I tried watching Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing a handful of times. I have thoroughly enjoyed their various projects over the years. Bob Mortimer’s autobiography is outstanding, and I binge-watched The Fast Show last summer. They remain genius creators. But fishing…?
“Fishing is awful,” I thought. I experienced it once when a German exchange student wanted to practice his hobby at a local Dyke one weekend. We collected some of the equipment and went to one of the riverbanks. My memory is hazy beyond the moment when he threw (is that the right term) one end of the line into the water, and it got caught on something, I think, so it snapped. He then tried to fix it by tying the connected line with the snapped bit and the hook together. When he cast out again, the hook just flew clean off, and that was our 20 minutes by the water. We went home, and I thought about getting a fishing rod for two whole days.
Apparently, it’s called ‘fly fishing’. Surely it’s ‘fish fishing’.
Though the practice of fly fishing includes the art of fly tying. Not quite sure what that is, but when a friend (Gary) suggested we go ‘Fly Tipping’, I just assumed it was another part of the outdoor pursuit. Like a microscopic version of ‘cow tipping.’
Cow tipping is, let’s be honest, bovine harassment for people who find the effects of gravity, entertainment. Fly Tipping sounds like this, but performed by Ninjas. I grabbed tweezers from the cupboard and a leftover pack of cocktail sticks.
This is one hard task. I have seen my cat successfully catch flies on a few occasions, which shows that this is not something that can be done with ease. It takes four nimble limbs to isolate and trap them in a corner. Flanking a creature with compound eyes is not something that can be achieved by a human.
Wanting to improve my form in the outside world, Gary suggested a lay-by on the outskirts of London off the North Circular. He said it was the perfect spot for practising the craft, away from prying eyes and with plenty of space. I agreed without asking too many questions.
When I arrived, Gary was there. But he wasn’t dressed for what I assumed was an ancient martial arts ritual. He had the France ‘98 T-shirt on that he had promised he’d thrown out to Sandra, but had turned out to have been stuffed down the back of the sofa. The very sofa section that had clearly lost the custody battle that morning. He’d lugged this thing in his Fiat Multipla and invited me to watch the council-sponsored ceremony where ‘tipping’ wasn’t finding the ultimate tilting angle for an object to gain its own momentum.
Stunned by the stark reality of fly tipping, and the severe lack of finesse required to consider it a ‘practice’, I did what any Londoner does when reality dawns: I extracted my wallet so I could pay for it to go away.
Gary, grateful and confused, took my £20 note. I walked away, cursing myself that I’d probably over-tipped.
I guess I’ll give up the whole tipping concept and take my neighbour’s new course in raising money for a new garden. He calls it a “Beginners’ Guide to Hedge Funds.” That should be much less criminal/stressful.
