A break of sorts from the goings on at the lagoon. This post is about my observations of the urban angler. Some anglers appreciate wildlife and respect it, but a sizeable number do not. I have witnessed one drunk who was upset that the RSPCA were spoiling his jobless days fishing when trying to catch a bird that was tangled with line. Many people involved with the rescue of wildlife might appreciate and recognise this sub species of human being unfortunately at large.
There is a saying about some people you despise that “the best part of them ran down their mothers leg when they were born” ; but in some of these people I have encountered in the past it would have been better if these tumours to society had been removed with a swift punch up the sows’ stomachs about 3 months in.
It is strange that the biggest risk of trying to help wildlife does not come from these animals themselves but often through explicit threats of violence from those who cannot understand the concept of trying to help something that cannot help itself. Why grown men want to spend company with other men in tents for days on end is beyond me, but each to their own I suppose. For the anglers amongst you, perhaps consider that other waterway users judge you all on what this minority are doing, and perhaps consider trying to remove them from the bankside permanently.
THE COMPLETE URBAN ANGLER
What lies beneath those womblike waters?-
The canal delivers the eery fascination,
for those reluctant little Oedipus lads
dragged along the cut by their eager dads
cloned in their own perceived bulldog image,
bored at throwing bricks at passing ducks,
their suck used up and litter chucked-
curiosity when invited to play with a waggler,
dad has “scientific” skill unlike mother-
botched DIY, predicting dogs, his others.
spotless
Not alone in these perverted pleasures,
old men past their prime clutch dysfunctional reels,
loners huddled together under an umbrella,
cursing pisces, the law and those Polish fellas,
next to them jobless youths for whom a Smirnoff is God,
a couple of carp stashed in the tackle box
with hot copper wire to burn ad hoc,
the air polluted with misogyny,
spouting about the world’s right and wrongs
from their rambling liquor laced tongues.
Jesus liked the company of fishermen,
“can’t go out to sea, repair your nets” he said,
todays fair weather angler dodges the eye of the labour
decorating for Mr Patel his neighbour,
careful to hide the NF ink on his white washed fingers,
his hands a pallet of red groundbait and tobacco brown,
the thought of the pub tempers his frown,
where free to make jokes about colour and race,
why shouldn’t he bite the hand that feeds
and clothes his children in fake burberry and tweeds?
But pity the plight of their virago wives,
angling widows left behind on the council estate,
sleeping alone with Izaak Walton’s book,
jealous of their blokes affair with fish and hook,
and in part amusement and part revenge
they reach for their own device in the draw
with a flashing battery powered core,
a buzz and a sound when they get a bite
but still from this aimless loveless abyss
they murmur lonely-“what kind of life is this?”
Bankside, little Johnny has caught his first big one,
unlike the failure of every exam he will ever sit at school,
father and son united in a phallic obsession,
they hold aloft their prized possession,
captured in a photograph with their catch of conflict,
bonded but still enemies in this “sport”
much like their eternal dispute of sorts
about ownership of one woman’s genitals.
This is the feed that drives the route,
a poison porcine passionate pursuit.
and they think they are predators