The old match angler was past his best and he had been kept in the team more out of sympathy than anything else. But after an end-of-season losing run of six matches, a new and ruthless team captain was appointed.
The first thing the new captain did was to call in the old boy.
'I assume you want to know if I can fish for the team next season,' beamed the veteran.
'Not on your life,' said the captain. 'I've never seen an angler like you. Your tackle's thirty years out of date. You can't see a float beyond five yards. You can't even see to the swingtip on the end of your rod, come to that. You can't bait up with a maggot without sticking the hook in your finger.
You can't cast without hooking somebody behind you. You're so slow on the strike that the fish has time to call in a second opinion. You can't play a fish bigger than a stickleback without losing it. You make such a splash with your landing net that every fish within a hundred yards disappears.
You're so hopeless that I wouldn't even trust you to sell pop- corn on the bank. I never want to see your stupid face at my matches again! Now get out!'
'Ah,' said the old boy. 'Am I to take it, then, that you'd like time to think it over?"....
....
I must admit my bites to netting fish ratio hasn't certainly taken a bit of hit recently and todays short session on the Stour was another one of those session where my own lacklustre approach, probably led to less fish on the bank.
I fished a small cage feeder with liquidised bread and a small thumbnail piece of bread on the size 12 hook. I was hoping the Stour was going to be much more coloured as I fancied a go for a decent roach, but no it was the usual Stour chip shop mushy pea colour.
A chub first cast I think I peaked too soon, because after that I managed a couple of small roach and one of those was foul hooked. The fish just didn't seem to be interested. Still the chub was a nice one so I wasn't complaining.
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