bit unfairly. At that moment, fishery owner Graham Rowles came walking across the car park.
'Right Kenny, are you going to settle up for the pegging then, the Nottingham lads have had two sessions, that's 11 and 12, let me see . . . that makes £23 and there's your £12, in all that's £35', said Rowley cheerfully. Without a word passing between them, the Dorking squad dropped what they were doing and rounded on the bandit of Old Bury Hill Lake. Rowley was lifted aloft and carried down the path to the lake, screaming in protest. The splash he made as he entered the shallows, chest first, could only be matched that day by Kenny Collings' groundbaiting procedure.
'Funny lot, weren't they', said Palmer, breaking radio silence for the first time in nine hours, as he went to release his pigeons for their return flight home. 'Hey . . . where's my pigeons gone?' he asked, 'The basket's empty.' Palmer's eyes came to rest on Barlow and Dorman, who were sat round a small camp fire, turning an improvised roasting spit, made from a bankstick.
'Hey', said Pete, nearly getting excited, 'Are you roasting my pigeons'. 'Your pigeons?' said Barlow innocently, 'We thought they were the packed lunch.' By now the Dorking team had got over their upset sufficiently enough to be joining in the potential feast. They're my pigeons', spluttered Pete Palmer, 'My very own racing pigeons'.
'Well', said Brawling John McCarthy, biting into a succulent side of fresh roasted bird, 'Racing pigeons are they, well if this one's going to Hounslow, it'll win'.
PS — I'm very grateful to the Dorking squad and Graham Rowles for allowing themselves to be thoroughly humiliated. They did not give their permission, but I'm grateful just the same.
Next month in Up for T'Cup, read what happens when the Nottingham Federation draw deadly rivals Barnsley in the third round. What is John Allerton's dark secret, does Bob Walker really wear a surgical support, does Bionic Bleaker Tom Pickering really study ballet dancing and why does Keith Hobson roll his own cigarettes and keep falling off his basket and laughing like someone not right? All this and lots lots more in next month's thrilling instalment, soon to be published as a book, without all the naughty bits taken out.
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
Ooooooops - gone out of synch
Part 2 in the never ending saga by Mike Winney
An away draw in the sixth round of the cup against Rochdale based Wigstock WMC, didn't strike BAA skipper and hired assassin, Clive Smith, as anything to get on his bike about. Of course the venue was bound to be a canal, but that he could come to terms with. Rivers that lifted six foot and ran the other way, were another matter and Clive was now certain that the memory of that never to be repeated match against the Bogthorpes, was fading. The delectable Jackie Smith, was just removing the pig's trotters from the cauldron, when the telephone rang.
'I'll get it,' shouted the big fellow, separating the bottle of red-eye from its permanent position, not a million miles from his lips. He leaned over and grabbed the phone.
'Clive Smith here,'
'Hallo.. .hallo, is that Clive Smith.. .this is Arnold Sidebottom of Wigstock Working Men's Club. . .I'm phoning about the match.'
'When's it to be then,' asked Clive.
The committee want to hold the match on the Rochdale Canal, a week Saturday, that's if you are in agreeance,' offered Arnold.
That's all right my old son, what's in this canal,' asked Clive.
'Well, there's roach, gudgeon, a few skimmers and carp, but they'll take some catching,' said Arnold.
'What, the carp?' queried Clive.
'Any bloody thing,' came back the depressing answer.
'Is it a bloodworm water, Arnold?' asked Clive.
Arnold's tone changed in an instant.
'I'm under orders to say nowt Mr Smith, the committee were most explicit, they said that you would try and get some advanced information by asking leading questions, all I can tell you is the time, place and date.'
As Clive replaced the receiver, there was a knock on the door. It was Gilesy. 'I'm sure that you've got your phone wired into mine,' murmured Clive. 'You seem to sense when I've got some news.'
'It's what they call ESP,' said Ken, stepping round the bottle of red-eye, as though it was something that the dog had brought in.
'ESP,' continued Ken, adopting the air of a lecturer, 'stands for Extra Sensory Perception.'
'Not in my book, as far as I'm concerned, it stands for "Evesham's a Suckers Paradise", now that the bloody swimfeeders taken over,' said Clive, with just a trace of bad feeling.
Kenny wore the look of a man who wasn't getting enough, conversely, it could well have been the look of a man who was getting more than his share.
'I've just had Arnold Sidebottom on the phone,' continued Clive. 'Arnold is the secretary of Wigstock WMC and we've arranged the next round of the cup on the Rochdale Canal.'
A smile cracked Gilesy's face.
'I've fished the Rochdale Canal.. .it's a pig of a venue, if my memory serves me right, the killing method there, is the guts of a squatt on a No. 24 and that's the method for the bigger fish...'
'Sounds fun,' said Clive, nursing his jaw.
Tell you what though, I have a sneaking suspicion that there's a match on it this weekend, it might just be policy to get a few tickets to go and give it a whirl,' said Kenny.
'We could do worse,' said Clive. 'Pass the Angling Times from underneath that pile of washing... not that one, there's a sheep's heart in there, festering away nicely, with a few hookers for Sunday, that's the one, now let's see.'
There it is, Boltwick and District, 50 pegs, Saturday, Rochdale Canal, pegged from the sewage outfall to the Dog-in-a-Mangle, phone the man up now and get six ' tickets,' said Clive. '
'It's no good me phoning up, they would recognise my accent a mile off,' reasoned Ken.
'Good point,' replied Smithy, draining the last drops of red-eye to oblivion. This is where our man in the north comes into his own, our undercover agent, this is a job for the big fellow.'
In the space of time that it takes a man to dial an eight digit number, Clive was speaking to his man in the north, beer swilling champion, walking pocket battleship, maggot breeder, avid reader of the Beano, none other than big Kev.
'Now then,' said Kevin, 'what can I do for thee Clive.'
'Can you get us some tickets for a match this Saturday on the Rochdale Canal. We've got a qualifier in the cup a week Saturday against Wigstock and we reasoned a few hours' practice under match conditions wouldn't go amiss.'
'I can do that Clive, I'll phone back,' confirmed Kev.
Within the space of half an hour, Kev had secured the tickets and at 5.30 a.m. that Saturday, armed with a full artillery of bait, the Brummies advance party, gobbled up the miles on the motorway in their hijacked laundry van. Young Mark took the wheel, Clive and Ken sat up front. Slumped on the back seat and covered by a couple of sacks, the notorious Kenny Smith slept the sleep of the unjust. Kenny Smith, a man barely alive. . .we can rebuild him. . .make him better than he was. .
'We'll have to,' grunted Barry, 'he won't be fit to fish in this state.'
Upon arriving at the draw, it became apparent to the lads, that the Rochdale mob were under no illusions as to where Kev's tickets had ended up. Nobody spoke. Little groups of cloth capped anglers stood at the far corners of the car park, surveying their Midland cousins.
They aren't as tall as I thought,' observed the Rochdale skipper, known as Sammy the squatt.
After the draw, the Brummies found themselves well spread out over the match length, nobody drew next to another team member and so they had the full benefit of what the opposition were up to.
Clive started off on a twenty and caster, Gilesy, bronze pinkies and Mark gave the bloodworm a whirl. What was intriguing, was the locals' approach. Instead of the normal canal tactics, they opted for large cobs of bread, lobworms and bunches of maggots. The match was a grueller. Clive caught a 3oz roach in the first few minutes and then sat biteless, despite ringing the changes, Kenny Giles had a couple of skimmers, about 2oz each and the others struggled for the odd gudgeon and tiny roach. Young Mark came off best and weighed in 11oz.
At the whistle, only the BAA squad had anything to weigh. They waited in the deserted car park for the results and when they had cleared the board, taking the first six places, they collected their winnings and retired to the nearest pub. . .the Black Dog.
Clive scratched his head. 'All is not well in the state of Denmark.'
'Stuff Denmark,' said Barry, 'Thing's ain't so hot in Rochdale.'
Max, who had said little throughout the whole day, suddenly spoke. 'I thinks we is on the wrong track,' he said, in a broad Gloucester accent. 'I think it might be a good idea if we give that Arnold Sidebottom a ring, I just have a feeling about this canal, I think we should phone him now and ask him what the winning weight will be.'
'What for?' said Clive.
'I got a feeling, I think we're on the wrong track,' insisted Max.
If it will make you any happier, I'll ring him,' said Clive.
Inserting his 2p in the pay phone Clive was soon in contact with Arnold Sidebottom.
