All our yesterdays............no picture this time
Posted: August 18th, 2010, 10:04 pm
Who remembers this.............
And for those that don't - its well worth a read
http://www.maggotdrowning.com/forum/top ... _ID=114335
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 fag) 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.
And for those that don't - its well worth a read
http://www.maggotdrowning.com/forum/top ... _ID=114335
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 fag) 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.
