One of my most memorable days was out on a fishing trip with unionhotel and my bro gft103. The old man had chartered a boat out of Bridport, which took ages to drive to. Beautiful day though; the perfect South Coast roaster, dry heat and a low breeze.
Now I’ve done my time with my name on a fishing licence. Woodmill was my freshwater spot of choice (I never believed that the Common was any good, despite the frequent fisherman’s tales of being able to catch monster fish with Mother’s Pride), and I used to go floundering on the Itchen with one of my mum’s pals.
The Bridport thing was something else. I’d always admired the art of fishing for the simple sedate pleasures. Quietly watching the world go by. Discovering good spots for different tactics. Whacking an eel over the head with a lump hammer. Bridport? No hyperbole. We caught hundreds of fish.
We had these multi-hook jobbies that we were just banging off the side of the boat. Again, no hyberbole, you’d pull the hook up fifteen seconds later and have at least two mackerel hooked. We got so much mackerel that we ended up using it as bait for bigger fish, pulling up dogfish. We got over 20 of those. Resilient bastards. Still wriggling after you skin them. Best joke of the day was, to my shame, during one of these moments. My old man’s mate says “I wanna bash it over the head to keep it still, but it keeps looking up at me with those puppy dog eyes”.
We lol’ed. It probably wasn’t appropriate for a future left winger.