If Roland ever knew what they’d unleashed with the TB-303 Bass Line, I reckon fishing might sound very different today. Imagine it gin-clear Warwickshire water vibrating to a squelching acid riff as I sneak into a swim, a breadflake in one hand and a drum machine in the other. The neighbours would complain, the otters would dance, and the chub, those greedy silver-bellied opportunists, would probably still oblige because, let’s face it, their appetite is as reliable as a 4/4 beat.
Now, I’ve always had a soft spot for the quirky and the under-appreciated. The TB-303, a commercial flop turned acid-house godfather, reminds me rather of the humble chub. They’re never top billing no carp magazines with their sultry poses on padded mats, no barbel fanatics worshipping them like golden idols. But like the 303, in the right hands (or with the right lump of Warburtons), they transform. A swirl, a knock, a quiver of the tip, and suddenly the river is alive with that unmistakable chubby squelch.
This particular evening was meant to be nothing more than a smash and grab 45 minutes, tops. Convenience fishing. That glorious term which translates to: “I’ll be back before anyone notices I’ve gone.” Eight minutes from the front door to the water’s edge. You can’t argue with that unless, of course, you’re married, in which case the stopwatch really is ticking.
Two swims primed with bread, left to settle like a good acid track warming up its filters. I’d barely sat down before the first bite came—a proper thump. Missed it. Typical. The breadflake came back like a soggy ghost of its former self, but rebait, recast, and there it was a chublet, no bigger than a Mars bar. Not what I came for, but better than blanking, and besides, every rave needs a warm-up act.
Then dusk hit. Oh yes, the witching hour. Rod tip nodding like Bez with maracas. Three chub in quick succession, each one slightly more respectable, the biggest nudging three pounds stocky, bronze, not quite the monsters of my imagination but enough to get the pulse up.
That’s the magic of this stretch: the light dips, the fish switch on, and for twenty glorious minutes it’s like you’re headlining your own private rave. Of course, the curfew looms. Strict rules, no arguments. The bailiff here has the expression of a man who hasn’t smiled since Thatcher left office.
Rods away, bread bag zipped, and me trudging back to the car past the green pool of doom humming an acid bassline and wondering if the big lads were only just getting started. Still, a bend in the rod, a few bites, and a soundtrack in my head fishing doesn’t get much better.
And so the session ends, not with a monster chub or an encore, but with me, grinning in the twilight, still thinking the TB-303 and the chub have more in common than anyone realises. Both misunderstood, both repurposed, both capable of a proper squelch when the conditions are right.
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