Warwickshire Avon - Popsicles and Polioencephalomeningomyelitis

Now, I know what you're thinking: has he finally run out of fishing things to write about (nearly 2,000 posts, by the way)? Has the lack of decent weather, cooperative fish, and reasonably priced maggots finally sent Mick completely over the edge? Well, possibly, but bear with me because I've recently watched the latest Resident Evil (2026) film, and I have to say, what an absolute belter!

This film has everything: action, monsters, spectacular special effects, and enough mayhem to make a particularly disastrous fishing session look like a gentle afternoon's relaxation. Directed by Zach Cregger, this latest instalment is a cracking piece of entertainment that feels remarkably like being dropped straight into a Resident Evil video game. In fact, it's probably the closest I've come to experiencing the excitement of the computer games I used to play back in the day without having to spend £600 on a console and another £70 on the latest release.

The film follows Bryan, a medical courier who finds himself caught up in an increasingly nightmarish situation as a zombie outbreak takes hold. Played by Austin Abrams, he's essentially an ordinary bloke having a considerably worse day than most of us. I suspect even the most disastrous fishing trip has its limits compared to what he goes through.

The special effects are brilliant, the monsters are wonderfully grotesque, and the action comes thick and fast. It genuinely feels as though you're watching somebody play a video game, with the camera pulling you along for the ride and seemingly another horrible surprise lurking around every corner.

And that's what makes it so enjoyable. There's a real sense of progression, rather like working your way through a new fishing venue. 

Except instead of discovering a hidden gravel bar or a likely-looking overhanging tree, you're discovering things that would make a pike look positively cuddly.

It also got me thinking about fishing. Imagine arriving at your favourite lake one morning, setting up your bivvy, making a nice cup of tea, and discovering that the resident carp population has been infected by some experimental Umbrella Corporation virus. 

Suddenly, that thirty-pound mirror you've been trying to catch for the last three seasons becomes the least of your worries, especially when it starts growing extra limbs and attempting to eat your landing net.

Mind you, some of the fish I've encountered over the years have looked as though they've been genetically modified already. There are one or two canal carp that could easily audition for a supporting role. Of course, there are worse things in life than losing a fish, like running for your life through a zombie-infested town, desperately searching for ammunition, and wondering whether you've remembered to lock the back door.

At least when a barbel snaps you off, you can go home, have a cup of tea, and convince yourself it was probably a double-figure fish. So my recommendation to readers is simple: put the fishing magazines down, stop checking the weather forecast, resist the temptation to buy yet another supposedly revolutionary boilie, and give Resident Evil (2026) a watch.

It's tremendous fun, beautifully put together, and a genuine treat if you enjoy the video-game style of storytelling. You might even enjoy it more than your last fishing trip, although that's not setting the bar particularly high if your last outing involved twelve hours of staring at motionless rod tips, a cold bacon sandwich, and a swim that appeared to contain absolutely no fish whatsoever.

And if you do watch it, remember one thing: if something starts moving in the margins, don't automatically assume it's a pike. It might be something considerably less welcoming. Tight lines, and try not to get bitten!

Anyway, there was a very good reason I'd brought the neoprene waders along. It appears that, increasingly, my fishing exploits involve less sitting comfortably on a chair and more standing ball-deep in the river looking like a man who's lost his dog. I'm doing more and more trotting these days, which inevitably means getting in the water and becoming at one with the fish—or, more accurately, becoming at one with the riverbed, a collection of submerged rocks, and the occasional farmer's gate.

And blimey, it was going to be cold. We'd had a proper drop in temperature this week with a few frosts, so I could only imagine the water temperature had taken a bit of a nosedive. Not exactly tropical conditions, and you weren't going to find many fish lounging around in the margins with a cocktail and a little paper umbrella.

The skies were clear, the water was clear, and conditions were about as favourable as a tax inspection or a knock on the door from the JWs. Bright sunshine, gin-clear water, and a temperature that suggested someone had left the freezer door open made it far from ideal. But then, this isn't any old peg.

This is one of those pegs that has a reputation. It's the sort of peg that, if you drew it out of a hat in a match, you'd be quietly trying to suppress a grin while everyone else congratulated themselves on drawing the end peg. It's a proper flier that makes other anglers suddenly develop an interest in the lottery of the draw bag.

Last time I fished it, I'd managed a barbel or two, which was all very nice indeed. Given the recent arctic conditions, however, I wasn't expecting a repeat performance. Barbel are lovely fish, of course, but I suspect even they have a limit to how much abuse they'll tolerate from the weather.

I wasn't asking for much—a chub or two would do nicely. And chub, let's be honest, are the McVitie's Hobnobs of the tea-dunking world. Forget your Rich Tea biscuits, which are the equivalent of a bleak: nice enough, but hardly something you'd build a fishing session around.

Chub are the elite—the SAS, the Royal Marines, and the fishy equivalent of a bloke who turns up to work in a blizzard wearing shorts and a T-shirt. When everything else has decided it's too cold to function, the chub are still there, getting on with things. While the perch are tucked up under the duvet, the dace have called in sick, and the barbel are considering early retirement, the chub are still prepared to have a go.

