Woody’s Angle – Bring on the Rosy-Cheeked Girls

Jeff Woodhouse

Jeff caught his first fish at the age of five, a mackerel from a Torquay fishing boat. That was the starting point 55 years ago and the sight of that living silvery image coming up from the invisible depths had him hooked for life. Since then he has practised virtually every type of fishing, although not always successfully.

He doesn’t just like fish, he has a love affair with them, in his living room, in his garden and at times, in his freezer. Lately he has spent more time either running clubs or assisting them to become successful. Now he admits to being too old to chase monsters, he’s happier getting as much fun as possible out of what’s before him.

In this monthly series Jeff indulges the rebel within himself, often controversial and always trying to think differently about the usual trends in fishing.

‘Bring on the Rosy-Cheeked Girls…’ then take all the others….

WELL, WHAT A week. I’d no sooner written my article and sized all the pictures when the problems started occurring.

First, the owners of the stretch in question have placed a ‘no publicity’ embargo on it, but they will allow me to print the story providing I lie about the venue. Well, not only the venue, but the river also. What I thought was most unfair was that they told me about the no publicity rule as we fished together, whispering it into my duff left ear. It was a good job my mate heard it as well or I could have got into loads of trouble!

Jeff fishes for Golden Gudgeon on the river Bent below Krakow. That is definitely not the Compleat Angler hotel on the Thames

So, we started off the season fishing on the River Bent just downstream from Krakow (apologies to our Polish angling brethren if this might put pressure on your swims, but hey, what the hell, some of your guys are giving us problems over here too) and the target species was not barbel (in no way was it barbel we were after, nor carp, nor chub as there aren’t any at all). In fact we were fishing in search of a little known species, the golden gudgeon. A very weak and feeble fighter and really not worth going for at all, comes in like a wet rag and not worth putting up bivvies and fishing all night for, honest.

We (that’s myself and a friend of mine who shun’s publicity anyway and does not want to be named or photographed) were fishing from the back lawns of this hotel that doesn’t want to be named and bears no connection whatsoever with the title of a famous angling book written by the father of angling, one Izaak Walton (who can be mentioned because he’s well out of copyright, but who is no relation to the famous Ray “Rollingpin” Walton and bears no similarity to him as far as I know and any embarrassment caused to Ray for even mentioning him I apologise for now). I’d set up in a quiet swim beyond the concrete with a nice run some three rod’s length out. The previous week it had been covered with weeds, but I’d been in there and chopped most of it out (with permission!) to clear an area for a chair and two rods.

A picture of G-G-G-G-Granville’s golden gudgeon taken by the author when he too caught it at a much younger age. No permissions were required for this picture unless the fish has any objections

One rod I’d baited with a boilie (make and flavour to be named when the manufacturer stumps up some sponsorship money for the Junior Fish-in) and the other rod with a standard 10mm trout pellet banded to the hook (maybe it was an Owner hook that I won as part of a prize, maybe it wasn’t – I can’t say for fear of a civil action – who is the owner of my Owner hook?). The baits had only been in the water a matter of minutes when a chub took the boilie and although not bad in terms of its length, it had no stomach to it and was therefore only about 3lbs. However, this was quickly followed by another chub of around 41/2 lbs. Things were looking up.

My friend G-G-G-G-Granville (that’s not his real name, honest) came down to see how I was getting along and told me how he was getting bitten to death by the midges. Whilst he was packing his stuff for a short move, I caught the larger of the three chub I was to have that evening. A splendid fish of just over 5lb, nothing earth shattering except this fish will be another of those over six pounds again come the winter.

I decided the fish was good enough to have a picture taken of it for my album, and maybe the Angling Times could use it (who knows, they might be hard up for catch shots next week!), so I set up my camera on a tripod and was just about to press the timer when this shifty looking chap walked up and said, “Don’t worry about that, I’ll take the picture for you.”

“Oh no you won’t!” I said, “I’ve heard about you, walking the riverbanks, taking pictures of anglers with their camera of the fish they’ve caught and then claiming copyright. Sod off and pick on a youngster instead.”

Jeff took no chances and took this picture of his golden gudgeon on the self-timer. Trouble was, the timing was out a little

I feel so lucky to be able to fish this spot on the river Bent below Krakow and often invite friends and other members of FM along. We can even put the boat out now, but two weeks before I had hurt my back whilst putting it out on the river and I’m still suffering slightly from it. That was a pleasant trip also, although nothing significant was caught. It was nice just taking depth readings on the echo sounder and cruising along the quiet backwaters. This really is G*d’s country.