'Hello Arnold, tell me, what would a team of 12 need to win on the canal?'
'I've told thee Clive, I can't answer leading questions.'
'It's not a leading question old cock, I'm just asking you what we would need to win, after all, I'm only trying to formulate some plans about the venue.'
'Well, to be honest Clive, you'll need 20lb for a team weight to be certain.'
Clive replaced the receiver and looked puzzled. Between them, they had found little evidence that the entire match length held twenty pounds of fish and in fact their team weight for the day had been 1lb 4oz.
Twenty pounds he reckons', stated Clive.
There was a gasp, not because of what Clive had said, but because Kenny Giles had just ordered a round of drinks, a move without precedent.
I thought so,' said Maxie, 'I knew something was not right, I had a feeling.'
'So did I, but I did something about it,' leered Kenny Smith.
'No, no, listen, I had this carp roll in front of me, did any of you see any carp?' asked Maxie.
'I had a fish come up in front of me,' said Mark.
'I saw a bream roll, I suppose it could have been a carp,' said Gilesy.
'Carp, we don't know much about them, apart from Lloyd choking one in the parks festival,' said Barry.
'What we need is someone to teach us about carp fishing, an expert,' said Clive.
'Well,' said Maxie, 'I heard about some fella in Norfolk, he knows about things like that, always writing in fishing magazines. Neville Ficknic. . .or something like that.'
'Pickling,' chorused Clive and Kenny.
'You too,' said Kenny Smith.
'No, no, Neville Pickling, that's him,' said Clive.
That night under the veil of darkness, Clive phoned his man in Norfolk.
'You don't know me, my name is Clive Smith. . .no, no, don't hang up, yes I admit it, I do go match fishing from time to time, but I really want to learn about carp fishing and I've only got a week.'
Meanwhile in Coventry, a certain Mr Andy Barker's ears were burning. . .'a week, Neville could teach him all he knows about carp in two minutes.'
'Exactly what do you wish to know, Mr Smith?' enquired Neville coldly.
'Everything,' said an anxious Clive, 'and we are prepared to pay.'
Suddenly Neville's attitude changed. Clive had struck the right key and it was music to the young lad's ears.
'Why Mr Smith, I'd be only too pleased to assist you and your charming friends, why don't I drive over to Birmingham in the morning and we can put in a few rod hours at a private water I know. Oh, about the fee, what sort of figure do you have in mind?'
'Shall we say £25,' offered Clive, with no real idea what the going rate for carp fishing lessons were.
'Guineas, I like the sound of guineas Mr Smith,' replied Neville.
'Yes, as you wish,' replied Clive.
After giving Neville instructions on how to reach Alvechurch Towers, the ancestral home of the Smiths, Clive hurriedly phoned round the BAA squad and acquainted them of the deal that he had just clinched, then, retired to bed, to dream dreams of fishing matches before the invention of the swimfeeder.
6.30 a.m. the following day found a sickly looking youth knocking on the big man's door. Crawling from his pit, Clive pushed his head through the half-opened window.
'What do you want,' he asked, somewhat abruptly.
'It is I, Neville.'
'Gordon Bennett, what have I let myself in for,' groaned Clive, as he fought to encase his fine legs in a pair of jeans.
Within the hour, the BAA squad were gathered round the four-acre pool, in the grounds of Kenilton Hall, a stately home, just outside Birmingham.
'Who lives here?' asked Max.
'Oh, it's a friend of my father's actually,' answered Neville, 'Lord Rothstone.'
'Can you get day tickets,' asked Barry Brookes.
'Hardly,' said Neville, barely disguising his disdain.
The session went well. Neville demonstrated the effect of sweetcorn on carp, which was adequately summed up by Kenny Smith, who stated after the lad had beached his eighth double, 'It's like feeding strawberries to a donkey.' The initial shock of fishing on 8lb line direct to a six hook, had soon vanished and apart from Kenny Smith continually referring to Neville as 'yer lordship', the morning proved a major success. Neville collected his fee and thanked Clive.
8.30 a.m. the following Saturday, saw the two teams gathered in the Black Dog car park. Sammy the squatt introduced himself to Clive.
Tha'll be Clive will tha?" said Sammy Hogthwaite, captain of Wigstock.
'Pleased to meet you Sammy,' replied Clive. 'What are we going to need to beat you today,' he asked offhandedly.
'A lot of bloody luck, lad,' replied Sammy.
The draw took place at nine o'clock and within half an hour everyone was at their peg.
TIME,' yelled the steward.
Nobody moved, except of course Kenny Smith, who out of habit said out aloud, 'Any chance of another pint guv?'
Everybody stared hard at the men either side, to see what they were going to do. After a few moment's hesitation, the Wigstock team opened up with jokers and bloodworm and immediately got into fish. Things were not going as the Brummies had expected, but they stuck to their team plan, which was for six of them to go for bits and the other six to sit it out for carp on the sweetcorn.
Maxie had been elected as one of the carp brigade and he catapulted out his free samples of sweetcorn, it hit the water like a shower of pebbles. He grinned at the Wigstock team man next to him and gave him a look as if to say, 'I don't always fish this stupid you know.' It was interpreted as 'I always fish this stupid and I am a grinning idiot.'
Four hours' later, Wigstock were in front. Their bloodworm tactics were paying off, if the Brummies had tried to match them, they might have overhauled their score on a man for man basis, but with six men sat fishless after big game, they desperately needed a leveller. That they had been partially led astray was now dawning on Clive, they had banked on the Wigstock team all fishing for carp with bread buns and bunches of lobs and if that hadn't come off, then they would have had half a dozen men with at least a few ounces of fish, to take the honours. But the wader was on the other foot and it was now down to them to catch a carp and time was running out.
The spectators walked up and down the match length, watching the action. One fellow stopped behind Clive.
'Hast anyone collared it yet?' asked the spectator.
'It,' said Clive. 'What is it.'
The carp of course, there's only one, you know,' came the reply.
'Only one, how big is it?' asked Clive. 'It varies, sometimes she'll go 20lb in summer, but in winter, she thins down to around 17'/2lb.'
The picture at last emerged a bit clearer for the big fellow. He bit the top off another bottle of red-eye and drank deep. The 20lb that Arnold Sidebottom was referring to was one fish, not half a dozen small ones. It also explained why they were told they would need a lot of luck to beat them, they must have known about our practice at the lake and guessed our tactics. They had been outflanked.
Meanwhile, at the Dog-in-a-Mangle peg, Maxie was getting agitated. In the past five minutes, his quivertip had been nudged a couple of times. He was fishing a size six to ten pound line, with two large grains of sweetcorn. He had felt a bit of a berk, but he had stuck at it. Now he was feeling slightly less of a berk, as his quivertip was trembling again. When it finally moved away and circumscribed a big arc, he didn't feel a berk at all, in fact he felt quite elated. The strike met with solid resistance and Maxie sat down to do battle with, unbeknown to him, the only carp in the entire canal.
The word soon got around. 'He's got it,' came the whisper down the towpath and spectators broke into a steady jogtrot, leaping over rods and bait containers, in the rush to get a good view. Soon a large crowd was assembled behind Maxie at the Dog-in-a-Mangle swim.
Odds were being laid on whether or not the fish would be landed, local tradesmen, knowing the score, were not slow to cotton on to the action and within five minutes, two mobile ice cream vans were installed behind the intrepid Gloucester bricklayer and master builder.
The word spread to the competitors. 'Maxie Winters is into one!'
Kenny Giles ran his hands over his lucky teddy bear, which he always carried in his basket, the wrinkles on Clive's forehead slowly smoothed out, as he relaxed and Kenny Smith opened another can of beer to celebrate. With 45 minutes to go, Maxie had all the time in the world and on tackle normally employed in towing out oil rigs to the North Sea, the rogue of the Rochdale Canal wasn't going anywhere but the weighing in pan. With five minutes to go, the Wigstock men actually started packing up. Their contribution wouldn't have made any difference to the result as they were ahead on small fish, but the carp was the great steamroller blow that they were dreading.
It was all down to Maxie.
With 10 minutes allowed after the whistle, to land fish, Maxie was now five minutes into extra time, but the carp was tiring and now he applied pressure and inch by inch, was drawn nearer the net. Eventually the bomb appeared above the surface and below the short link, a huge fish turned over just under the surface. Gently, Maxie lowered his net into the water and coaxed the now spent fish over the rim and lifted it clear of the surface. Dropping his rod, he placed both hands on the handle and pulled his prize ashore. The crowd broke out into spontaneous applause, especially the two ice cream salesmen, who yelled 'Ole Ole!'
