Some Good News and some Bad News.
The Good News is that angling makes you look younger and live longer. Several surveys have confirmed that fishing helps towards relaxation and mental health, peace of mind, and all that. Findings such as these always come as a surprise to those of us who at the end of the day are twitching wrecks and who finish the season totally bonkers, but that's the official verdict.
The Bad News, from the Office of Population Census and Surveys, is that angling can seriously damage your health by rendering you dead. Their latest report announces that, in 1982, angling killed more people in Britain than any other single sport or leisure activity. Eleven of us went to the Great Match Peg in the sky, ten by drowning.
The Good News is that it's not nearly as bad as it sounds. Nothing like. There are more anglers out every weekend than those involved in all the other participant sports put together, so it's really a lot safer than soccer, rugger, hang- gliding or attempts at the ferrets-down-the-trousers record.
The Bad News is that there are many more ways of doing yourself a mischief out fishing than are covered in the report, some of which may not be apparent until later. And you ought to be aware of these if you're proposing to get with the relaxation and peace of mind.
For a start, there are always a few heart attacks brought on by the excitement of playing a whopper. I thought my own number was up when, after weeks of trying, I finally netted that big perch. OK, a half-pounder, but on the Grand Union, everything's relative. and Big McGinty coming swiftly to my aid with a few swigs of the hard stuff, I may well have passed on through palpitations and tremblement. But what was more dangerous was the secondary shock at the realisation that I'd actually got a drink out of those two.
Heart attacks can be triggered off by other circumstances, such as sprinting fully laden with gear to get to the pub before it shuts. You get there all right, but are in no fit state to sup your ale on account of dropping dead. You can behave sensibly and walk to the pub at a leisurely and even pace. But then you run the risk of arriving just as time is being called; another circumstance likely to do you no good at all.
Secondly, exposure is always a risk in the cold weather. A recent medical theory is that wind can be a shock to the systems of people who are not used to it. (Blowing-type wind, that is. Not the 'Urrrp! Pardon!' kind.) Townies exposed to a good hard blow can suffer from over- stimulation of the doodahs and flake out later on.
So reservoir fishers, beware. It's one thing to come home minus your nose or with your ears blown back-to-front, but it's quite another to greet the wife with, 'Evenin', Pet. Where's me tea? It's freezing out... Aaargh!" Exposure afflicts many anglers whose wives refuse to let them in when they arrive home at two in the morning, singing naughty songs and falling about.
There's nothing for it then but to kip on the lawn, or at best take shelter in the shed for the night. Even the best of sheds gets very cold in the early hours, so I understand and unless you've got something left in the Scotch bottle, severe hypothermia can set in. Every year, too, there are many cases of angler- battering. Sometimes the injuries are the result of anti-social actions on the part of the angler, such as pinching somebody else's pre-baited swim, lobbing shampoo sachets into a rival's pitch, or indulging in a few double entries at the weigh-in.
The angler may do himself a mischief when he falls flat on his face as his wife opens the door.
Whether or not, he is still liable to cop for some corrective therapy, such as being belaboured mercifully with a blunt instrument as he lies helpless and there is the occasional case of alcohol poisoning, which I can be brought about because the angler has won the match and is celebrating his great victory, or because he has lost the match and is trying to kill the pain, or just because he likes the stuff. You don't need an excuse, dammit.
Damage is done every year to anglers incautious enough to assume that farm animals are harmless, even wandering cheerfully through a field containing a bull. Anybody short-sighted or gormless enough not to recognise a bull ought to stick to safer pursuits such as origami or ludo.
A mate of mine was bitten by a pig and contracted swine fever, which is very serious and nothing to laff about at all. I tried hard to remember this when I went to see him in hospital but I was still told off by the matron for doing farmyard imitations detrimental to the patient's peace of mind.
Another mate was bitten by a sheep and contracted the rare disease known as Orf. I kid you not. It got its name perhaps because the disease is so rare that medical specialists try to keep bits of you for further study. 'Bitten there, was he? Right. Let's have it orf...'
Finally, there are the casualties brought about by Tempting Fate. It is all too common for an angler challenged in the middle of a gigantic fib, or caught doing naughty things around the scale basket at the weigh-in, to lay his hand on his heart and declare; 'If I'm not telling the truth, may the Good Lord strike me down.' The sudden flash of lightning out of a clear blue sky may restore people's faith in The Almighty. But it messes up the statistics no end, as well as playing hell with your peace of mind.
Anyway a trip to stretch I'd not fished for a while went as well as expected, 14k steps covered, no signs of fish. The towpath as muddy as ever, one schoolie Zander that was it. Tough as my new boots (hopefully). On to the next one if you haven't switched off already.
The highlight ? well the wife got some flowers during the trudging, she seemed to be pleased more than me anyway. A session as forgettable as this blog post I'd imagine.
I have Martin, not for a while mind you but always only ever had small ones. Might give it a go sometime as it's just down the road from me.
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