The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

Sunday morning and Donald was in the dining room with the papers and supplements spread everywhere. Damien breezed in. He had obtained the necessary ingredients for a cunning plan he had cooked up.

“Right, you old coot, here's a chance for you to do some more pot hunting.” Damien placed two tickets on the table in front of Donald. The old boy squinted at them.

“What do they say laddie? Haven't got me reading glasses to hand.” Damien sighed, picked up the tickets and started to read.

“It says, 'Annual Specimen Challenge Cup Match'. Prizes for top three fish, sideshows, BBQ and beer tent, and presentations to be made by a 'mystery' celebrity'. What do think about that then?”

“A day's fishing, bellyful of grub and a snifter at the end, I'm up for that laddie. Although I'm not much cop at the match fishing lark though, never took to them roach poles and as for them size 24 hooks and bloody jokey worms, well, never saw the like in my day…”

“Bloodworms and jokers,” corrected Damien. “And it's not that kind of match. The winners are those who catch a fish which is nearest to the weight of the current club specimens, so you can fish for what you like, how you like.” Damien rubbed the side of his nose. “And I happen to know that the 'mystery celebrity' is someone you'll want to meet.”

“Is it Gloria Hunniford? I've always wanted to meet her.” Enthused Donald.

“No, you sad old git, it's not, and by the way, your bloody glasses are on top of your head!”

“Ah thanks laddie, I was looking for them. Now then, please tell me it's not that dippy weathergirl off the telly, is it?” Donald said to Damien's back as he left the room.

“Not even warm.” came the smug reply.

The next few days were filled with Donald pestering Damien for the name of the 'mystery celebrity' and discussions as to the best species to go for if he was going to be in with a shout of doubling his tally of silver cups, as of course, he had one, and Damien didn't.

Donald's assertion that spinning for pike would be a safe bet, was thrown out early on. Damien pointed out that it was a pegged match, and anglers sitting ten yards away on either side may, just possibly, take offence at having Donald's soup plate sized Colorado spoon churning up their swims.

After a long deliberation they finally settled on tench as being the easiest club record to crack, as the club best so far was only just over 7lbs, so anything over five should leave them in with a chance. Damien went to the garage and started to get the 'tench' gear ready. Matching bomb rods, plenty of different feeders, float tackle, antenna floats, etc, etc.

Donald rummaged around in his pile of bits, whilst giving Damien a running commentary.

“If it's tench were after, there's only one proper way to catch 'em. Good stir up, plenty of groundbait, then out with the float laddie. And this here is the very piece of kit you need for the job.”

Damien was slightly disappointed when Donald pulled out a length of peacock quill, as going on past experiences of the old git's tackle, he was expecting most of the peacock to still be attached. Donald rambled on.

“Those Taylor boys got their 'lift' method off me, don't you know. Went fishing one day without any rubbers.”

Damien interrupted.

“What! You went fishing and didn't take precautions. Shame on you!” And then burst out laughing.

A bemused Donald carried on. “So I tied the float on, bottom end only. Crafty little beggars saw what I was doing and modified the design.”

“Well, you'll be able to take that up with the man himself at the weekend. Probably time the record was put straight, don't you think?” Damien's slightly turned head and raised eyebrows begged a response.

“What d'yer mean laddie, putting the record straight?” Donald looked puzzled.

“You can put Fred J Taylor in his place, because he's presenting the prizes.”

“Oh, does that mean he'll be there then?” Donald's voice was quivering.

“Well, unless he's going to teleport the cups and appear by video link-up that's who the mystery guest is. Thought you would be chuffed at a chance to meet one of your star pupils.”

“Well….. errrmm……I suppose so. Been a long time though. Lot of water under the bridge, and all that.” Donald seemed flustered, which just seemed to confirm what Damien suspected.

The day of the match came, and Damien almost had to drag Donald along; the old boy seemed very reluctant to be there, even after Damien had been kind enough to haul his tackle round to the swim he had drawn, and plonked him down. He left the old git hunched over, staring out at the water and rushed off to get himself ready before the 'all in'.

“Stupid old t**t, day's free fishing, food and drink and a chance to show off one of his supposed protégés to the world, you'd have though he might cheer up a bit…” Damien muttered to himself as he settled in for the start of the match.

Donald's day wasn't brilliant; perhaps deploying the weed rake at the whistle was not such a good idea after all. In the first instance, the lakebed was gravel, so there was not that much silt to stir up. And the anglers pegged either side pointed out, ever so politely, that doing that once more was not going to do much for his longevity. And if the demented old git hadn't got anywhere to stow his rake, they would be more than happy to insert it somewhere, sideways.

Damien got off to a flyer, tench first cast, and second, and third and so on for over half the match. Didn't seem to matter where he cast, or what bait he used, there was a tench to intercept it. All going according to plan, except….. not one of them was over three and a half pounds.

At the end of the match the score was Donald nil, Damien 22, however none of Damien's fish were anything like a club record, so no trophies for anyone. The pair of them did the rounds at the beer tent and BBQ, and cheered and clapped when Fred J Taylor was introduced, and proceeded to hand out the prizes. After this was finished it was announced the FJT had kindly agreed to stay for a while to sign autographs, and was waiting in the marquee.

