Fishy story

I am not a fisherman. Never have been, never will be. The only time I could catch a fish is if the damn thing was depressed and suicidal, and could manage to strangle itself in my fishing line.

AS a rule I never put a hook or bait on a line. As I said suicide would be the only way I could catch a carp! What is more, if you shuffle the letters around, you get: c.a.r.p. = c.r.a.p! That is what the damn things look and taste like. I like my fish in bite size chunks, with batter and chips! Already cooked!

I do however; have three brothers-in-law, two of whom are fishing fanatics. (The less said about the third brother in law the better.) I therefore am regularly invited to go murder innocent carp. I do my best to have a convenient something on the go when a fishing weekend is arranged. I am sometimes caught without an excuse, which results in my less than enthusiastic participation in their fishing trips.

Let’s discuss the arrangements for a fishing trip.

Firstly, all the guys need to be advised of the proposed fishing weekend. SMS’s fly around the countryside. Much plotting and lying to wives is done to ensure that those men in the dog box can get a weekend pass out. (It does not say much for the relationships between men and women in this country to discover how many guys live semi-permanently with their hounds.)

Secondly, a venue must be found. This issue is more often than not easily resolved. We will go to the last place we went to! Easy! Unless some bright spark has been fishing in a new “undiscovered dam.” Much discussion about facilities, do they bite, what is the cost and most important, how far do we have to drive. Once thing you must realise: Fishing involves driving long distances to places even God has forgotten he created. Well, maybe the Devil remembers them, as most of them are infested with mosquitoes. Lots and lots of mosquitoes!

So, number three. Who is sleeping where? Everybody has to cater for himself, but not everybody has got a tent. Did I forget to mention the tents? Yes, that kind of fishing trip. In tents. On the ground. With the ants. You would think this to be a minor issue. You do not realize that there are unwritten rules here. The snoring fraternity is quickly identified and banned to a separate tent. Preferably far away from everyone else. Some will sleep in the back of their bakkies (pickup trucks to you ignorant foreigners), not willing to trust the weather. As one of the delinquents that snore, I have gone so far as to buy my own two-man pup tent, allowing myself to snuffle and snort to my hearts content. I can even fart without somebody throwing a pillow at me! Cool!

Number four: the food, and the alcohol. No, let me rephrase that, in order of importance, the booze and then the chow! More of the former and less of the latter!

Each guy must cater for his own booze. My brothers in law had to repack the double cab twice to fit all the cases of beer in. When all the beer was loaded, there was no place for the meat.

Meat! Almost a small cow’s worth. A fishing weekend consists of a non stop braaiing and boozing. The only time you can see a slack time in the braaiing is about 4am in the morning, when the drunks pass out.

When it came to breakfast, I realized why I am always invited to come along. I make breakfast. Nobody else is in any condition to make food, or wash the utensils from last nights barbecue. As the only semi-sober body available, as well being the only man there who dislikes cooking in carbon-encrusted grids and pans, I wind up washing the bloody things. The other lazy son-of-bitches will eat anything cooked on anything with anything. Not for me... I HAVE SEEN TOO MANY CASES OF GYPPO-GUTS!

Fishing...no thanks, I stop at the Pick and Pay on the way home on Sunday afternoon, buy a box of hake fillets, take a picture of my 'catch', and boast about the one that got away!