She weighed 19lb 4oz.
The final result was Birmingham 27lb 11oz, Wigstock 11lb 21/4oz. The competitors and large crowd of local anglers retired to the Black Dog.
'Well Clive, tha' gi' us a good thrashing and your fella caught on sweetcorn, didn't he, we haven't tried that for Mirabelle yet, that being the name of the carp,' offered Arnold, when the teams were sat down demolishing food and tea.
'I guess we were lucky, that's all,' said Clive and meaning it.
'No, it was a calculated gamble, but I bet you wouldn't have taken it if you'd known there was only ONE carp in the canal,' added Arnold.
Too right, Arthur, but we got the impression there were a few, at the last week's practice, most of us saw something big in our pegs,' said Clive, draining another scotch to oblivion.
'Aye, you probably did, but that's what Mirabelle does, she likes to cruise up and down on match days and see if there are any new faces,' said Arthur with a grin.
Just then, pandemonium broke out at the bar.
'No, no, you've got it wrong,' said Kenny Giles, doing his best to placate the 17 stone landlord, Jack Ironfist, 'I only ordered the drinks, I'll settle for my half shandy of course, but as for all the others. . .'
'£12.72 now, or else you'll have the option of being the first suitable case for a head transplant,' thundered the Rochdale one man army.
'I lika to paya for da drinks,' offered the little Italian ice cream salesman, 'it is the least I can do after such a fabuloso performance and because I sella so mucha ica creama to the crowd who watched Maxie Winta
I lika very mucha to give my profit back.'
'Who on earth is that,' asked Clive, open mouthed.
That,' declared Sammy the squatt, 'is the Mayor of Rochdale.' •
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
... The Final Chapter (but don't fret Manny - there's a bit more to come 
THE STORY SO FAR:— The glorious BAA squad, having overcome all sorts of rubbish in their battle to gain a place in the final of the East Anglia Cup, now face the prospect of fishing the Bristol & Uttoxeter Match Fishing Society for the grand prize of £1,000. Throughout the series, the BAA have had to pull out all the stops, including mastering treacherous tidal waters to crush the Bogthorpe Herons. They have also beaten Ray Mum ford's Select squad in a dirtily contested tactical battle on the Thames. On top of all this, they also put out Wigstock WMC lights on the Rochdale Canal, thanks to a 19lb carp, caught by the Gloucester Dwarf, Max Winters. The lads have also survived such shocks as Kenny Giles nearly buying a round of drinks, the stench of Fred Bailey's groundbait, Kenny Smith actually being on time for a match and Barry Brookes telling a joke ... now read on.
On the face of it, the Bristol and Uttoxeter Matchfishing Society (BUMS) didn't offer too much of a threat to the might of the invincible Birmingham matchfishing machine, in this the final round of the East Anglia Cup. The BUMS squad had been lucky with a series of home draws, where they obliterated all traces of opposition on their chosen venue, Bilberry Pool, in deepest Cornwall, which is about the furthest point from anywhere in the British Isles. Four of the five sides they had drawn against, had conceded the round, rather than face the prospect of driving hundreds of miles to fish in what was rumoured to be little more than a duckpond. Rotherham, the only team to take up the challenge, had done so at their cost.
Having drawn the BUMS in the semi-final, the Rotherham skipper had made the mistake of booking rooms at the hotel owned by none other than BUMS skipper, Billy Knott. The trip was a disaster. The evening meal on the day before the match, was suitably spiked, culminating in the entire team spending the whole of the five hour match, seated on the nearest toilet.
The statutory BAA team meeting at Clive's house, Alvechurch Towers, took place three days before the grand final.
Kenny Giles was first to arrive. Apart from fishing with Clive, he also lived next door. 'Still,' mused Clive, 'It could be worse. I should be thankful it's not Kenny Smith, if it was, I'd apply for a reduction in the rates'. 'Come in', shouted Clive, from the depths of his armchair.
Gilesy walked in, informally dressed in a three piece suit, white shirt, dark tie and polished shoes.
"Evening Clive," said Kenny, looking round the room, as though he had never been there before.
Clive looked at Kenny out of the corner of his eye. Raised a bottle of red-eye to his lips and gulped down the demon brew. He motioned the winner of an Embassy final, father of two and the man of whom Stan Smith once said, 'Kenny who?', to sit down.
'Really Clive, must you always get plastered at these team meetings, why do you do it?'
'I drink to forget', mumbled Clive.
'Forget, forget what?', asked Kenny.
'Can't remember,' slurred the big fellow.
In two's and three's the rest of the squad arrived, eventually nearly all were present, all except Barry Brookes. Barry, who throughout the series has complained bitterly at not being given a funny speaking part, turned up at last, ten minutes late.
(Right Barry, this is your big chance, don't fluff it — Enter Barry Brookes stage left).
BB Sorry I'm late Clive, I was in the chip shop and there was a hell of a fight.
KG What happened, was anyone hurt?
BB I'll say, three cod got battered.
(Now you know why we haven't given him a speaking part before).Thank you Barry', groaned Clive, 'Right down to business, first, what do we know about this team?' The wall of silence that greeted this question gave the big fella the answer he was expecting, as the BUMS had actually avoided fishing anyone, information was a little thin on the ground.
'Right, Kenny', said Clive, 'You've used telephones before, ring up your man at Angling Times and get their team down on paper'.
Kenny dialled a number from his little black book and after a few pleasantries got down to the business in hand.
'Tell me Kevin, do you know what their team is?'
Kenny started to write down the names, then suddenly, mouth open and wide eyed he stopped writing. 'None of these blokes live anywhere near Bristol, are you sure this is the team Kevin?"
The reply was obviously in the affirmative. 'Christ almighty,' said a somewhat shaken Gilesy, I know why they are nicknamed BUMS now, it stands for Brutal, Uncouth Mob of Savages. Gilesy completed his list and thanked Kevin for his trouble.
Kenny looked round the room at the rest of the lads. 'You just ain't going to believe this, read these out Clive'.
Clive glanced down the list and adopted one of the expressions he normally reserves for people who ask him for money or what he thinks the feeder has done for match fishing on the Avon at Evesham.
'Right, listen, I'll go down the list and I want your views, first ... Billy Knott'.
The Pirate of Penzance', gasped Lloyd. 'He's the biggest rogue out, he thinks a four letter word is an expression you use to join two words together, he's an animal'.
'Frank Barlow? offered Clive.
'He's a nutter, I know him well, Frank 'break yer neck' Barlow, good angler, but a complete psycopath. I fished next to him on the Trent and he said he'd pull my head off if I let my float go anywhere near his swim and that was twenty minutes before the start. All he did for five hours was swear and spit at me,' said Max 'I let my float go into his swim once and he jumped in the river and broke my best Newark Needle Float and then he ate my pinweights'.
John McCarthy?' offered Clive.
'Not brawling John McCarthy, another hardcase', offered Barry.
'Malc Fisher', said Clive continuing down the list.
'He's an ex-boxer, listen Clive, its a team of assasins, not anglers', whined Paul (Supertrap) Evans.
The rest of the list was just as full of vicious characters, known not only for their occasional angling skills, but more for their history of mental disturbances.
'Kenny Lott?' said Clive.
'A headcase, nice lad, but a headcase', said Gilesy, 'Only really happy when he's fishing an open ended coca cola tin on the Severn'.
'Clem Waldren?', continued Clive going down the list, which read more like a private army of mercaneries than a fishing team.
'All in wrestler,' said Lloyd, 'Bites the heads of ferrets, when he gets bored with smashing his wife and home to bits'.
'Roy Toulson?' said Clive. 'Another lout, he's on parole from Wormwood Scrubbs for maiming a scalesman in a Notts Fed Open, because he wouldn't give him 12lb 31/2oz when he weighed him in'.
'What did he really have?' asked Max.
'2lb 31/2oz' replied Kenny.
'Gary Evans?'
'Not the Gary Evans, the Welsh Wizard and mastermind of the Cardiff Zombies. He's a bad tempered sod, I once saw him unhook a chub on the Wye and it spewed casters out all over him,' said Max.
'What did he do?' said Max.
'Stoved its head in with a 15 swan balsa float to teach it a lesson'.
'Oh then it can't be the Gary Evans I know', continued Mark, 'He's never caught a chub'.