There was a scramble for the tent and Damien grabbed Donald and went inside. He wasn't going to miss this meeting for anything, and had even bought a copy of 'Fishing for Tench', which he was hoping to get signed.

Damien got into the queue, and turned to talk to Donald. The old boy said, “He seems a bit busy with this lot, laddie. I'll wait till it dies down a bit.”

With that, he wandered off toward the back of the marquee. As Damien waited patiently in line, he kept glancing back at Donald, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and looking decidedly anxious. After what seemed like an age, Damien finally reached the desk where the great man was sitting.

“Could you sign my book, please?” he asked politely.

“Name?” Came back the sharp reply.

“Damien Effingham-Mudde, same as my uncle Donald.”

“Excuse me?”

“My uncle, Donald Effingham-Mudde, you should know, he says you two fished together enough in the past. He's standing right over there.” Damien turned and pointed out Donald.

Fred J Taylor looked across towards Donald and then motioned Damien to come closer so he could talk more privately. In a lowered voice he said, “Look sonny, everybody and his brother seems to think they used to fish with me, same thing happened with Dick Walker. I may be getting on a bit now, but I am not going senile and I'll tell you once and for all I have never fished with no Dennis Twattingham-Flood, or whatever. If you had just taken the time to read the book you've got hold of, you won't find no mention of anyone with a bloody stupid double-barrelled name like that, because he simply wasn't there. Plain enough?”

A stunned and delighted Damien snatched up the still unsigned book and rushed back to confront Donald, who was by now, looking very sheepish. When he got to over to him, Donald held up a hands as if to stop him talking.

“Don't say a word laddie, I could see what he said about me. I'll just take meself off home now, you stay with your mates and have a few beers and enjoy yourself.”

Damien could hardly contain himself. He punched the air and danced a little jig, He went right up to Donald and hissed, “I knew it, I knew it, I bloody well knew it! You never met him at all, did you?”

Donald didn't reply, he shrugged his shoulders, turned round and shuffled out of the marquee.

Damien's mind was racing, all those stories, that seemed so believable, yet now he knew they were all made up. The old tw*t was living in never-never land. All of them were nothing more than fishermen's tales!

He wanted to tell the world, but something was stopping him. He should think that the old codger was pathetic, but what he felt was pity. He felt torn between going back to quiz FJT, chasing after Donald to offer some support, or hitting the bar.

He looked round, Donald had gone off alone into the night. Damien looked at the long queue still waiting to see FJT and made the difficult decision to go to the bar and celebrate for a couple of hours or so before making his way home.

When Damien finally got back, he opened the front door and was confronted by the raucous, wheezing laugh/cough that only Donald could perform. He found the old boy in the dining room, and sat opposite was none other than Fred J Taylor! Damien was gobsmacked.

Donald motioned him to enter, tapping the seat of a chair. “Come in and take the weight off your feet laddie. Still got that book handy? I'm sure Freddie here will sign it for you now.”

Damien was frowning so hard it would need several courses of industrial strength Botox to correct the furrows.

“Can you just tell me what the …….. hell is going on?” Demanded Damien, missing out the expletive so as not to offend the great man.

“I'll put the kettle on, Freddie here will fill you in.” Said Donald, as he ambled off to the kitchen.

Fred J then kindly explained to Damien that he and the 'Taylor Boys' had indeed known Donald in the past, but hadn't had as many trips with him as he might claim. He explained that many years ago Donald had been at university, but circumstances forced him to take the position in India, in order to send back enough money every month to support the family.

Despite this, they had kept in touch by letter over the years, and with Donald having no children of his own, he had taken Damien under his wing and had made mention of what a fine young angler Damien was turning into, under his watchful eye. Damien could feel a lump in his throat, as Donald came back clutching two mugs of tea.

“Didn't think you'd want one laddie, after all that beer,” he said. Damien picked up the book that Fred J had now signed and left them alone until it was time for he great man to leave, and then he came to say goodbye.

Damien waited until Fred J had said his farewells and driven off into the night before he rounded on Donald, with a more than a few questions he wanted answering.

Particularly the family and India business. But Donald had sensed what was coming and neatly side-stepped the awkward questions.

“He's a laugh, is old Freddie. Knew all along he was turning up here, so we thought we would have a little game with you laddie, just a bit of harmless fun, don't you know.”

Somehow Damien didn't think it was all as funny as Donald seemed to find it.

“Well at least I got my book signed by a proper angler, this time.” Damien was indignant.

Donald was having trouble keeping a straight face.

“You think so, best have a look then, laddie.”

Damien's book collection now boasted a unique edition of 'Fishing for Tench' written by Fred J Taylor, and apparently signed by Dick Walker!

“Told you that young Freddie was a rascal!” chuckled Donald as he made his way up the stairs.

THE EARLY ADVENTURES IN BOOKLET FORM!
Read the review of the booklet 'The Early Adventures of Donald Effingham-Mudde and Damien'. A collection of these very popular stories.