They're the sort of fish that look at a temperature of three degrees and say, "Is that all you've got?" At least, that's the theory. So, with the prospect of a chilly session ahead, I decided the best way to assess just how cold it was going to be was to get in the water, because apparently, that's what sensible people do.

Thermals under the jeans, neoprene waders over the top, and I was ready for action. I looked less like an angler and more like a man about to undertake a search-and-rescue operation in the North Sea. I was reasonably confident I'd be fine famous last words.

There is something rather sobering about stepping into freezing water, and your brain immediately starts asking questions that it really should have asked before you got in. "Are we sure about this? Did we really need to do this? Couldn't we have just bought some fish from Tesco?" But there's no turning back when you've got a reputation to uphold and a chub to catch.

Besides, the peg was a flier, and you don't draw a flier and then sit on the bank like a pensioner waiting for the bus. The question was, would the fish be in the mood, would the chub be feeding, and would the float dip? Or would I spend the next few hours standing in freezing water, slowly losing the will to live, while a family of swans looked on with the sort of pity normally reserved for people who wear PJs in public?

Only one way to find out. I got myself sorted, tackled up, and prepared to put the float through its paces with a little trot down the swim, a little presentation, and a little hope. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, lingered the nagging suspicion that the only thing likely to be getting a bite that day was my toes—so, did the float dip?

Well, things started rather promisingly. A chublet on the second cast, followed by another of much the same dimensions shortly afterwards. Naturally, my mind immediately started doing what every angler's mind does in these circumstances: calculating the weight of a bumper net of fish that hadn't actually been caught yet. At this rate, I'd need a bigger landing net, possibly a wheelbarrow and a couple of willing volunteers.

And then... absolutely nothing. Not a sniff, not a twitch, not even the courtesy of a suicidal minnow having a go. Half an hour passed with the swim looking about as productive as a chocolate teapot, and I began to wonder whether those first two chublets had simply been passing through on their way to somewhere considerably more interesting.

Just as I was contemplating whether to start talking to the maggots for entertainment, Keiran emerged from the cold to do his bailiff rounds. Having apparently decided that watching me struggle was considerably more entertaining than whatever else he had planned, he settled in for a couple of hours to see how the peg was fishing, particularly with Sunday's match looming.

Now, Keiran knows this stretch and, more importantly, knows how to fish this particular peg. After a couple of tweaks to my approach, which actually made perfect sense once explained, things started to look a little more promising. I soon hooked into my first proper chub, only for the hook to pull after the fish had made a spirited bid for freedom. Wonderful. Nothing quite like hooking a decent fish to remind you that fishing is essentially an exercise in disappointment punctuated by occasional moments of excitement.

Unfortunately, I managed to lose another one during the session as well. At this point, I was beginning to suspect the fish were holding secret meetings somewhere upstream, discussing the best way to waste my time and ruin my day. 

Still, I needn't have worried too much about the escapees because the session was about to take a rather unexpected turn. Three small barbel eventually graced the net, which, considering the water temperature was hovering around a chilly seven degrees, wasn't something I'd have put money on before arriving.

Three barbel! Trotting! In crystal-clear water! With the sun shining! Quite frankly, somebody should have checked the calendar because this was beginning to feel suspiciously like summer fishing, albeit with considerably colder fingers. 

The chublets continued to put in appearances, along with a few perch and dace, all seemingly determined to make sure I didn't go home empty-handed. The maggots were clearly the flavour of the day, although I'm beginning to think they have some sort of secret agreement with the fish. I supply the maggots, they supply the entertainment, and occasionally they even let me catch something decent.

Then, completely out of the blue, the rod went round again and this time I was attached to something considerably more substantial. A proper chub, and one that certainly hadn't been skipping meals! Keiran, who had been watching proceedings, reckoned it was around four pounds. Now, I wouldn't want to question the eyesight of a matchman and baillif particularly one who can make my fishing life considerably more difficult, but I did have my suspicions.

The fish had an enormous head and was so chunky that getting my hand around it was something of a logistical challenge. Four pounds? I thought not. There was only one way to settle the matter, and that was to get it on the scales at the end of the session. Five pounds and five ounces! A proper chub and a very welcome addition to the day's proceedings. I suspect Keiran may be booking himself an appointment with the optician, although perhaps I should keep that little observation to myself until after Sunday's match.

Looking back, it was a rather strange session. Compared with the previous visit, bites were definitely at a premium, and there were moments when I wondered whether I'd picked the wrong peg, the wrong day or possibly the wrong hobby altogether. But three barbel on the trot, a cracking 5lb 5oz chub, a handful of smaller chub, perch and dace, and all this with the water barely reaching seven degrees. I'll happily take that!

I did lose a couple of decent chub, which is annoying, but that's fishing. Besides, if I'd landed everything, I'd have had nothing to moan about, and that simply wouldn't be cricket. One thing's for certain: those barbel certainly weren't reading the winter fishing manual. And as for the maggots, well, they clearly know something the rest of us don't. A very worthwhile afternoon, a cracking chub, three winter barbel and one bailiff who might need to invest in a decent pair of spectacles. What more could an angler ask for?