Now mad Ed Miliband has announced that by 2040 we shall all be doing our bit to save the planet by eating less meat, fewer dairy products and, if the CCC head wand experts get their way, possibly surviving entirely on kale, lentils and positive thinking. Apparently livestock numbers must fall, fields must become forests and cows will need to find alternative career paths. It all sounds terribly sensible until you're like me sitting in a restaurant staring at a beef rib the size of a garden bench.
Upon hearing this latest environmental vision, you see I felt duty-bound to make a contribution to the nation's remaining cattle population. Therefore, after work, I visited Hickory's and ordered an eight-hour slow-cooked beef rib. What arrived at the table was less a meal and more a small archaeological discovery. Had a team from Time Team wandered in with brushes and clipboards, I wouldn't have been remotely surprised.
Suitably fortified and after a pint in the naff Varsity, I headed off to see Peter Bleksley's talk, The Makings of a Murderer at the Warwick Art Centre. Now Bleksley, a former undercover detective and founding member of Scotland Yard's undercover unit, has lived a life that makes most action films seem a little pedestrian. Listening to his stories of infiltrating criminal gangs, living under assumed identities and surviving assassination plots was genuinely fascinating and occasionally chilling.
There was a moment when Peter described operating among dangerous criminals while remaining calm under extraordinary pressure. I found myself comparing his experiences to my own. Peter spent years deceiving organised crime networks. I once nodded politely through a twenty-minute explanation of artisanal oat milk because I didn't want to seem rude. We all have our battles.
The event took place on the Warwick university campus (which is in Coventry😄 Shhhhhssshhhh ), which led me to expect at least a little excitement. In modern Britain, almost any public gathering carries the possibility that someone may take offence on behalf of somebody else who hasn't yet realised they are offended especially when Peter is a no nonsense talking on the right of centre politically. I had mentally prepared for a small group of protesters armed with banners, slogans and an unwavering belief that shouting constitutes debate.
Yet nothing happened. Not a heckler in sight. No chants, no interruptions and no emergency demonstrations. The audience simply listened, laughed and enjoyed the evening. It was all wonderfully civilised. In fact, it was so peaceful that I began to wonder whether the student activists were otherwise engaged.
Perhaps they had another cause to champion. Perhaps they were busy composing a strongly worded online petition. Or perhaps they were gathered in some community workshop debating the finer points of sustainability, social justice or whatever issue happened to be dominating the news cycle that week. As an old git who still occasionally wishes it were the 1990s, one can never be entirely sure these days.
It's a shame as they missed out on mystery of the “weird” hitman who killed Nairn banker Alistair Wilson. The case may be filed away as "nothing more to see here" by some Scottish police officers, but Peter clearly didn’t get that memo. He’s been investigating it for years, and some old interview footage showed that he’s made so many trips to Nairn since the murder that he probably knows the town better than some of the locals. The case may be cold, but Peter’s determination certainly isn’t.
Anyway as the evening ended and I waddled back towards the car carrying enough beef-derived energy to power a small village, I reflected on the curious contradictions of modern life. We are encouraged to eat less meat, yet restaurants continue producing ribs worthy of national heritage status.
We are urged to be more environmentally conscious while navigating roadworks that seem destined to last longer than some governments. We are promised that new technologies and industries will transform the economy, while the practical realities of building that future often prove rather more complicated than the slogans suggest.
We live in a country where undercover detectives can tell extraordinary stories about battling hardened criminals, yet social media remains full of people voluntarily broadcasting every detail of their lives to complete strangers. Somewhere between those two extremes lies modern Britain, muddling along as it always has, trying to balance progress, practicality and common sense.
The Romans complained about the younger generation. The Victorians complained about changing times. Today we debate climate targets while enthusiastically ordering enough barbecue beef to alarm a cardiologist. The details change, but the national pastime of grumbling remains remarkably consistent, albeit rather more expensive.
As for me, I fully accept that the future may involve more vegetables, fewer steaks and a countryside populated by newly planted woodland. If that day comes, naturally I shall face it with good grace and quiet dignity whilst waving around a Japanese Gyuto.
Anyway, after climbing down off my soapbox I'd better get fishing hadn't I? Not that anyone asked for my opinion of course, but that rarely stops me. Having solved most of the sport's problems in my head, it seemed only fair to wet a line.I could have gone at the weekend and, truth be told, the tackle had been sat in the car ready to go. Every time I opened the boot it looked at me as if to say, "Are we fishing or just going sightseeing?" In the end though, I headed down to the Warwickshire Avon instead.
The mission was peg trimming on the syndicate stretch ahead of the new season. To be fair, Sean had already done most of the graft a couple of days before I arrived. My contribution was largely cosmetic, but I was happy enough taking the credit for looking enthusiastic. Just being back beside the river was enough to keep a smile on my face. The Avon looked absolutely spot on and full of promise. It's funny how quickly a river can lift your spirits after weeks of staring at turbid canal water.
The canal and the river really are chalk and cheese. One is steady, predictable and dependable. The other feels alive, forever changing, and always capable of throwing up a surprise when you least expect it. By the time this post appears, the new season will be underway and everything will be back in business. The pegs were looking tidy and ready for action. All that remained was for someone to actually sit on them and catch something.
As luck would have it, I had a small window after work for a quick fishing trip. It wasn't long enough for anything ambitious. It was, however, just enough time to see if I could winkle out a canal Zander. A slight detour on the way home takes me past a stretch that has a habit of producing better fish than most. Why this particular area does so well I've never quite worked out. Perhaps the Zander simply appreciate the scenery.
With two rods assembled, it was time to get moving. The plan was to leapfrog likely pieces of cover and give each one a few casts. Nothing complicated, which is usually where my best plans start. Curfew of two hours, then I'd be off, things to do, people to see, the Wife to annoy...........
..............so anyway to cut a long story short !!!
Errrrr a blank, and I fished quite a few bits of cover too, oh well, the rivers here we come !!
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