The remainder of the names on the list, were all associated with mayhem and violence and the strength of the opposition clearly unsettled the BAA squad.
"Call it off, squealed Paul Evans, who had suddenly developed a bigger yellow streak down his back than a canary.
'It's probably just a coincidence', reasoned Clive, sobering up fast. Just then, the phone rang.
'Is that Clive Smith?', asked a broad cockney voice.
'It is', replied the BAA skipper.
'Billy Knott here, how are you doing you big brummy poofter?
'Fine thanks Billy, we're just discussing the final with the squad actually.'
'Good job, just wondered if you and the rest of the crowd of herberts would like a little side bet of say £100 a man?'
'You can wonder what you like Billy, we'll just settle for the £1,000 first prize', said Clive firmly.
'Suit yourself, but you brummie pansies can kiss that lot goodbye, there's just no way you lot are going to beat us,' retorted Billy.
The phone went dead and Clive replaced the receiver and related the conversation to the rest of the squad..............
To be continued............
THE STORY SO FAR:— The glorious BAA squad, having overcome all sorts of rubbish in their battle to gain a place in the final of the East Anglia Cup, now face the prospect of fishing the Bristol & Uttoxeter Match Fishing Society for the grand prize of £1,000. Throughout the series, the BAA have had to pull out all the stops, including mastering treacherous tidal waters to crush the Bogthorpe Herons. They have also beaten Ray Mum ford's Select squad in a dirtily contested tactical battle on the Thames. On top of all this, they also put out Wigstock WMC lights on the Rochdale Canal, thanks to a 19lb carp, caught by the Gloucester Dwarf, Max Winters. The lads have also survived such shocks as Kenny Giles nearly buying a round of drinks, the stench of Fred Bailey's groundbait, Kenny Smith actually being on time for a match and Barry Brookes telling a joke ... now read on.
On the face of it, the Bristol and Uttoxeter Matchfishing Society (BUMS) didn't offer too much of a threat to the might of the invincible Birmingham matchfishing machine, in this the final round of the East Anglia Cup. The BUMS squad had been lucky with a series of home draws, where they obliterated all traces of opposition on their chosen venue, Bilberry Pool, in deepest Cornwall, which is about the furthest point from anywhere in the British Isles. Four of the five sides they had drawn against, had conceded the round, rather than face the prospect of driving hundreds of miles to fish in what was rumoured to be little more than a duckpond. Rotherham, the only team to take up the challenge, had done so at their cost.
Having drawn the BUMS in the semi-final, the Rotherham skipper had made the mistake of booking rooms at the hotel owned by none other than BUMS skipper, Billy Knott. The trip was a disaster. The evening meal on the day before the match, was suitably spiked, culminating in the entire team spending the whole of the five hour match, seated on the nearest toilet.
The statutory BAA team meeting at Clive's house, Alvechurch Towers, took place three days before the grand final.
Kenny Giles was first to arrive. Apart from fishing with Clive, he also lived next door. 'Still,' mused Clive, 'It could be worse. I should be thankful it's not Kenny Smith, if it was, I'd apply for a reduction in the rates'. 'Come in', shouted Clive, from the depths of his armchair.
Gilesy walked in, informally dressed in a three piece suit, white shirt, dark tie and polished shoes.
"Evening Clive," said Kenny, looking round the room, as though he had never been there before.
Clive looked at Kenny out of the corner of his eye. Raised a bottle of red-eye to his lips and gulped down the demon brew. He motioned the winner of an Embassy final, father of two and the man of whom Stan Smith once said, 'Kenny who?', to sit down.
'Really Clive, must you always get plastered at these team meetings, why do you do it?'
'I drink to forget', mumbled Clive.
'Forget, forget what?', asked Kenny.
'Can't remember,' slurred the big fellow.
In two's and three's the rest of the squad arrived, eventually nearly all were present, all except Barry Brookes. Barry, who throughout the series has complained bitterly at not being given a funny speaking part, turned up at last, ten minutes late.
(Right Barry, this is your big chance, don't fluff it — Enter Barry Brookes stage left).
BB Sorry I'm late Clive, I was in the chip shop and there was a hell of a fight.
KG What happened, was anyone hurt?
BB I'll say, three cod got battered.
(Now you know why we haven't given him a speaking part before).Thank you Barry', groaned Clive, 'Right down to business, first, what do we know about this team?' The wall of silence that greeted this question gave the big fella the answer he was expecting, as the BUMS had actually avoided fishing anyone, information was a little thin on the ground.
'Right, Kenny', said Clive, 'You've used telephones before, ring up your man at Angling Times and get their team down on paper'.
Kenny dialled a number from his little black book and after a few pleasantries got down to the business in hand.
'Tell me Kevin, do you know what their team is?'
Kenny started to write down the names, then suddenly, mouth open and wide eyed he stopped writing. 'None of these blokes live anywhere near Bristol, are you sure this is the team Kevin?"
The reply was obviously in the affirmative. 'Christ almighty,' said a somewhat shaken Gilesy, I know why they are nicknamed BUMS now, it stands for Brutal, Uncouth Mob of Savages. Gilesy completed his list and thanked Kevin for his trouble.
Kenny looked round the room at the rest of the lads. 'You just ain't going to believe this, read these out Clive'.
Clive glanced down the list and adopted one of the expressions he normally reserves for people who ask him for money or what he thinks the feeder has done for match fishing on the Avon at Evesham.
'Right, listen, I'll go down the list and I want your views, first ... Billy Knott'.
The Pirate of Penzance', gasped Lloyd. 'He's the biggest rogue out, he thinks a four letter word is an expression you use to join two words together, he's an animal'.
'Frank Barlow? offered Clive.
'He's a nutter, I know him well, Frank 'break yer neck' Barlow, good angler, but a complete psycopath. I fished next to him on the Trent and he said he'd pull my head off if I let my float go anywhere near his swim and that was twenty minutes before the start. All he did for five hours was swear and spit at me,' said Max 'I let my float go into his swim once and he jumped in the river and broke my best Newark Needle Float and then he ate my pinweights'.
John McCarthy?' offered Clive.
'Not brawling John McCarthy, another hardcase', offered Barry.
'Malc Fisher', said Clive continuing down the list.
'He's an ex-boxer, listen Clive, its a team of assasins, not anglers', whined Paul (Supertrap) Evans.
The rest of the list was just as full of vicious characters, known not only for their occasional angling skills, but more for their history of mental disturbances.
'Kenny Lott?' said Clive.
'A headcase, nice lad, but a headcase', said Gilesy, 'Only really happy when he's fishing an open ended coca cola tin on the Severn'.
'Clem Waldren?', continued Clive going down the list, which read more like a private army of mercaneries than a fishing team.
'All in wrestler,' said Lloyd, 'Bites the heads of ferrets, when he gets bored with smashing his wife and home to bits'.
'Roy Toulson?' said Clive. 'Another lout, he's on parole from Wormwood Scrubbs for maiming a scalesman in a Notts Fed Open, because he wouldn't give him 12lb 31/2oz when he weighed him in'.
'What did he really have?' asked Max.
'2lb 31/2oz' replied Kenny.
'Gary Evans?'
'Not the Gary Evans, the Welsh Wizard and mastermind of the Cardiff Zombies. He's a bad tempered sod, I once saw him unhook a chub on the Wye and it spewed casters out all over him,' said Max.
'What did he do?' said Max.
'Stoved its head in with a 15 swan balsa float to teach it a lesson'.
'Oh then it can't be the Gary Evans I know', continued Mark, 'He's never caught a chub'.
The remainder of the names on the list, were all associated with mayhem and violence and the strength of the opposition clearly unsettled the BAA squad.
"Call it off, squealed Paul Evans, who had suddenly developed a bigger yellow streak down his back than a canary.
'It's probably just a coincidence', reasoned Clive, sobering up fast. Just then, the phone rang.
'Is that Clive Smith?', asked a broad cockney voice.
'It is', replied the BAA skipper.
'Billy Knott here, how are you doing you big brummy poofter?
'Fine thanks Billy, we're just discussing the final with the squad actually.'
'Good job, just wondered if you and the rest of the crowd of herberts would like a little side bet of say £100 a man?'
'You can wonder what you like Billy, we'll just settle for the £1,000 first prize', said Clive firmly.
'Suit yourself, but you brummie pansies can kiss that lot goodbye, there's just no way you lot are going to beat us,' retorted Billy.
