The Tiny River Alne - Press Officers and Pen Rods

Who Runs the Club?

The Press Officer

Press Officer. It sounds grand, that. Conjures up images of high-level journalistic intrigue; influencing decisions in the corridors of power; mingling with the mighty; slipping high-powered crusading reporters the scoop of a lifetime.

What it boils down to more often than not is discovering the whereabouts of the local reporter and phoning him the results of the evening's match. (No £68,000-a-year taxpayer funded Angela Rayner official photographers to be seen here, you, yes you do as a favour)

The latter is often a difficult and lengthy operation because he can't hear you over the noise in the four-ale bar where he's putting back what the day has taken out:

'What's that? Bludgeon? Trudgeon? Dudgeon? Gudgeon! Why didn't you say so? That a fish? How do you spell it?'

However carefully you spell everything out, after the reporter has tried to translate his crumpled and beer-stained notes next morning there's no guarantee that the news will hit the streets in a totally accurate form.

'Prize for the individual weight went to the 2 oz nutter landed by Mr Alfred Gudgeon,' is what appears. '2 oz gudgeon landed by Mr Alfred Nutter,' is what you said. Curses! But at least you tried.

Even the smallest club needs a press officer if it is to get the publicity it needs to build up its membership and have its achievements recognised. 

Local reporters, though permanently hungry for copy, cannot always spare the time to go chasing after match results, and might not even know that a match has been held. So it's up to the press officer to make life easier for them, to save them having to stir too far from the pub.

Do not be put off from making personal contact by the popular image of a journalist - scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain-smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Arrange to meet in a pub so that the contact will be friendly and informal, and which the journalist will suggest anyway. 

Recognition is no problem: just look for someone scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain- smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Give a firm handshake, a welcoming smile and a warm sincere greeting: 'Miss Jones! So nice to meet you...'

Providing the local reporter with match results means that his or her valuable time is not spent attending the match itself. It means also that the results, barring accidents and misprints, are accurate; that impossible demands are not made on the club's hospitality fund; that the reporter doesn't stagger from the match HQ and fall in the water, and that he's not present for the statutory punch-up at the weigh-in.

Your duties include not only supplying information which reflects well on the activities of the club. You must also prevent leaks or rumours which would reflect badly.

'RUNAWAY TREASURER IN CLUB- HOUSE LOVE NEST DRAMA' is not the kind of publicity you want to attract, and it is your duty to put the record straight, i.e. flatly deny it.

Do not be too categoric in your denials, though. Do not ring up the reporter and tell him: 'There is absolutely no truth in the scandalous rumour that our treasurer, Mr George Thistlethwaite, 52, of Potbank Terrace, Sludge Thorpe, absconded last night with the social club funds and bar takings and is believed to be headed for the Cayman Islands. 

Nor that he was accompanied by Mrs Lulu Waghorn, 33, of Foundry Road, wife of the former chairman of the veterans' committee, Mr Josiah Waghorn, 73. And certainly no foundation for the scurrilous allegations that Mr Thistlethwaite and Mrs Waghorn have been indulging in anything untoward in the clubhouse broom cupboard after our Wednesday social evenings.'

Should you feel, however, that the situation demands such specific denials, don't waste them on the local reporter. Ring up the nationals and make sure you fix your fee in advance.

Make a special point of inviting the press to the club's important social events, particularly the annual dinner and dance. If there's one thing the average reporter can't resist it's a glittering social occasion such as a free booze-up. Provide him with a list of prizewinners and copies of all the after-dinner speeches before- hand, so that if he nods off or slides under the table he'll have missed none of the side- splitting jokes and pearls of wisdom provided by the speakers.

If any of the speakers has a fatal heart attack in mid-peroration, don't forget to mention this to the reporter when he comes round. He can then phone his news desk like a true professional and say, 'No story on the big speech. The speaker dropped dead."

Anyway enough of that, after a bit of a sabbatical Sam and I were back fishing again where the local Alne was about the best option. The Warwickshire Avon is in the fields however hopefully it will be fishable again where we are hoping to target Barbara the Barbel, some some renewed vigour.

Anyway nothing to write home about but Sam tested out his winter jacket and his new neoprene gloves where plenty of bites were to be had in the first swim, where oddly it was dead in the second. The Alne usually fishes well for the bigger fish in these conditions but they didn't show whatsoever, so my quiver rod didn't get much a testing.