Author’s note: G*d is being written this way not because He doesn’t like publicity, in fact He revels in it, but according to ancient orthodox Jewish culture you should not write down the word “G*d” correctly in case someone should destroy the printed word later on. That really does exasperate Him and anyone destroying the written word will suffer His wrath. However, a special version of this text is available for downloading by members of the Heavyfoot Prayer Society, edited by Rabbi Robert Robertawitz and containing plenty of references to G*d, but spelt correctly in the hope that their members will destroy it and provoke all manner of troublesome plagues to befall them. Whereupon this usually means Him chucking enormous balls of groundbait at their members. Pictures of some of the Heavyfoot Prayer Society members are available, Dear Lord, from the site editor just so’s you don’t miss.

A picture of G-G-G-G-Granville with his catch had to be withheld because of the no publicity embargo and the fact that G-G-G-G-Granville is now demanding modelling payment. Therefore a pleasant picture of some old buildings in the high street of Cookham have been substituted for you to admire

Ah well, back to the plot. After I’d returned the chub I walked upstream (or it could have been downstream, just to make sure I don’t break the no publicity rule) to see how G-G-G-G-Granville was getting along and he’d just caught a strapping golden gudgeon, which fought …. like a wet blanket (well, not really, but I’m sworn not to tell you that). He described it as ‘average’, but not long ago this would have been a specimen, so the fish are definitely getting bigger. After he’d got the hook out, quick picture on the timer, weighed it at (censored, but just short of a double figure) lbs and took it back quickly to the water. He said to me “You put it back whilst I get another cast in.” Cheeky …….

So eight or so minutes lying on my belly in goose doo-doo recovering this golden gudgeon and no sooner had I released it than he had another bite! This time I saw it surface and said that he could deal with this one, it was a large slimy (censored again, as the Ang**la Club have stated that this fish really needs protection!) of almost (further censoring) lbs. I couldn’t leave him to deal with it alone so I reached for his net, at which point he said, “No, don’t use that net. Use yours!” Cheeky …….

The picture of my three chub was withheld because G-G-G-G-Granville has claimed copyright of the photo taken with my camera, at my request, and under my instruction. A picture of the balcony I built last year at the back of our house has been submitted instead (quotations supplied for similar works on request – distance no object)

Once on the bank a bit of a struggle ensued with me trying to strangulate the writhing unnamed specimen whilst he had the pliers down its throat getting the hook out. All worked out well in the end and the fish was released maybe to return to that secret location where all (censored) return to breed. OK, so the evening wasn’t on fire with fish catches, which is just as well otherwise we’d have the circus down there I suppose.

This is what the new rules are trying to prevent, of course, but doesn’t it make for boring reading and is there a story there at all if it’s all lies and deceit? Is this how angling writing is going to be in future? Will there be anything to write about angling in future?

Anglers eh? Anyone for tennis?

Addendum: Since writing this and forwarding the photos, including the alternative photos, to the editor, Cookham Burough Council have got to hear about our intended publication of the picture of Cookham High Street. Their claim is that it is so like a picture they had taken in 1998 which they sell in local shops as postcards and raises £ 8.25 per year. As such my publishing a similar picture on a website for free has ruined, they calculate, 5 years worth of trade, but are willing to settle for a cheque for £ 40 to be sent to the Mayor’s Christmas Bun-fight Fund.

Bring on the rosy-cheeked girls
The smiling ones, the light-footed dancers,
Those that sing with their eyes,
Those with the warm breasts and soft hands,
Those that look deep in the eyes,
Not at the garbage of garb.
Bring on the dark, the fair, the brown as a berry,
Bring them all on with their wet laughing mouths,
The fat, the thin, the short, and the lanky,
But let them be filled of life as a pod with peas,
Let them feel as company comfortable as an old friendly jacket,
young or old,
And most of all . . . let them be merry.

And then take all the others,
All the tight-lipped, crab-faced, mewling, mithering,
Niggardly, sour-faced, crab-mouthed,
Cold-titted, tight-arsed, moaning,
Sullen, frozen-legs-together,
Money-grubbing bitches, and
Take them and heap them together
On some bleary and dreary moor
In the howling sleet
And moaning drizzle of November. . . and leave them there,
For it deserves them And they each other.

Then bring on the lads,
The smiling lads,
The open-handed, shoulder-to-the-wheel lads,
Lame dogs helped over stiles lads,
Take a pint, stand a corner lads,
Good laughing lads,
Lads with a quart of life in their hands
And eyes that look straight . . .
Bring on the tall, the short, the long,
The runners, the walkers,
Those that can hammer, those that can turn out a song
Bring on the fat, the thin, the bald and the hairy,
Young or old,
So long as they sup life by the gallon . . .
So long as they’re merry.

Then take all the others,
The sly-eyed, twisty-mouthed grabbers and fumblers,
The shifty-faced, two-tongued, leadswinging lizards,
The snotty-nosed, mardy-arsed bullies
And false friends . . .
And stick them up to their necks
In the foulest stink-pot of an old bog
You can find . . . head down . ..
And leave them there.
But for God’s sake not too near
That moor with all the old whores . . .
If they meet up and breed
We’re all buggered.

www.mikeharding.co.uk