The phone went dead and Clive replaced the receiver and related the conversation to the rest of the squad..............
To be continued............
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
To a man, the BAA were beginning to have reservations about the final, the only man who didn't have any misgivings about the match was Kenny Smith, only because he didn't understand what was going on.
Unlike the previous rounds of the cup, the venue on this occasion, would not be picked by the home side. That honour fell to the NFA. Taking everything into consideration, spectator participation, for a large crowd could be anticipated, location, bearing in mind that the venue should be between Bristol and Birmingham and more importantly a venue where large bags of fish could be caught, the NFA, after much head scratching and consultation, selected the Lancaster Canal "at Garstang.
However, the decision was reversed, after a member of the committee actually spoke to a friend, who went fishing and the decision was taken to hold the match at Evesham, which promised to be a more exciting prospect.
When the news of the venue was released, the comments of the respective teams captains, couldn't have been more varied.
'Fantastic', said BAA skipper, Clive Smith, 'Put your money on Brum'
'It's a lousy carve up', snarled BUMS skipper Billy Knott, 'But we'll still give 'em a good 'ammering'.
Neither Clive nor anybody else were quite sure what Billy meant by that last remark, for certainly in the pub brawling and street violence stakes, the BUMS had no equal.
The day before the final, the entire BAA squad walked the banks of their beloved Evesham. How the NFA had ever permitted the final to be held in their own back yard, was a complete mystery, but the BAA weren't complaining, for if ever the outcome of a match was a racing certainty, then this was it ... or was it?
The luxury coach slowly eased its way up the drive to the Mouth Haven Hotel.
'It's arrived dad', said a youthful 171/2 stone Billy Knott Jnr.
'Okay lads, get the beer in first,' said Billy Snr.
The BUMS squad, soon completed the most important job of the morning and with enough alcohol to satisfy a hundred thirsts at a miners' gala, the secondary task of throwing the tackle on the bus was carried out with as much delicacy as Kevin Ashurst performing 'Swan Lake'. When all was secure, the team made an orderly exit from the hotel, where they had been guests for the past two days, a hotel reputedly paid for by the highly illicit sales of cut price Mitchell reels.
When all was loaded, the coach pulled away, laden down with beer, tackle and a squad of anglers who had already been dubbed, The dirty dozen'.
The journey was fairly uneventful, apart from several incidents involving pedestrians and a detour past Clive Smith's tackle shop, which resulted in a hail of empty beer cans being showered on to the pavement, thus stepping up the war of nerves.
The BUMS squad had been booked into the Albany, reputedly one of the finest hotels in the Midlands. The mob alighted and clutching just the bare essentials for a night out, a small suitcase, knuckle dusters and coshes, they weaved their way into the foyer. Having signed the book and had a quick wash and change, the BUMS made their way into the dining room.
"Ere Billy', said Kenny Lott. "ave you seen these prices, they're a bit steep, evening meal, a tenner!'
Hotelier and tackle discounter Billy, adopted a serious attitude.
'Listen Kenny, this place has overheads right? All hotels do, you can't run these places on the cheap, it's not like the tackle trade you know', said Billy, allowing just a trace of a smile to cross his face.
At that moment, a page boy made his way across the room towards their table, Telegram for Mr Knott'
'Over here lad', motioned Billy, 'Read it out will you'
Certainly Sir, it reads 'BEST OF LUCK TOMORROW — A WIN WILL BE GOOD FOR BUSINESS — BARRY WELHAM — GARCIA MITCHELL.
'Er yes, um ... thank you son,' said Billy, colouring up and ushering the lad away and pocketing the telegram. Could this have been a vital clue to where tackle pirate Billy was obtaining his hardware, direct from the manufacturers?
'It's someone playing a joke, laughed Billy, dismissing the issue and slurping a pint, to wash down the remnants of his pate de foi gras.
The venue on the morning of the match was filling up. At least 9,000 people had paid to come and watch the final. Even the TV cameras were there and the now infamous Ian Woolgrudge was giving a commentary on the action and build up to the match.
The draw, had resembled the weigh in at a world heavyweight contest between Ali and Foreman. Billy Knott, Clem Waldron and Frank Barlow had been the front men for the BUMS and had shoved and jostled the BAA squad from the start. At the moment, Frank Barlow was standing in front of Barry Brookes and without removing his eyes from Barry's terrified gaze, produced a set of wagglers from his pocket and commenced to eat them, periodically spitting out lumps of chewed, pulped sarcandas over other members of the BAA squad who were in spitting distance.
Paul Evans, Max and Gilesy had taken refuge in their cars and were shaking more than Fred Bailey's rod end, with a barbel hung on the other end. To continue with the war of nerves to unsettle the BAA, other members of the BUMS squad, were squashing swimfeeders flat in their hands and wrapping banksticks round startled NFA official's throats. The crowd loved it and thought it was play acting, so far no one had been injured, but there was still plenty of time.
On the way to their pegs, the war of nerves was stepped up. The BAA squad were jostled and insulted, so much so, that everyone was relieved when they gained the relative sanctuary of their pegs.
The draw had put Maxie on the 'white post' one of the star draws and a peg from which Max had won a potful of money. One above the bridge, a peg known to hold massive ringstripping chub, was drawn by Frank Barlow, a man with more than a passing acquaintance of dealing with such eventualities. On paper, it was a fair contest.
The crowd settled down to watch and only a handful of people didn't crowd to the river bank, they were gathered round one of the tackle stands, where Walter Bower was trying hard to convince people that the Newark Needle Float was the fishing system of the future.
'I'll show you,' said Walt, poised over his now famous test tank full of floats. The needle float, sinks deeper and stays under longer than anything else, now watch this'.
Producing his now equally famous lump of wood, he smacked all the floats at the same time to make them submerge. The needle float sunk deeper and stopped under longer than any of the others.
There,' said Walt. 'What do you think of that?'
'Great mister,' said a little urchin with his backside hanging out of his trousers, 'only trouble is, fish don't jump out of the water and land on the top of floats.'
The crowd sensing that this match would not be won by the faint hearted, were breaking up into groups to watch the action. The largest group were gathered around pegs 1 and 2, where the Gloucester dwarf had drawn next to the Stamford Strangler, Clem Waldron. Another confrontation which promised to be something of a blood bath was on pegs 17 and 18, where Billy Knott had been drawn next to the diminutive Starlet, Ted Farmer.
Frank Barlow, pegged on the bridge, was setting up. The peg on his right was still vacant. Suddenly a crowd of spectators started to move towards him. 'Gilesy's army', was on the move and leading them, none other than their hero, Kenny. At peg 19, Kenny and his entourage came to a halt. Carefully placing his tackle in his peg, he looked up and bade Frank Barlow a courteous 'Good morning'.
'Get stuffed yer poof, growled Barlow, as he slipped a 2 dust stick float onto his line.
Take no notice Kenny', shouted a member of the crowd 'He's just an animal'.
Barlow moved with the speed of a rattle¬snake up the bank, 'Who was that, I'll kill yer', he screamed, glaring into the massive crowd. The crowd wavered, but held ranks and Frank slunk back to his peg.
The BUMS team policy was a simple one ... fish the feeder, a method which for two years had dominated the Avon. Conversely, the BAA had opted to fish the stick and waggler, for whilst the feeder would probably win the match, it would only produce for certain pegs. The ideal feeder peg was Barlows, but no one had fished the float at that peg for the past two years.
Graham (I'll knuckle yer) Barry, who had, because of his ability to move rat-like from peg to peg, been given the opportunity to act as 'runner' for the BUMS team, was now hot foot on the way to peg 18, where Billy Knott was tackling up.
Take £26 off that bloke will you Graham?', said Knotty, 'I've just sold him two Mitchell Matches'.
Graham took the money off the man in the crowd and being the manager of the famous Marks and Marlow tackle shop, marvelled at how Billy could sell two reels of that calibre for that price and still make money.
'We've got a crisis Bill, Barlow refuses to fish the feeder', said Graham.
'What?', yelled Billy.
'He just refuses', repeated Graham, 'he says he's going to annihilate Giles on the float and furthermore he's going to fish the caster'.
Billy Knott jumped off his basket and raced along to peg 20, where Barlow was raining obscenities on the ultra cool Giles.
'You're finished Giles, finished before you start, today you've a proper angler next to you, not one of yer normal fairies, if I was you I wouldn't bother fishing, leave yer tackle there and come and watch a master at work.'
