Night Fishing!


Night Fishing 


 Right before you start to think “Oh for fucks sake, I hope he isn’t gonna start going on about night fishing it’s boring!” Or, “I can’t go night fishing anyway my wife won’t let me!” Or, “he’s gonna start cracking on about what’s the best bait for cod!” No me ol sausage, I’m not…. Well, may be a a story about two rival gangs, the Mods and Rockers. Hang on a minute! Look, come to think of it there are some people out there who would like to hear about fishing. Do you remember that program many moons ago called, ‘Out of town?’ yeah, the old geezer with the pipe? Smashing fella! It was about country life, in the way of horses, blacksmiths, fishing, farriers…. farriers??? I know what ya thinking! What the dickens is a Farrier? We’ll let me explain. A Farrier is the geezer who goes round changing the horse’s shoe. Now you thought it was the blacksmith didn’t ya? You see there’s a lot more to me than just a guitarist/ ex-football lout/taxi driver eh!  Now I used to watch this program every week as a kid and I really did love fishing, but if those credits went up after I had waited all week to watch the program and there hadn’t been a bit about fishing, I would get the right hump.

Veiw from our night fishing spot: Kingsgate Castle
View from our night fishing spot: Kingsgate Castle

Now this particular Bank Holiday Weekend me and the lads, about eight of us decided to go all night fishing for Eels off a place called Kingsgate, right next to Broadstairs. We would actually fish off the top of the cliffs. This was a bit dangerous especially at night time because it was quite a drop from the cliff top around about eighty feet. But it was a good spot there. The only bad thing was a lot of the Eels use to get off the hook before they reached the cliff top. If the Eel did stay on, by the time you reeled it out the water, up the cliff 3to the top, the dead weight of it felt like you had caught a Whale.

Now Kingsgate is a lovely little posh area, you’ve got a nice big Kingsgate Castle, North Foreland golf course and a boozer called The Captain Digby. Now there was a pathway that ran from the road and along past the boozer, and then all the way round the cliff top. There is also a fence to stop you going over to the cliff’s edge, so we would climb over the fence onto a plateau where we would fish.

We never bothered to go in the boozer we didn’t need to drink, we were too busy fishing! LIAR!! LIAR!! Alright, we had our own mini pub with us, a right cocktail of piss, anything from Watneys Party Sevens to Babyshams (SICK). The problem with the Party Severn was that once it was open you had to drink the lot, otherwise it would go flat. It’s called Party Seven because….. You got it in one; it had seven pints in it. Funny that! You don’t have to be Einstein to figure that out do ya! I bet drink drivers would try and pull the wool over the coppers eyes when they were being pulled over for drunk driving and say something like “Honestly officer, I’ve only had the ONE CAN so I can’t be over the limit.” It was a popular choice, and value for money (for all you reduced item shoppers or bargain hunters out there). Scotsmack! I wonder who invented that. I think it could have actually caused long term damage to ones brain if over indulged. We also had cans of Double Diamond, and last but not least a personal favourite of mine, Old English Cider, marvellous, classic.

Our night fishing spot on top of the cliffs
Our night fishing spot on top of the cliffs

Once upon a time when I was at a party I drank a whole bottle of that piss water cider Old English. Now this also was a milestone for me cos it was the very first time I got drunk. All I can remember was waking up with my head in a bowl of puke. Bloody marvelous! The bowl was nearly full of brown liquid that really stank, and just to top it off there were loads of peanuts bobbing about in the froth. Now ever since that day just the slightest whiff of that cider would make me wanna chuck. It should have been banned, or kept for those tractor drivers, way down in the West Country. Did you know that up in the real world we have Auto trader, and down in the West Country, they have Tractor Trader. How funny is that! We saw a copy of it in a shop down in Bodmin moor when I was working down there in the summer time not so long ago. So here’s a little footie tune for all you Scrumpy drinking tractor drivers of the West Country!!OOoh!!AAArrhhh!!!

To the tune of “supa cala frajerlistic”

I can’t read, and I can’t right

But I can drive a tractor

I’m a Bristol city fan and

I’m a fuckin wanker!!!!

Come on farmer Giles, it’s only a bit of banter!!!

I’ll have to thank the Millwall boys for that one. I never went to either of the Bristol clubs back in my football days.

Back to the fishing, hooray!! Right, so we don’t need a boozer we got our own. Now I had a motorbike back then but I wasn’t a so called Biker or Rocker, I just had a bike. Anyway, it was a Suzuki GT185 and for a relatively small bike but went like shit off a shovel. We had been fishing for a few hours when Bog Rat and Woz (two of our mates) decided they needed to go to the shop (to get some puff) Wink! Wink!  And the only way to get it was on my bike. Cos there was no way I was going, I was too busy concentrating on my fishing and that was that. So good ol’ me let them use my bike. After all, it was the only bike, all the others did have bikes but left them at home so they could be dropped off with the tents, sleeping bags, stoves, alcohol, wood for the fire, and all the other camping goodies we would have needed.

