The rumours had been swirling around Westminster for weeks, but now it was official. Andy Burnham had somehow ended up as Prime Minister, and quids in Angela Rayner was installed alongside him and others in his cabinet, and before anyone had even found the tea bags in Number 10 they'd already discovered a fresh collection of ways to relieve the taxpayer of his hard-earned cash.
As I stood beside the Warwickshire Avon, I couldn't help wondering whether the Chancellor had somehow managed to put VAT on optimism.
Being someone who tried to do the right thing over the years these days feels remarkably similar to fishing a snag-filled weir pool. Every time you think you've made a bit of progress, something unseen grabs hold and strips another few yards off the spool before you've even realised what's happened. You don't actually see where the money goes either, much like my favourite packets of pellets, they simply disappear and you're expected to smile politely while thanking everyone for the privilege.
Still, politics can do one !!. I'd arrived at one of my favourite weir pools on the Warwickshire Avon, a stretch that has the remarkable ability to make grown men forget mortgages, inflation and whichever minister has just announced another "necessary adjustment" to the nation's finances. Water thundered over the concrete lip, throwing oxygen into the pool below like someone had emptied a truckload of fizzy water into the river.
Everywhere else the Avon looked like someone had forgotten to refill it. The river was low and as clear as a freshly cleaned pint glass, hardly ideal conditions for pursuing a barbel that possess the paranoia levels of international spies. Thankfully, the turbulence below the weir transformed the swim into an oxygen-rich sanctuary where the fish could pretend August wasn't trying its hardest to boil them alive.
I've always had unfinished business here. The last visit still wakes me up occasionally, usually around three in the morning, when my subconscious enjoys replaying the exact moment disaster unfolded in glorious high definition.
I'd barely settled into the session when the rod absolutely hooped over. Not twitched. Not nodded. It tried to make a break for Stratford-Upon-Avon before I even got my hand on the cork handle. For a split second I genuinely believed the rod was about to launch itself into the river in search of a more competent owner.
I eventually managed to intercept it, mostly through panic rather than skill. The fish powered downstream with the confidence of a government minister explaining why your taxes definitely aren't going up while simultaneously introducing six brand-new ones.
Whatever was attached to the other end felt absolutely like a big barbel. It hugged the bottom, ignored side strain, ignored persuasion and generally behaved like it owned the river. Then, just as I'd convinced myself this was going to be the barbel that would dominate every future fishing conversation, the line suddenly sprang back towards me.
Gone.
The silence afterwards was deafening. Even the gulls looked disappointed. Somewhere down in that emerald-green pool swam a barbel that had almost stolen my rod before casually stealing a little piece of my soul instead.
Fortunately, the Avon occasionally throws you a sympathy card.
A succession of decent chub arrived to cheer me up, each one putting up the sort of spirited scrap that reminds you why they remain one of Britain's most underrated fish. They weren't the monsters I'd hoped for, but they certainly stopped me feeling completely robbed. Then, just before packing up past curfew, redemption arrived wearing bronze scales.
A lovely Warwickshire Avon barbel eventually found the net, and although it wasn't the mythical river monster from earlier, it somehow stitched together enough of the emotional damage to make the drive home bearable. That's fishing in a nutshell. It kicks you in the shins before offering you a biscuit.
Returning now, I couldn't help wondering whether the giant was still lurking beneath the frothing white water, probably several pounds heavier and infinitely wiser. Fish have an annoying habit of learning from our mistakes while anglers continue making exactly the same ones every single season.
The weir itself remained wonderfully theatrical. White water crashed relentlessly into the pool below, creating seams, eddies and mysterious dark holes where anything with whiskers could be hiding. If barbel designed luxury apartments, this would surely be the penthouse suite.
As I recast for what felt like the fiftieth time, my thoughts drifted back to Westminster. Andy Burnham was no doubt unveiling another bold vision for Britain which will be headlines and bluster. Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating how many bags of pellets, pints of maggots and tanks of petrol quietly vanished every time another percentage point disappeared from my payslip.