Gilesy was unperturbed by Barlow's outburst, he'd heard it all before.
'What's your game Frank?', asked Knotty, 'You know the team tactics'.
'I'm not fishing the plastic pig', growled Barlow, 'I'm a Trentman see and Trentmen don't fish the pig, anyway, I can hammer this poof on the stick, so get stuffed before I come up there and reorganise your face.'
Knotty, not one to walk away from a brawl looked long and hard at the big Nottingham angler.
'Okay', he said at last 'But if we get beat because of you, I'll set Clem Waldron on to you.'
Barlow never flinched. 'I'll bite his head off.'
Knotty slowly made his way back to his peg, still finding time to sell another Mitchell reel to a member of the crowd.
To be continued..............
Unlike the previous rounds of the cup, the venue on this occasion, would not be picked by the home side. That honour fell to the NFA. Taking everything into consideration, spectator participation, for a large crowd could be anticipated, location, bearing in mind that the venue should be between Bristol and Birmingham and more importantly a venue where large bags of fish could be caught, the NFA, after much head scratching and consultation, selected the Lancaster Canal "at Garstang.
However, the decision was reversed, after a member of the committee actually spoke to a friend, who went fishing and the decision was taken to hold the match at Evesham, which promised to be a more exciting prospect.
When the news of the venue was released, the comments of the respective teams captains, couldn't have been more varied.
'Fantastic', said BAA skipper, Clive Smith, 'Put your money on Brum'
'It's a lousy carve up', snarled BUMS skipper Billy Knott, 'But we'll still give 'em a good 'ammering'.
Neither Clive nor anybody else were quite sure what Billy meant by that last remark, for certainly in the pub brawling and street violence stakes, the BUMS had no equal.
The day before the final, the entire BAA squad walked the banks of their beloved Evesham. How the NFA had ever permitted the final to be held in their own back yard, was a complete mystery, but the BAA weren't complaining, for if ever the outcome of a match was a racing certainty, then this was it ... or was it?
The luxury coach slowly eased its way up the drive to the Mouth Haven Hotel.
'It's arrived dad', said a youthful 171/2 stone Billy Knott Jnr.
'Okay lads, get the beer in first,' said Billy Snr.
The BUMS squad, soon completed the most important job of the morning and with enough alcohol to satisfy a hundred thirsts at a miners' gala, the secondary task of throwing the tackle on the bus was carried out with as much delicacy as Kevin Ashurst performing 'Swan Lake'. When all was secure, the team made an orderly exit from the hotel, where they had been guests for the past two days, a hotel reputedly paid for by the highly illicit sales of cut price Mitchell reels.
When all was loaded, the coach pulled away, laden down with beer, tackle and a squad of anglers who had already been dubbed, The dirty dozen'.
The journey was fairly uneventful, apart from several incidents involving pedestrians and a detour past Clive Smith's tackle shop, which resulted in a hail of empty beer cans being showered on to the pavement, thus stepping up the war of nerves.
The BUMS squad had been booked into the Albany, reputedly one of the finest hotels in the Midlands. The mob alighted and clutching just the bare essentials for a night out, a small suitcase, knuckle dusters and coshes, they weaved their way into the foyer. Having signed the book and had a quick wash and change, the BUMS made their way into the dining room.
"Ere Billy', said Kenny Lott. "ave you seen these prices, they're a bit steep, evening meal, a tenner!'
Hotelier and tackle discounter Billy, adopted a serious attitude.
'Listen Kenny, this place has overheads right? All hotels do, you can't run these places on the cheap, it's not like the tackle trade you know', said Billy, allowing just a trace of a smile to cross his face.
At that moment, a page boy made his way across the room towards their table, Telegram for Mr Knott'
'Over here lad', motioned Billy, 'Read it out will you'
Certainly Sir, it reads 'BEST OF LUCK TOMORROW — A WIN WILL BE GOOD FOR BUSINESS — BARRY WELHAM — GARCIA MITCHELL.
'Er yes, um ... thank you son,' said Billy, colouring up and ushering the lad away and pocketing the telegram. Could this have been a vital clue to where tackle pirate Billy was obtaining his hardware, direct from the manufacturers?
'It's someone playing a joke, laughed Billy, dismissing the issue and slurping a pint, to wash down the remnants of his pate de foi gras.
The venue on the morning of the match was filling up. At least 9,000 people had paid to come and watch the final. Even the TV cameras were there and the now infamous Ian Woolgrudge was giving a commentary on the action and build up to the match.
The draw, had resembled the weigh in at a world heavyweight contest between Ali and Foreman. Billy Knott, Clem Waldron and Frank Barlow had been the front men for the BUMS and had shoved and jostled the BAA squad from the start. At the moment, Frank Barlow was standing in front of Barry Brookes and without removing his eyes from Barry's terrified gaze, produced a set of wagglers from his pocket and commenced to eat them, periodically spitting out lumps of chewed, pulped sarcandas over other members of the BAA squad who were in spitting distance.
Paul Evans, Max and Gilesy had taken refuge in their cars and were shaking more than Fred Bailey's rod end, with a barbel hung on the other end. To continue with the war of nerves to unsettle the BAA, other members of the BUMS squad, were squashing swimfeeders flat in their hands and wrapping banksticks round startled NFA official's throats. The crowd loved it and thought it was play acting, so far no one had been injured, but there was still plenty of time.
On the way to their pegs, the war of nerves was stepped up. The BAA squad were jostled and insulted, so much so, that everyone was relieved when they gained the relative sanctuary of their pegs.
The draw had put Maxie on the 'white post' one of the star draws and a peg from which Max had won a potful of money. One above the bridge, a peg known to hold massive ringstripping chub, was drawn by Frank Barlow, a man with more than a passing acquaintance of dealing with such eventualities. On paper, it was a fair contest.
The crowd settled down to watch and only a handful of people didn't crowd to the river bank, they were gathered round one of the tackle stands, where Walter Bower was trying hard to convince people that the Newark Needle Float was the fishing system of the future.
'I'll show you,' said Walt, poised over his now famous test tank full of floats. The needle float, sinks deeper and stays under longer than anything else, now watch this'.
Producing his now equally famous lump of wood, he smacked all the floats at the same time to make them submerge. The needle float sunk deeper and stopped under longer than any of the others.
There,' said Walt. 'What do you think of that?'
'Great mister,' said a little urchin with his backside hanging out of his trousers, 'only trouble is, fish don't jump out of the water and land on the top of floats.'
The crowd sensing that this match would not be won by the faint hearted, were breaking up into groups to watch the action. The largest group were gathered around pegs 1 and 2, where the Gloucester dwarf had drawn next to the Stamford Strangler, Clem Waldron. Another confrontation which promised to be something of a blood bath was on pegs 17 and 18, where Billy Knott had been drawn next to the diminutive Starlet, Ted Farmer.
Frank Barlow, pegged on the bridge, was setting up. The peg on his right was still vacant. Suddenly a crowd of spectators started to move towards him. 'Gilesy's army', was on the move and leading them, none other than their hero, Kenny. At peg 19, Kenny and his entourage came to a halt. Carefully placing his tackle in his peg, he looked up and bade Frank Barlow a courteous 'Good morning'.
'Get stuffed yer poof, growled Barlow, as he slipped a 2 dust stick float onto his line.
Take no notice Kenny', shouted a member of the crowd 'He's just an animal'.
Barlow moved with the speed of a rattle¬snake up the bank, 'Who was that, I'll kill yer', he screamed, glaring into the massive crowd. The crowd wavered, but held ranks and Frank slunk back to his peg.
The BUMS team policy was a simple one ... fish the feeder, a method which for two years had dominated the Avon. Conversely, the BAA had opted to fish the stick and waggler, for whilst the feeder would probably win the match, it would only produce for certain pegs. The ideal feeder peg was Barlows, but no one had fished the float at that peg for the past two years.
Graham (I'll knuckle yer) Barry, who had, because of his ability to move rat-like from peg to peg, been given the opportunity to act as 'runner' for the BUMS team, was now hot foot on the way to peg 18, where Billy Knott was tackling up.
Take £26 off that bloke will you Graham?', said Knotty, 'I've just sold him two Mitchell Matches'.
Graham took the money off the man in the crowd and being the manager of the famous Marks and Marlow tackle shop, marvelled at how Billy could sell two reels of that calibre for that price and still make money.
'We've got a crisis Bill, Barlow refuses to fish the feeder', said Graham.
