| DONALD EFFINGHAM-MUDDE AND DAMIEN |
| Nineteen year old Damien is a mad keen ‘up for it’ angler, who won’t miss any opportunity to go fishing. He has an aged uncle, an angler of some renown, Donald Effingham-Mudde who spent his earlier years in service to the Viceroy of India. His family jokingly refer to him as WIMDOC, which is an acronym for the phase he uses to start just about every conversation (“Well, in my day, of course….”). The old boy has come to stay with Damien’s parents for an extended stay, giving the pair the opportunity to go fishing together. Donald’s fishing references are impeccable as, according to him, he taught the Taylor Brothers all they know. However, both participants view the opportunity from slightly differing perspectives. Damien really doesn’t want to be landed with babysitting some doddering old fart, whilst Donald sees this as a perfect opportunity to show this young pup how to do things properly. They are bound to get on famously – aren’t they? |
After their last fishing trip, Damien received an enlightening lecture from those upstanding chaps at the EA. He found it difficult to explain that although he certainly had been tipping gudgeon into the canal, they had originally come from there, so it didn’t matter – did it? And anyway, it wasn’t him that took them out in the first place, it was his doddering old t*** of an uncle, so shouldn’t they be giving him the hard time?
The nice gentlemen explained that they had no evidence against anyone that the fish had been removed from the canal, but they certainly had evidence that Damien had been seen putting fish in the canal, and that he had no shred of evidence to support his claim that the canal was where they came from! The nice gentlemen let him squirm a bit before letting him off with a stern warning.
Even as Damien thanked them profusely before waving them goodbye, his mind was concocting a cunning revenge attack on the old git. The first thought was to introduce something exotic into Donald’s ‘Dark Shag’ pipe tobacco pouch. Or perhaps something mind expanding should be slipped into his evening cocoa. Both of these ideas seemed very appealing, but if he were to be found out, he would undoubtedly incur the wrath of his parents. No, it would need to be more subtle than that, and then it came to him – perfect! He would take Donald fishing again, but this time he would wipe the floor with him, because they would go spinning. The old fart couldn’t go more that twenty steps without stopping to stoke up his pipe, Damien could cover the entire lake, while Donald wouldn’t get fifty yards from the car park – brilliant! And hadn’t his parents told him to be nice to uncle Donald, and he was to take him out fishing as often as he could?
Being ‘nice’ to uncle Donald wasn’t coming easy, because since their last fishing trip Donald had told the world and his brother that he had taken the young pup under his wing, just like he had with those Taylor boys and shown him that the old ways were the best, and he didn’t need all that new fangled gear, and so on and on and on…
Damien mentioned the planned trip to Donald, and said he had to go to the tackle shop to get a few bits. He asked the old boy if he would like a lift down there as he was bound to need something. “Well, I will come along for a ride, but it just so happens that I did bring my spinning tackle with me, I’ve got all I want.”
“Well,” thought Damien, the quintessential tackle tart, “you won’t have anywhere near as much as me.” In fact, considering Damien had probably got most of the items in the Harris catalogue in his Plano boxes, that was a fairly safe bet.
The trip to the tackle shop was eventful, because as soon as they walked in the door, Donald had exclaimed that it “smells like a ruddy sweetshop!” The old boy then proceeded to drag Damien around the shop, asking him to explain what this did, what was that for, why do you want this, etc.
The ready-made terminal rigs didn’t escape without comment. “Shop made gear! Wouldn’t happen in my day, everything was made by hand, don’t you know. Couldn’t trust some other Johnnie to tie your hooks.” As always, the old boys’ comments were broadcast at a decibel level sufficient to travel several streets.
Whilst they were in the tackle shop Donald, of course, managed a “Don’t know why you need any new kit, you didn’t catch anything last time we went, unlike your dear old uncle, blah, blah, blah.”
Damien’s street-cred was taking a pounding, so he hustled Donald out of the shop without buying anything. The shopkeeper was dismayed, as Damien was his best customer, being as he had no item of tackle that was more than six months old.
That evening, in the garage, Damien was meticulous in his preparation for the following day’s sport. Every spinner, spoon, jerk-bait, spinner bait, rubber and plug was inspected, hooks were sharpened, reels were loaded, rods examined, nothing was left to chance. All the time this was happening, Donald watched, contentedly puffing his pipe, and, of course, passing a few comments on this bewildering display.
“You’ll be taking those three rods then?” asked Donald.
“Yes, they are needed for different types of lure,” replied Damien, wearily.
“So you will have to take those three reels, and those spare spools as well then?” continued Donald.
“Well obviously,” said Damien out loud, while muttering “you stupid old git,” under his breath.
“So, are you taking two boxes full of lures, because you have three rods, or is it because you have so many rods, you have to take all those lures?” Enquired Donald.
“I am just making sure I cover every possibility. And speaking of which, here’s a landing net you can borrow, because you won’t be taking that bloody gaff – will you?”
Damien was beginning to feel in control, give the old duffer every possible help, and still whip him. Couldn’t be better.
“Absolutely not, young ‘un, your mother has already told me what’s for dinner tomorrow,” replied Donald, with a glint in his eye.
“And you just might need this,” said Damien as he slung a bag over to Donald.
“That’s very kind of you to give me a seat cushion, the old ‘Farmer Giles’ have been playing up a bit. But I thought we were spinning, not much time for sitting down doing that.”
“No, no, it’s not a cushion; it’s an unhooking mat. Do I have to draw you a picture to explain how that works?” Damien’s reply was ever so slightly sarcastic.
“I’ll put this with my gear, and I’d best give it a quick once over before the off.”
Donald wandered off to the corner of the garage and came back with a tatty rod bag and a battered wicker creel. The rod was pulled out of the bag for inspection and Damien’s rubbed his eyes.
“Made it myself, used to be a tank aerial. Goes perfect with this here reel. Caught some bladdy big cats with this in India. I was fishing for cats once when this huge tiger sprang out at me. Good job I was a fast runner then before the old rheumatics set in, because…….”
For ***** sake shut up, you silly old git!. Damien thought and then rudely interrupted him.
He looked at this rod and reel combination with disbelief. He had heard tell of the legendary Intrepid Super Twin and here was proof. And as for the rod, that just about rendered him speechless.”Oh, and I have these. Never let me down this lot.” Recommended by old Wal……..”
“Let’s have a look.” Damien said, and took the tin off him before he could get into yet another tale about his hero, Dick Walker.
The metal tin proffered contain Donald’s entire lure selection. One Colorado spoon, size of a saucer, with something brown stuck to the rusty treble, one kidney spoon, one Devon minnow, two spinners of unknown parentage, and a wooden plug with only one painted eye.
“Well”, said Damien, fighting back the laughter, “looks like you’ve got everything you need!”
He walked out of the garage smiling to himself – tomorrow was going to be absolutely brilliant!
Part Two soon. Watch out for it.