To me, there was always a strange feeling of anxiety whenever you lent someone your motorbike. Thoughts and questions would run through my head like…I bet they’ve come off? Or, am I imagining it or have they been ages? Or, they’ve been pulled by the pigs and aint got no insurance? Or, I bet they thrash the bollocks out of it once they’re out of sight! On this occasion, they really had been ages and now I was really getting paranoid. It really seemed like hours, then phew! Sigh of relief and all that. I saw a headlight coming down the hill towards the pub then I could hear the engine. Yeah! That’s my bike! The only problem was it wasn’t slowing down to turn off to us where we were fishing. Terrific! Then closely following behind was another headlight, followed by another headlight, then more headlights, then a hundred headlights, and then seemed like THOUSANDS OF BLEEDIN HEADLIGHTS!  It was the Mods! And they looked like they only had two goals in mind, my mates, and my bike! The good news was the quick thinking of Bog Rat, to which we were all extremely grateful, was not to drive to where we were fishing, but to carry on out of sight was a very cunning move. They would av kicked the shit out of all of us, fishing or not. Bog Rat must have known that there was no way in a million years those poxy Lambretta’s or Vespa’s would catch my Suzuki rocket, so happy days!

About half an hour had passed, and there hadn’t been any sight or sound of them or my bike. My Bothered Ohmmeter was going crazy. The Mods were still buzzing around up and down the road, although not as many now. We had turned our fishing lights off by now too, and put out the fire and then just sat there waiting in anticipation. Then all of a sudden, two figures came running out from the mist and light from the road like Batman and Robin. It was Bog Rat and Woz! Their exact words were, and please excuse my French. “YOU CUNT your bloody bike ran out of petrol” Now, I’m quite good at making up excuses, I was going to hit them with “Well if I’d have known you were doing time trials for the 24 hour Le Mans, I would av put some more in it” but I really couldn’t believe that it had run out, I totally forgot! But in all fairness to them, let’s face it; at least we didn’t get a kick in, and yes, Le Mans is a car race.

We had heard that there was going to be an invasion of Mods this bank holiday weekend, and I’ll give credit where credits due, there was about 800 hundred of them that made our skinhead firm look pathetic. We never had any intention of going looking for them down Margate.

Now where the hell is my bike? They said that they had abandoned it about a mile up the road in the bushes, just round a corner by the golf course. Well, my imagination was running riot to what my bike, by now, was gonna look like. I had visions of it being stamped on, jumped on, set fire to, and then dumped off the cliff! So now we had to play a waiting game, well I did it was my bike, they all had lifts home in the morning.

This wasn’t the only unfortunate bit of bad luck to happen to me that night either. While we were fishing my line had got snagged on the edge of a rock shelf in the sea. I really had a strong line on my fishing reel so it must have been the weight that was stuck, cos the hook would have straightened out under the pressure of the rod. Anyway, my mate Geoff said “Give it ere, let me av a go” so I let him. Then all of a sudden he gave it an almighty great yank and my rod shattered into about ten pieces, bloody marvellous. I shouted out rather sarcastically “is there anything else any body needs to break, nick or smash- up of mine, you can have the keys to the house! Go on, get in there and do some damage” it was plain to see, I WAS NONE TO PLEASED!

In the morning I took the walk of doom to try and find my bike, god knows where it was? I walked slowly fearing the worst; it really was a bad night, we were lucky not to get a right hammering from the Mods. My mates had really pushed it with them, calling them all the names under the sun knowing full well they were gonna get away and escape on my bike. I could just imagine my bike looking like one of those cars at the breakers yard that had been crushed into a little square block. I kept walking nearer to the so called location where my bike had been left, left to be fed to the lions more like. As I got closer to the bushes, I could see a part of an exhaust pipe sticking out of the undergrowth. I composed myself and took a deep breath. I noticed it was still in the shape of a bike as I drew nearer, there was some hope. Then, I picked it up and put it on its stand. Everything seemed intact. No new dents, no pipes pulled off, the tyres were still pumped up, the only thing missing was the keys. Result!

But now I had to push it home, and it really was a long way to my house, and even if I had put petrol in it I still didn’t have the keys.

That long walk home was a scary one; I was thinking it would just be my luck if that enormous great gang of Mods came along the road as I was pushing my bike and kick ten bails of shit out of me.

About a hundred yards to go till the finishing line, my house. Then I could hear the noise of engines, you couldn’t mistake that hairdryer sound. It was a couple of Mods and just like Bog Rat and Woz it sounded like they weren’t stopping for nothing. Then low and behold following behind them was a big group of Greasy Bikers. What happened after that, only they will know. I really hoped that little group of Mods didn’t get it, cos I felt I had got away with it with them. I would have taken the walk home over the smashed up bike any day. Cheers Mods!!

LONG LIVE THE WHO!!!!!!!!!!!


Be the first to comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.