'What?', yelled Billy.
'He just refuses', repeated Graham, 'he says he's going to annihilate Giles on the float and furthermore he's going to fish the caster'.
Billy Knott jumped off his basket and raced along to peg 20, where Barlow was raining obscenities on the ultra cool Giles.
'You're finished Giles, finished before you start, today you've a proper angler next to you, not one of yer normal fairies, if I was you I wouldn't bother fishing, leave yer tackle there and come and watch a master at work.'
Gilesy was unperturbed by Barlow's outburst, he'd heard it all before.
'What's your game Frank?', asked Knotty, 'You know the team tactics'.
'I'm not fishing the plastic pig', growled Barlow, 'I'm a Trentman see and Trentmen don't fish the pig, anyway, I can hammer this poof on the stick, so get stuffed before I come up there and reorganise your face.'
Knotty, not one to walk away from a brawl looked long and hard at the big Nottingham angler.
'Okay', he said at last 'But if we get beat because of you, I'll set Clem Waldron on to you.'
Barlow never flinched. 'I'll bite his head off.'
Knotty slowly made his way back to his peg, still finding time to sell another Mitchell reel to a member of the crowd.
To be continued..............
All our yesterdays.........Up for T'cup
At one minute to eleven, the PA system crackled into life. 'Gentlemen, you have one minute, this is Stanley Smith speaking'. Immediately there was a loud roar of boos from the good natured crowd. Thank you very much', said Stan 'Like it or not, I have been appointed to act as referee for today's event, if anybody leaves his peg during the match, he will be disqualified, is that quite clear ... in 50 seconds I will be blowing the starting whistle.'
True to his word, at 11 o'clock precisely, Stanley blew his whistle and within seconds, 11 swimfeeders hit the water, in unison, as did 13 stick floats. Ted Farmer for the BAA was the first angler to contact with one of the many chub in the stretch, a fish of about 1lb, from the end of his swim, almost under Billy Knott's feet. The chub made to go downstream and Billy, quick as a flash, hacked at Ted's line, which was in reach of his landing net handle, an implement festooned with weed cutting blades. A loud roar of disapproval came from the spectators, as it was, the deadly flashing blade missed the line and Ted hustled the fish to safety and duly landed it.
'What's the matter with you lot?', said Billy innocently, as the crowd continued to show their dissent of his tactics. "All I was doing, was clearing some weed from my swim'.
There is no weed in your swim', pointed out one of the crowd.
'Yes I know,' said Billy. 'I was just clearing the last bit away when you lot started shouting at me, leave me alone'.
'You dirty swine' yelled Ted Farmer. 'Pull a stunt like that again and I'll come down there and stuff a cut price Mitchell match right up your port hole.'
That was the last straw, Billy, heavily under pressure from the strains of organising the past few days, put down his rod and stormed down the bank. Ted Farmer, like a rabbit transfixed with fear by the imminent attack of a weasel, stood rooted to the spot.
Knotty advanced through the mud and water and grabbed the startled Ted by the throat and proceeded to go a fair impression of one man drowning another. The brawl stirred the crowd into action and several spectators realising that it was for real, jumped down the bank and broke it up.
'Let me through, let me through,' said Referee Stan Smith. This is disgraceful, right Billy Knott, you're disqualified for leaving your peg'.
Billy trudged back to his peg, still mouthing abuse at the crowd of hecklers on the top of the bank, he was finally silenced on a BAA supporter who shouted above the din 'Get Knotted!' 'Not very original, but none the less, effective.
Stan followed the Pirate of Penzance back to his swim, where he was seen to be having words with the notorious Knotty. All the crowd could glimpse was pound notes and a reel changing hands. Even in defeat, Knotty was a shrewd operator and Stan not one to miss a bargain.
Further down the match length, the Gloucester Dwarf was giving the Avon chub all sorts of problems and in his last dozen casts, had missed one, bounced one and landed four, all good samples in the 11/2lb bracket.
At the next peg, Clem Waldron (the Stamford Strangler) was starting to panic. So far, he hadn't even had so much as a flicker on his tip, as his feeder pointlessly emptied another cargo of maggots on to the deserted riverbed. Max, on the other hand, was fishing at half depth in nine feet of water, loose feeding bronze maggots and the chub were coming up off the deck, looking for the bait. The resident fish population had been given such a clogging over the last two years, on the feeder, that loose feed dropping through the water was a novelty they couldn't resist. It made a change for them, after being used to finding their maggots gift-wrapped in plastic on the bottom.
Clem, not grasping the significance of this last remark, chose to ignore it. Maxie was now getting into his stride and again he sunk the hook home into another chub and stood up on his basket to get a clearer view of the river over the top of the rushes.
Clem was now at least 8lb adrift and just as he was about to commence operations on the float, team runner Graham Barry slunk into view. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?', he spelt out slowly and menacingly 'Get back on the feeder or you'll get some knuckle — who gi' yer that float anyway — stick on the 'pig it'll work, Kenny Lett's getting 'em'.
Meanwhile, above the bridge, a huge crowd was gathering. Barlow v Giles was becoming a battle royal and the super cool Gilesy was justifying his reputation, landing 7 chub to Frank's 5
True enough, Kenny Lott was getting them. Fishing an open ended Ovaltine tin, Kenny in his last cast, had the distinction of landing two chub, one on the hook and the other with its head firmly wedged in the massive feeder.
Kenny's waggler cocked to its capacity as the tell tale shot sank and then his float just sank down a hole in the river. He tightened into the bite. The chub, a very nasty, bad tempered fish in the 4lb battleship class, tore off for the far bank.
CCRRAAAACKK! Kenny's float shot back through the air and such was the ferocity of the break-off, that his float, half his terminal tackle and 25 yards of line wrapped itself round his rod end and surrounding bankside foliage.
Frank Barlow was not one to let the incident pass without comment. 'If you won the Embassy final Giles, then I'll fish for England!'
In the gallery, Stan Smith, England team manager, took out his now famous green notebook and under the column's 'promising newcomers', entered Frank's name, along with the comment, 'will need aggression and ruthless will to win knocking out of him'.
Gilesy struggled to sort out the vicious tangle his tackle was now in and in frustration, he snapped off at the reel, collected the tangled mess and started to re-thread his line. Just as he was getting to the last ring, a sharp eyed youngster in the crowd called out, 'Hey mister, you've missed the butt ring out.'
At this stage Kenny was nearing boiling point and when he looked up to see Barlow netting yet another chub, he blew his main gasket for the first time in his match fishing career. He threw down his half assembled float rod, picked up his feeder rod, which he had hired off Lloyd Davis for a small fee, fumbled to fill the 'pig' with maggots, cast out and cringed when it landed with a big ugly splash. Letting the feeder rod now fish for itself, he continued to retackle his waggler rig.
'I've done you Gilesy', yelled Barlow, gently easing another chub into netting range.
Whilst Kenny was adding the final shot to his tackle, his quivertip arched over. He dropped his float rod, picked up the feeder rod and was amazed to feel the satisfying 'bump' of a bigger than average fish. The frowns and wrinkles left Kenny's face as he netted his fish. A sudden change came over him and he now discarded his float rod and with fumbling excited hands, refilled the 'pig', cast out and no sooner had the feeder settled than ... tap, tap ... wallop! Kenny turned to the crowd, gave a huge grin and said 'I could get to like this'.
'Don't Kenny', shouted one of his faithful admirers, 'Its like a drug, fishing the feeder, you get addicted, put it away, before you become hooked'.
But it was too late, 'feedermania' had struck, at last Kenny had discovered the joys of fishing the 'pig'. As it turned out, he was two years too late. The trim of the Avon was about to alter again. From now on the float would rule as Max, Clive and Barry were proving in the match, each of them having between 16-21lb ... all on the float.
The final whistle blew and the BUMS had gone down fighting, but not in the literal sense as the BAA squad had originally feared.
Frank Barlow had won the match on the float, with 23lb 7oz. The next three places went to Max, Clive and Barry and the newly blooded feeder mechanic, Gilesy, was 5th with 17lb 14oz.
The final count gave the Brummies the top overall weight and at last they had clinched the East Anglia Cup. The massive crowd voted it a huge success and even Billy Knott, the tackle pirate, patched up his differences with young Ted Farmer.
After the champagne reception and presentation was over, Clive and Kenny were seen to be in deep conversation.
