Season 91/92
afternoon four more bream cropped up
DEAR DIARY..
PART TWO
AUGUST
hat which needs to be
proved cannot be
worth much/'
NIETZSCHE
"Madame, we are the press. You know
our power. We fix all values. We set all
the standards. Your entire future
depends on us."
JEAN GIRAUDOUX
Following on from the Linear trip the
wife and I were invited down to Kevin
Maddock's own Withy Pool for a
couple of days. The intention was not
to do any serious carp fishing, though
should I want to the opportunity was
there.
Kevin's rise from garage mechanic to
publisher and owner of one of the
nicest set ups it's been my good fortune
to visit, is a classic example of what this
country can offer someone who is
willing to work hard, take risks and go
for it. Too many people sit back on
their fat backsides and demand a
luxurious living from the State as if it is
owed to them. In their eyes Kevin
would be viewed as another lucky
bastard. Oops, sorry! I almost slipped
into lecturing mode there.
Arriving at lunchtime on a hot
August day we were taken on a guided
tour of the pool. Withy is splendid.
Crystal clear waters, landscape
gardened banks, and carp of a size to
make your jaw drop. We left Kevin's
kitchen, walked across his lawn and
stood on the banks of the pool. It's as
close as that.
"Let's go round this way I'll show
you some fish." We strolled in the sun
together whilst he explained how he
had turned Withy into the water it is
today with hardly a fish under twenty
pounds and a best topping forty. "Look
through those branches," he said,
"there's usually a fish or two laid up
here." Even without polaroids I had no
difficulty spotting the two fish. Christ, I
thought, staring at two enormous
kippers. Kevin peered over my
shoulder and said, "They will be about
twenty five, c'mon I'll show you some
bigger ones if we're lucky."
Sure enough, sunbathing in some
sunken branches were three carp of the
size he was looking for. Three thirty
pounds plus mirrors. What a sight.
112
At steady intervals during the
FROM THE
RIVERBANK
There are two lakes at Withy, the one
I have described and a small one Kevin
dug out, which is basically a fun pool.
It is chock a block full of fish of all
varieties and it was on here that I chose
to spend a few hours fishing the pole
during the afternoon before we were to
go out for a meal. Despite the clear sky
and high temperatures it was a bite a
Unhooking my albino Mississippi catfish.
How longbefore I catch another one?
(Courtesy Kevin Maddpcks)
chuck with no idea what was going to
come out next. Roach followed crucian,
which followed skimmer after small
common, after perch, mirror, gudgeon
etc. It was wonderful fun.
After about an hour the tiny Image
Worm float buried just like it had done
before but the strike was met by a solid
resistance that didn't budge. I thought I
was fast but it started to nod slowly
and kite to the left. Steady pressure saw
a big near black shape surface and roll
over. It was an enormous bream. Like
most stillwater bream coming from
heavily stocked waters its weight
didn't quite match its size, but at 51b
9ozs I wasn't complaining. I certainly
can't recall catching a bigger bream
before on the pole.
before I came off one putting an abrupt
end to their co-operation. No more
showed after that which was a pity
because the first fish was if anything
the smallest of the five. Looking back I
wish I'd weighed the others but it
seemed pointless. Even if they were
bigger, it wouldn't have made for any
more pleasure.
Around four o'clock Kevin joined me
and was staggered to hear about the
bream, "There are only nine in here!"
he said, "but the best one we put in did
go nine pounds, have you got it?" Only
then did I begin to regret losing that
last one.
We chatted on discussing his
upcoming attempt on the World catfish
record in Russia. In between times I
continued to catch fish until one of the
'carp' I hooked refused to submit.
Despite having the pole directly over
its head and with the certainty that it
didn't weigh all that much it still stuck
to the bottom like a limpet. "I bet this is
a cat", said Kevin. Sure enough it was,
but not any old cat, this was an Albino
Mississippi Catfish and without a
shadow of a doubt I had in my
possession a British record fish. We
weighed it, photographed it, witnessed
it and if I hear much more about
bloody introduced records I swear I'll
claim it. Now won't that put the 'cat'
amongst the pidgeons!
Poor old Kevin. Catfish King of
England, preparing to travel thousands
of miles across God knows how many
frontiers to the Volga delta, miles from
any civilisation, in search of a record
cat and a tosser like me gets one on his
back lawn. Ain't life a bitch!!!
Seriously we had a good laugh about
that fish and in truth it was caught
three times in three days, so it
obviously isn't very clever, but how
many records can you think of caught
on the pole? I guess I'm just a star!
On the subject of records, the cat isn't
my first involvement with a record fish.
