not
sinking to the bottom but rather is floating on the bloody surface, which is no bloody good for attracting lingcod.
‘This is fucking stupid! Ocean kayaking is meant to be breath-taking, but I think this is piss-taking,’ I snap.
‘But you are looking marvellous,’ says Kim, trying to appeal to my vanity. Well, my vanity fucked off long ago and is currently by an open fire, sipping single-malt and puffing on a
Monte Cristo cigar, and I want to join it.
We of course catch sod-all. My bottom is numb, I can’t feel my toes and I’ve really had enough. In my eyes, Kim’s credibility is at its nadir, unlike our lures. Unabashed, Kim
says, ‘I dropped some prawn traps earlier today. How about some lovely prawns for lunch?’
‘Prawns. Perfect. Whatever. Get me out of this kayak!’
We head out on Kim’s boat to pull up his prawn traps set 100 metres down. Right now I’m so hungry my stomach feels like my throat’s been cut. I start to haul
up a trap. It’s hard work but finally it reaches the surface and . . . ‘Fucking hell, Kim, it’s empty!’
There is not a single prawn. I feel like a right one, but Kim is a prize langoustine.
‘It’s OK. There are two more traps,’ he says irritably.
I say, ‘It’s a bad omen; it’s a barren wasteland out there.’
I strangle him on camera when the second one is empty as well. There is one more pot and as I yank the rope up, lunch hovers into view – a couple of handfuls of what in the northeast we
call ‘shrimp’, of which you need to eat about fifty in order to consider it an appetiser. I wave one in the air.
‘A prawn. I’m so happy.’
Kim puts his face in the camera and says, ‘Extreme fishing, baby.’
No, it’s not – and don’t call me ‘baby’, punk.
Port Alberni
‘I’m really looking forward to today because I’ve never been in a fishing competition before but I think my chances are good. There has been a question
mark over my fishing ability during this show but I think a lot of questions are going to be answered today.’
I deliver the PTC by an open fire, soft-lit like a 1980s porn film.
‘Today this is my type of fishing, exactly like fly-fishing on the Coquet, the Tweed or the Spey, surrounded by peace, quiet and tranquillity . . .’
Cut to loud rock music and us roaring up the Stamp River, battering into grade-five rapids in a shallow aluminium speed-boat, its engine terrifying anything within a five-mile radius.
There’s obviously no time for poncey scenery today.
I am here to challenge the self-proclaimed Angling King of British Columbia, the Jedi Knight of steelhead fishing, Roly Hider, which is a totally made-up name and a really crap anagram. We
decide it’s the most fish that counts, not the biggest, and the loser has to swim naked in the Stamp lagoon. Roly sits cross-legged on his boat, shades down, cool as fuck, so confident in his
ability, so smug and unflappable. I do hope he got bullied at school. If I lose, the water will instantly freeze my tackle off. I
have
to win or I’ll become a castrato forever and be
forced to duet with Aled Jones on our album,
The Very Best of Songs of Praise
. (What ever happened to that show? Mum used to love Harry ‘Seagoon’ Secombe singing. I always found
it a bit surreal and he wasn’t even very good. Don’t say a word: three number ones. I was always great; it was Jerome who was tone-deaf. I carried him for years, you know. Just kidding.
Love you really, Jerome.)
It’s a good start: I have a fish on before Crap Anagram. I lose it but quickly coax another. It puts up a good fight and I have to concentrate hard to reel the fish to the boat, but I
manage it and land my first ever steelhead. Steelheads are also known as sea-run rainbow trout or salmon trout, and the only difference between them and the plain old rainbow trout is where they
spend their lives feeding and maturing. Stream-resident rainbow trout live their life entirely in freshwater, perhaps
sinking to the bottom but rather is floating on the bloody surface, which is no bloody good for attracting lingcod.
‘This is fucking stupid! Ocean kayaking is meant to be breath-taking, but I think this is piss-taking,’ I snap.
‘But you are looking marvellous,’ says Kim, trying to appeal to my vanity. Well, my vanity fucked off long ago and is currently by an open fire, sipping single-malt and puffing on a
Monte Cristo cigar, and I want to join it.
We of course catch sod-all. My bottom is numb, I can’t feel my toes and I’ve really had enough. In my eyes, Kim’s credibility is at its nadir, unlike our lures. Unabashed, Kim
says, ‘I dropped some prawn traps earlier today. How about some lovely prawns for lunch?’
‘Prawns. Perfect. Whatever. Get me out of this kayak!’
We head out on Kim’s boat to pull up his prawn traps set 100 metres down. Right now I’m so hungry my stomach feels like my throat’s been cut. I start to haul
up a trap. It’s hard work but finally it reaches the surface and . . . ‘Fucking hell, Kim, it’s empty!’
There is not a single prawn. I feel like a right one, but Kim is a prize langoustine.
‘It’s OK. There are two more traps,’ he says irritably.
I say, ‘It’s a bad omen; it’s a barren wasteland out there.’
I strangle him on camera when the second one is empty as well. There is one more pot and as I yank the rope up, lunch hovers into view – a couple of handfuls of what in the northeast we
call ‘shrimp’, of which you need to eat about fifty in order to consider it an appetiser. I wave one in the air.
‘A prawn. I’m so happy.’
Kim puts his face in the camera and says, ‘Extreme fishing, baby.’
No, it’s not – and don’t call me ‘baby’, punk.
Port Alberni
‘I’m really looking forward to today because I’ve never been in a fishing competition before but I think my chances are good. There has been a question
mark over my fishing ability during this show but I think a lot of questions are going to be answered today.’
I deliver the PTC by an open fire, soft-lit like a 1980s porn film.
‘Today this is my type of fishing, exactly like fly-fishing on the Coquet, the Tweed or the Spey, surrounded by peace, quiet and tranquillity . . .’
Cut to loud rock music and us roaring up the Stamp River, battering into grade-five rapids in a shallow aluminium speed-boat, its engine terrifying anything within a five-mile radius.
There’s obviously no time for poncey scenery today.
I am here to challenge the self-proclaimed Angling King of British Columbia, the Jedi Knight of steelhead fishing, Roly Hider, which is a totally made-up name and a really crap anagram. We
decide it’s the most fish that counts, not the biggest, and the loser has to swim naked in the Stamp lagoon. Roly sits cross-legged on his boat, shades down, cool as fuck, so confident in his
ability, so smug and unflappable. I do hope he got bullied at school. If I lose, the water will instantly freeze my tackle off. I
have
to win or I’ll become a castrato forever and be
forced to duet with Aled Jones on our album,
The Very Best of Songs of Praise
. (What ever happened to that show? Mum used to love Harry ‘Seagoon’ Secombe singing. I always found
it a bit surreal and he wasn’t even very good. Don’t say a word: three number ones. I was always great; it was Jerome who was tone-deaf. I carried him for years, you know. Just kidding.
Love you really, Jerome.)
It’s a good start: I have a fish on before Crap Anagram. I lose it but quickly coax another. It puts up a good fight and I have to concentrate hard to reel the fish to the boat, but I
manage it and land my first ever steelhead. Steelheads are also known as sea-run rainbow trout or salmon trout, and the only difference between them and the plain old rainbow trout is where they
spend their lives feeding and maturing. Stream-resident rainbow trout live their life entirely in freshwater, perhaps
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