'I tell you Clive, it's great fishing the feeder', enthused Kenny, 'You cast out, ignore the splash, wait a minute or two, then wham! the rod end goes round, it's really exciting, I wish I'd gone into it before. In fact I even went and bought two new Mitchell Matches off Billy Knott, to go with the two feeder rods I'm going to make, by cutting down my float rods.'
'Listen', said Clive, 'I'm your buddy, right? I own a tackle shop, right? so why don't you buy your reels off me?'
They're so cheap Clive ... £26 for the two', confided Kenny.
Clive took a long, hard drink from the bottle of red-eye and looked Kenny straight in the eye.
'I wouldn't mind really, but the ironic thing is, who do you think has been supplying Billy Knott with all his illicit tackle for the past three years, it isn't the manufacturers'.
I've no idea Clive, who?' asked Kenny.
'ME, THAT'S WHO', said the big fella, fighting back the tears.
True to his word, at 11 o'clock precisely, Stanley blew his whistle and within seconds, 11 swimfeeders hit the water, in unison, as did 13 stick floats. Ted Farmer for the BAA was the first angler to contact with one of the many chub in the stretch, a fish of about 1lb, from the end of his swim, almost under Billy Knott's feet. The chub made to go downstream and Billy, quick as a flash, hacked at Ted's line, which was in reach of his landing net handle, an implement festooned with weed cutting blades. A loud roar of disapproval came from the spectators, as it was, the deadly flashing blade missed the line and Ted hustled the fish to safety and duly landed it.
'What's the matter with you lot?', said Billy innocently, as the crowd continued to show their dissent of his tactics. "All I was doing, was clearing some weed from my swim'.
There is no weed in your swim', pointed out one of the crowd.
'Yes I know,' said Billy. 'I was just clearing the last bit away when you lot started shouting at me, leave me alone'.
'You dirty swine' yelled Ted Farmer. 'Pull a stunt like that again and I'll come down there and stuff a cut price Mitchell match right up your port hole.'
That was the last straw, Billy, heavily under pressure from the strains of organising the past few days, put down his rod and stormed down the bank. Ted Farmer, like a rabbit transfixed with fear by the imminent attack of a weasel, stood rooted to the spot.
Knotty advanced through the mud and water and grabbed the startled Ted by the throat and proceeded to go a fair impression of one man drowning another. The brawl stirred the crowd into action and several spectators realising that it was for real, jumped down the bank and broke it up.
'Let me through, let me through,' said Referee Stan Smith. This is disgraceful, right Billy Knott, you're disqualified for leaving your peg'.
Billy trudged back to his peg, still mouthing abuse at the crowd of hecklers on the top of the bank, he was finally silenced on a BAA supporter who shouted above the din 'Get Knotted!' 'Not very original, but none the less, effective.
Stan followed the Pirate of Penzance back to his swim, where he was seen to be having words with the notorious Knotty. All the crowd could glimpse was pound notes and a reel changing hands. Even in defeat, Knotty was a shrewd operator and Stan not one to miss a bargain.
Further down the match length, the Gloucester Dwarf was giving the Avon chub all sorts of problems and in his last dozen casts, had missed one, bounced one and landed four, all good samples in the 11/2lb bracket.
At the next peg, Clem Waldron (the Stamford Strangler) was starting to panic. So far, he hadn't even had so much as a flicker on his tip, as his feeder pointlessly emptied another cargo of maggots on to the deserted riverbed. Max, on the other hand, was fishing at half depth in nine feet of water, loose feeding bronze maggots and the chub were coming up off the deck, looking for the bait. The resident fish population had been given such a clogging over the last two years, on the feeder, that loose feed dropping through the water was a novelty they couldn't resist. It made a change for them, after being used to finding their maggots gift-wrapped in plastic on the bottom.
Clem, not grasping the significance of this last remark, chose to ignore it. Maxie was now getting into his stride and again he sunk the hook home into another chub and stood up on his basket to get a clearer view of the river over the top of the rushes.
Clem was now at least 8lb adrift and just as he was about to commence operations on the float, team runner Graham Barry slunk into view. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?', he spelt out slowly and menacingly 'Get back on the feeder or you'll get some knuckle — who gi' yer that float anyway — stick on the 'pig it'll work, Kenny Lett's getting 'em'.
Meanwhile, above the bridge, a huge crowd was gathering. Barlow v Giles was becoming a battle royal and the super cool Gilesy was justifying his reputation, landing 7 chub to Frank's 5
True enough, Kenny Lott was getting them. Fishing an open ended Ovaltine tin, Kenny in his last cast, had the distinction of landing two chub, one on the hook and the other with its head firmly wedged in the massive feeder.
Kenny's waggler cocked to its capacity as the tell tale shot sank and then his float just sank down a hole in the river. He tightened into the bite. The chub, a very nasty, bad tempered fish in the 4lb battleship class, tore off for the far bank.
CCRRAAAACKK! Kenny's float shot back through the air and such was the ferocity of the break-off, that his float, half his terminal tackle and 25 yards of line wrapped itself round his rod end and surrounding bankside foliage.
Frank Barlow was not one to let the incident pass without comment. 'If you won the Embassy final Giles, then I'll fish for England!'
In the gallery, Stan Smith, England team manager, took out his now famous green notebook and under the column's 'promising newcomers', entered Frank's name, along with the comment, 'will need aggression and ruthless will to win knocking out of him'.
Gilesy struggled to sort out the vicious tangle his tackle was now in and in frustration, he snapped off at the reel, collected the tangled mess and started to re-thread his line. Just as he was getting to the last ring, a sharp eyed youngster in the crowd called out, 'Hey mister, you've missed the butt ring out.'
At this stage Kenny was nearing boiling point and when he looked up to see Barlow netting yet another chub, he blew his main gasket for the first time in his match fishing career. He threw down his half assembled float rod, picked up his feeder rod, which he had hired off Lloyd Davis for a small fee, fumbled to fill the 'pig' with maggots, cast out and cringed when it landed with a big ugly splash. Letting the feeder rod now fish for itself, he continued to retackle his waggler rig.
'I've done you Gilesy', yelled Barlow, gently easing another chub into netting range.
Whilst Kenny was adding the final shot to his tackle, his quivertip arched over. He dropped his float rod, picked up the feeder rod and was amazed to feel the satisfying 'bump' of a bigger than average fish. The frowns and wrinkles left Kenny's face as he netted his fish. A sudden change came over him and he now discarded his float rod and with fumbling excited hands, refilled the 'pig', cast out and no sooner had the feeder settled than ... tap, tap ... wallop! Kenny turned to the crowd, gave a huge grin and said 'I could get to like this'.
'Don't Kenny', shouted one of his faithful admirers, 'Its like a drug, fishing the feeder, you get addicted, put it away, before you become hooked'.
But it was too late, 'feedermania' had struck, at last Kenny had discovered the joys of fishing the 'pig'. As it turned out, he was two years too late. The trim of the Avon was about to alter again. From now on the float would rule as Max, Clive and Barry were proving in the match, each of them having between 16-21lb ... all on the float.
The final whistle blew and the BUMS had gone down fighting, but not in the literal sense as the BAA squad had originally feared.
Frank Barlow had won the match on the float, with 23lb 7oz. The next three places went to Max, Clive and Barry and the newly blooded feeder mechanic, Gilesy, was 5th with 17lb 14oz.
The final count gave the Brummies the top overall weight and at last they had clinched the East Anglia Cup. The massive crowd voted it a huge success and even Billy Knott, the tackle pirate, patched up his differences with young Ted Farmer.
After the champagne reception and presentation was over, Clive and Kenny were seen to be in deep conversation.
'I tell you Clive, it's great fishing the feeder', enthused Kenny, 'You cast out, ignore the splash, wait a minute or two, then wham! the rod end goes round, it's really exciting, I wish I'd gone into it before. In fact I even went and bought two new Mitchell Matches off Billy Knott, to go with the two feeder rods I'm going to make, by cutting down my float rods.'
'Listen', said Clive, 'I'm your buddy, right? I own a tackle shop, right? so why don't you buy your reels off me?'
They're so cheap Clive ... £26 for the two', confided Kenny.
Clive took a long, hard drink from the bottle of red-eye and looked Kenny straight in the eye.
'I wouldn't mind really, but the ironic thing is, who do you think has been supplying Billy Knott with all his illicit tackle for the past three years, it isn't the manufacturers'.
I've no idea Clive, who?' asked Kenny.
'ME, THAT'S WHO', said the big fella, fighting back the tears.