My step grandfather caught a record
silver bream shortly after the Second
World War which he had stuffed and
mounted in a glass case. The fish was
authenticated by someone from the
London Zoo but unfortunately was lost
in the great floods of 1946/7 before a
claim could be made. To my eternal
shame I have to admit to compounding
the tragedy by losing his personal diary
during a house move which fully
documented its capture.
The concept of making record claims
has always left me a bit cold,
particularly nowadays when many fish
are known by name. If you catch a carp
four ounces under the record today and
I catch it again at four ounces over
tomorrow what is the difference? We
both have caught the same fish haven't
we? There are no doubt anglers around
today who are claiming to have caught
a hundred twenties when in reality
they have actually onb caught two
dozen different ones. Catching it the
first time is the time that matters to me
not its weight. This is where so many
anglers go wrong and get caught up in
having to exaggerate their catches or
simply lie. Mind you I only fish to
please myself and no longer feel any
need to impress my peers whoever
they might be. In any case doesn't the
size of the fish caught say as much
about the water as the angler?
Anyway, over a splendid Cantonese
meal that night in Hitchin we decided
to rise early and have another play on
the small pool. I chose not to fish but
coach Kevin again on the pole so we
could have a natter.
Dawn in August is fabulous. Gone
are the chilly starts you experience in
June and to some extent July. The land
has warmed up and it is great to be out
there. On our trip to Linear we had
concentrated on small fish. This was
Kevin's chance to hook a few fish that
would stretch the elastic and it wasn't
too long before he had the chance to
find out what that meant when he
hooked and expertly landed a three
and a half pound tench. This was
followed by a few small carp before
Having my string pulled! (Courtesy Kevin Maddocks.)
breakfast intervened.
The wife and I took an opportunity
to do some early shopping in Hitchin
and decided to have a quick hours
fishing before setting off for home. We
all take different memories home with
us from our fishing trips. On this one
mine included finding the elusive forty
and inducing it to take floaters, though
in truth I felt no desire whatsoever to
cast a bait to it. For Christine on this
trip it was the sight of me slipping off
my basket and disappearing into the
water on my final cast before packing
up. She still has fits of giggling thinking
about it now.
Before we did depart. Kevin showed
me his 'proper' catfish rearing tanks in
which he has grown fish on from fry to
their current size of around fourteen
pounds. This was my first experience of
seeing and touching one of these docile
giants who were not in the least
concerned about being stroked by a
stranger. One day I'd like to catch one
by design, though quite when I'm
going to find time I'm not sure. Life
sometimes seems too short.
August had still more treats in store
for me in the shape of the Evesham
festival. Dick Derrington had told me
on the quiet back in May that he was
going to propose me as a contestant in
the Wychavon Campionships on Bank
Holiday Monday but that the final say
would rest with the committee not him.
When no invitation arrived I wasn't too
upset but then out of the blue I got a
phone call from Dick. "I've had some
bother getting hold of you mate, has
no-one passed on the message? You're
in on Monday/'
Perfect, there was the press match on
Friday, two days split between tripping
round Shakespeare country with the
wife and watching the John Smith's,
and then fish the Wychavon on
Monday.
Last year on the Friday, the Coarse
Angler team starring Colin Dyson, Rob
Hewison and myself, won the team
competition hands down. Colin and I
also finished second and first
individuals to boot. We had intended
to repeat the feat this year, but so as not
to cause any conflict, or to be seen as
tapping Rob to write for C.A., I had
lined up one Richard Wade Esquire, a
well known alcoholic, to guest for us.
However Colin was replaced as
magazine editor at the ninth hour by
James Baxter, throwing my plans into
confusion.
When Colin rang on the Thursday to
ask if he was still fishing on Friday I
was at a loss what to say. I hadn't a
clue who was making up the third
place now the role of captain had been
wrested from my grasp. I didn't find
out until the draw that the third place
had gone to that well known Coarse
Angler Journalist. Mrs Baxter!
Colin meanwhile, had turned down
the opportunity to fish for the National
Press team, due entirely to him
mistakenly thinking that his brilliant
performance the previous year and his
shareholding in Coarse Angler
magazine, would qualify him for a
place in this year's team. Alas this was
not so and the nearest he got to
Evesham was the Ecclesall Road
Tesco's.
Frankly I was not amused in the least
and could no longer raise any
enthusiasm for fishing to win. This
wouldn't upset anyone because the aim
of the press match is not to provide
anyone with a glory opportunity, it is
to get everyone down early and create
an atmosphere of fun. Dickie uses his
considerable ingenuity to make it
impossible for anyone to field a team of
ringers and run off with the loot. Even
when you win you rarely get the loot!
