The Tiny River Alne - Sheep Shaggers and Shenanigans

After a couple of pints of sheep shagger at the local pub for the risk of offending the finer feelings of those who have never felt the need, I want to raise the burning topic: How Do You Do It On The Canal Bank?

Oh, it's all in the mind. Put down that pen, Disgusted of Didsbury,

and read on a bit.

I'm talking about answering the Call of Nature. Having a tinkle. A Jimmy. A wee-wee.

There. I've said them. Some of the naughties.

The problem was brought home to me recently with some urgency, embarrassment and discomfiture. 

Caught short, I was, on an open stretch of bank. Not only was it open, but thronged with mums herding toddlers with tiddler nets, matronly ladies walking their little dogs and little husbands, and courting couples on the verge. The water itself was a-throng. With little lads in lifejackets doing the Duke of Edinburgh bit in kayaks, and blokes in yachting caps doing dashing things on pleasure boats.

Woe is me, I thought. I am undone. But I did not dare get anywhere near undone. There would be panic-stricken screams from affronted and affrighted womanhood. Freelance guardians of public decency would put down their binoculars and rush across the lock gates, macs flapping in the wind, to point the accusing finger. An official guardian of public decency, in big boots and a pointy hat, would flick over the pages of his notebook and moisten his pencil. Convinced he'd caught the Phantom Flasher of Hatton Locks No 19 and seeing his sergeant's stripes already twinkling on his sleeve.

I was saved by a water vole. Who came paddling across the water, climbed on to a half-sunken piece of timber near the bank, woffled and scratched a bit, then dived off the near side. To keep my mind off things, I went to have a look. And there, between the timber and the bank, was a little bay where the stonework had fallen in. 

What was more, a bay surrounded by tall nettles which screened the place from the towpath and arched over to hide it from the opposite bank as well. Into the nettles I plunged. And into the bay did the necessary. Oh, the relief. The bliss. The sudden end to the long-drawn-out agony. I'd forgotten about the vole. Poor little thing. He erupted at the surface of the bay, coughing and spluttering, scrabbled over the timber and crash-dived into the unsullied water beyond.

Sorry about that, little vole. Next time I see you I'll give you a butty.

To get back to the point. What is the answer?

Do some men carry windbreaks around with them on the balmiest of days for the very purpose of tinkling undetected. Known others carry a spare wellie. Others still who wore army surplus gas capes which reached down to the ground and gave plenty of room inside for the necessary manoeuvring. Even then, with all the concealment, all the care not to offend the sensibilities of others, the Puritan streak in the British is so strong that people are upset by the fact that they know what you're doing, even if they can't see what you're doing.

It will be a long time before we treat the answering of Nature's calls in as adult a manner as the French. Dastardly Frenchmen think nothing of having a quick one in a waist-high whatnot on the boulevard and, with the free hand, raising the hat to a passing demoiselle. Dead civilised, that is.

Perhaps meantime we could use a special angler's cry. Something like 'Gardez l'eau!', which was shouted as a warning in the old days when people emptied slops from upper-storey windows into the street below.

We could try something like, 'Heads under!', 'Eyes down looking!' or 'Close 'em tight-here comes a fright!' But perhaps even that would not shield us from prying and unfriendly eyes. Like those of the old lady in the story who lived in the high rise flats near the canal. She called the police to complain that every day she could see nasty men relieving themselves on the towpath.

The police called round, looked through the window, and said, 'Sorry, missis. You can't even see the towpath from here.'

'Oh, yes you can,' she said. 'If you climb on top of the wardrobe and look through this telescope, you can see it perfectly...

Anyway to the fishing if you’re somehow still reading !!

I needed some distractions after this morning session down the Alne !!

You see a couple of swims fished in 2.5 hours, not even a proper strikeable bite, same colour, same height, same worm, maggot and groundbait tactics  naff all. When will I work this river out.

A Boxing Day Blank sadly !!