I am not a Barbel Angler
I am not a barbel angler
They are not a fish I’ve caught
But as they are so popular
Best have a go, I thought
I’ve seen some tackle in the shops
Including special rods
They are the ones you have to have
Just sitting on their pods
Because the currents can be strong
‘Floodwater’ rods you need
For casting out big lumps of lead
And fishing in the weed
Braided lines and camou leads
So the barbel cannot see
Your tackle in the water
That is clear as Army tea
The are some barbel anglers
Who are beardy-weirdy types
Split cane and moleskin trousers
Drink tea and suck on pipes
But most are much more modern
Their gear all bright and shiny
The biggest, hardest, everything
Is that ‘cos their tackle’s tiny?
No, barbel anglers are real men
Of that there is no doubt
Should you dare to question it
They’ll be round to sort you out
They have their own police force
That’s a comfort, you might think
But defy strict regulations
And they’ll tip you in the drink
To be a weekly winner
In that angling ‘Hall of Fame’
You need an eighteen-pounder
To fill the picture frame
The only way to get this
Is behind that padlocked gate
The one that says ‘No Fishing –
This is a private Syndicate’
Put your name upon the waiting list
Of an exclusive barbel swim
If you know a funny handshake
There’s more chance you’ll get in
When you do get on the water
Then halibut’s the bait
Old Boris likes free samples
So heave in a hundredweight
Although the river’s flooded
No rain has caused the spate
It’s the twenty anglers upstream
Who’ve started to pre-bait
Then maybe if you catch a fish
Best hope it’s not a ‘double’
‘Cos if you tell just where it was
You’ll really be in trouble
A red nose and big trousers
Will make you feel a clown
Let slip your capture’s venue
And the circus comes to town
Should I die a barbel virgin
And meet St Peter at the Gate
Will he say ‘No, I don’t think so –
You ain’t caught a barbel, mate!’