Those like me do occupy a fascinating position. Apparently we're wealthy enough to keep contributing ever larger chunks, but not wealthy enough to notice that the bank account resembles a neglected keepnet after a difficult match. Every announcement seems to conclude with the comforting phrase that "working people will be protected," moments before my wallet receives another enthusiastic uppercut.
Perhaps they should spend an evening barbel fishing instead. It teaches patience, humility, resilience and the uncomfortable reality that sometimes you can do absolutely everything right and still lose the biggest opportunity of the day. Admittedly, it also teaches colourful language, but Parliament already seems to have mastered that one.
Despite all the grumbling, there are moments beside a river that effortlessly reset your perspective. Kingfishers flash like electric darts across the surface. Swallows skim inches above the water. The constant roar of the weir drowns out rolling news channels, political debates and economists predicting precisely how much poorer everyone will feel by Christmas.
That's probably why I keep returning. Rivers don't care who's sitting in Downing Street, what tax band you're in they simply carry on flowing, rewarding persistence just often enough to keep us hopelessly addicted.
One day that barbel which nearly emptied my rod rest will make one mistake too many. Hopefully it'll happen before my next tax bill arrives, because I'd quite like to experience the feeling of actually winning something for a change. Until then I'll continue feeding the swim, feeding the Treasury and wondering which one is currently taking the biggest bites.
So anyway enough waffle, Mick get fishing !!!
The constant roar of the weir is one of those things that either drives you quietly insane or somehow becomes nature's own white noise machine. On this short evening session I found myself firmly in the latter camp, happy to let the sound drown out both the traffic and the little voice in my head reminding me I'd forgotten the flask.
Joining me were Nic and Tess from Avon Angling, who quickly discovered that watching someone fish can be surprisingly entertaining when there's a reasonable chance they'll accidentally launch a rod into orbit. They'd barely settled in before the action started, and thankfully it wasn't me falling over the boulders for once.
The chub had clearly missed the memo about being cautious. Robin Red hookbaits, sometimes with a delightfully antisocial paste wrap, were disappearing faster than my wages after payday, with six fish gracing the net between two pounds and comfortably over four.Every cast was accompanied by a little PVA bag of 6mm Robin Red pellets, and almost every cast was rewarded with a bite. Not polite little plucks either... proper barbel-esque whacks that nearly resulted in me removing Nic's head with what can only be described as an enthusiastic strike. He survived, although I suspect he'll stand slightly further back next time.
As daylight packed its bags, Nic and Tess headed home, leaving me alone with the roar of the weir, a rapidly darkening sky and that dangerous thought every angler has: just one more cast. Fishing history has been written on worse decisions.
Then, around half an hour after dusk, it happened. The rod tip lunged forward, the clutch protested loudly and all subtlety disappeared as something on the other end decided it had absolutely no intention of meeting me. This wasn't a chub throwing its toys out of the pram; this was a fish with attitude.
There were no trademark head shakes, just heavy, determined lunges hugging the riverbed like it owned the place. After the third or fourth run, the fish finally accepted that perhaps this wasn't its evening either and slid into the landing net with all the grace of a nightclub bouncer finishing his shift.
Curfew was looming, so there was no time for a photoshoot worthy of Angling Times. The fish enjoyed a well-earned breather in the net while I packed away the tackle I'd somehow managed to spread across a swim barely bigger than my garden shed.
A quick trophy shot later and the barbel powered back into its watery lair without so much as a backwards glance. It wasn't a monster, it won't trouble the record books, but after an evening packed with hard-fighting chub, near-decapitations and a proper weir-pool scrap under fading light, it felt like exactly the sort of session that reminds you why we keep coming back.
Because let's be honest, Piscatorial Quagswagging has never really been about chasing records. It's about enjoying ridiculous evenings by the river, laughing at yourself, terrifying your fishing mates with over-enthusiastic strikes, and occasionally being rewarded with a cracking Warwickshire Avon barbel before sensible people are tucked up in bed.
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