It's fun, it's relaxed and it exists purely
for enjoyment. Let's hope that never
changes.
Thirty minutes into the match I left
my peg and didn't return for the best
part of four hours. In between I
socialised and, as Cilia would say, had
a lorra, lorra laughs. Ron Fearnley was
totally exasperated having been done
off by no less than seven chub. Since
that day I have never bumped into him
 without him mentioning it. The poor
bloke will no doubt go to his grave
muttering deliriously about them, but
he laughed, and I laughed, and so did
everyone else, because that is what the
press match is for. There's no room for
egos or malice.
Ron Lees, a man I have long admired
through his writings but until then
never met, was there. We had a giggle
together. He had a nightmare catching
just four ounces, but in true Lees style
still insisted that he was going to
double my weight. When I came to
weigh in his prediction looked to be in
doubt so I threw back a perch reducing
my contribution to two and a half
ounces. "Told you I'd do it!" he said,
convinced that twice two and a half is
less than four!
The whole weekend was a new
experience for me and during it I
realised why the cream of the match
fishing world would kill for the
opportunity to appear there. Note well
that I said appear, as in perform. This is
angling's answer to a rock festival, you
are there to be seen.
The history books now tell us that
Jeff Perrin became the first angler to
win the Individual Championship
And again! (Courtesy Kevin Maddocks)
114
twice. Dick put back the presentation in
the rowing club by half an hour on the
strength of his win because he knew
Jeff would turn up late, and he did!
On the subject of doubles at
Evesham, the late Clive Smith was the
only angler to win the Ladbrokes twice.
His second win came on exactly the
same peg as Jeffs second win, not
many people know that.
Oh, and Roger Mortimer came last
using my left over maggots, what a
plonker!
Sunday was the team championships
and a struggle for many unless you
fished for the Shakespeare team. They
seem to have a happy knack of getting
things right. Fm beginning to think
their continuing dominance of this
event might have something to do with
skill rather than just luck.
Oh, and Roger Mortimer came first,
still using my maggots (the tight git),
what a star!
David Hall perfectly summed up this
quiet, unassuming man's joy, "Have
you ever seen a dog with two dicks?"
he asked.
Monday morning saw the sun
shining as brightly as ever. I stood in
the draw queue and looked round at
the gathered stars. I felt like a jew in a
pork butchers shop. What the hell was I
doing here? Then I saw the bookies
board and my price had come down
twice, punters were having a flutter on
me. I felt better for seeing that, at least
two people would recognise me.
I had drawn a nice little parrot cage
well downstream of the Crown
Meadow, and from my position at the
bottom of the bank I couldn't see
another angler. The crowds were
milling around high above me as I
tackled up and numerous spectators
stopped for a chat. I was warming to
this atmosphere and was determined to
enjoy it even if I blanked.
The match flew by, surely we only
fished for three hours, four at the very
most. I finished second in the fifteen
peg section, three and a half ounces
behind an angler fishing the feeder,
who, if bankside information was
correct, only caught three fish. I
reconciled myself with the thought that
at least I was the top float angler in the
section, but deep inside I knew I ought
to have been able to find those two vital
small fish somehow.
Afterwards Ken Giles, who had been
pegged two above me, walked down
and generously talked through the
problems of the area we were fishing
in. It is a pleasure to listen to such
knowledgeable men.
Dave Harrell won the match on the
straight lead of all things and proved
what a versatile angler he is, but it was
the radio commentary that gave the
event its nail biting, cliff hanger of a
finish. Something that is set to liven up
several future festivals. Catch it if you
can and you will see (hear?) what I
mean.
The success of any event like this has
to be measured through the eyes of the
spectators, not the competitors.
Competitors are two a penny, crowds
being a little more difficult to attract. If
I tell you my wife thoroughly enjoyed
the weekend and has insisted we return
next year then it should say more about
the entertainment on offer than
anything I can.
I could write several articles about
the events over the weekend but I think
I'll leave it alone apart from one last
mention. I was on a match on the
Stainforth canal the following weekend
and bumped into Andy Harker who
had fished the team event in Frank
Barlow's team after winning a
competition in the Angler's Mail. We
chatted about what a great weekend it
had been and he remarked, "You did
well, didn't you, winning your
section?" "Pardon?" I replied. "Well
that's what was announced over the
radio".
Bloody Hell! David Hall had made
me a star after all, even if it was a
mistake. At least it must have justified
some of the faith the punters put in me
with the bookie. Thanks mate. My
apologies go to whoever backed me.
Maybe another time.