The Secret Angler

‘My, what big teeth you have Grandmama.’
‘All the better to pose for publicity photographs with.’

Something like that comes to mind every time I see a snap of John Langridge, invariably displaying his Mount Rushmore gnashers in a monumental grin. Or is it a grimace? I’ve never seen a picture of him in mildly amused mood, nor in pensive contemplation, nor impassive, nor gloomy. I once saw him in real life, signing copies of one of his books at a game fair, wearing an identical expression. He was out-Cheshire catting the Cheshire cat even then. I conclude his grin is permanent. Must be a happy guy.

He has written a few books, all published by Medlar Press. The latest, due soon, is A Line Lost in Time. It must be difficult to come up with a title for a new fishing book now that so many have been written but this does feel a bit portentous. The book is a collection of globe-trotting fishing stories, so maybe A Tackle Bag Lost by an Airline would fit the subject matter. Since the book is not yet published I cannot get hold of a copy. Helpfully Medlar have printed an extract on its website, so applying the principle that a paragraph is a window into the complete book, I offer this appraisal.

According to Medlar’s blurb, Langridge has seafaring ancestors ‘lost in the mists of time,’ etc. These apparently are the motivation for the book, with some fishing along the way. Whether these are an excuse for some romance or more central to the narrative we’ll have to see. Advertising the book with a travel bag of clichés doesn’t persuade me to place an order. I admit I am not a fan of Langridge’s writing. Many were his articles in Waterlog I struggled to finish, and often didn’t, thanks to the tiresome cosiness of his writing.

It’s not easy to define but you recognise it straight away. Those phrases that are kept handy when you can’t be bothered to think too long about what you’re saying. He sees ‘delicate carvings,’ and at ‘the very edge of the sea,’ there are ‘small fish teeming in the shallows’. Stuff happens quickly — ‘I was quickly overwhelmed’, ‘I quickly found’, ‘quick formalities’. Words like delightful and excitement slide through his sentences with ease born of frequent use. I won’t quote any more, you get the idea. The pop style that bears a thousand fishing articles is relentless and I can’t manage a thousand words of it, let alone an entire book. I’ll pass this one over. A pity because a travelogue of fishing (overlooking the carbon addition to the atmosphere) is potentially very interesting. If you read the book, you might like to offer your view in the comments below.

Chris Yates. What a guy! One-time carp record holder, with a fish caught from Redmire to boot; Britain’s favourite fishing writer with several books to his name; most well known member of the Golden Scale Club, a kind of rod-and-line version of the Masons; and the man who popularised, more or less invented, traditional angling with cane rods and centrepin reels. And not to forget A Passion for Angling, the dreamy set of TV programmes of which he was the star. He is the high priest of carp fishing, the de facto head of the Golden Scale priesthood, the man most associated with the holy shrine of carp fishing, Redmire Pool, eclipsing even Dick Walker. Fishers fall at his feet and speak of him in hushed tones. The only other anglers who come close to this level of hero worship are all dead. A living legend indeed.

I suppose it’s not surprising this has happened in our age of celebrity, but it is curious that the habits of teenage girls who dote on music and television stars of dubious merit should have been acquired by smelly old fishermen. Do they stick a poster of Yatesy on their bedroom wall and lie in bed and peer at his image over the mounds of their beer bellies? No they don’t go that far (do they?) but a stack of his books will line their shelves, and more than likely a few cane rods will run along the wall of a special room (Yates fans don’t dump their rods in a corner like the rest of us, although he may well do). Some go even further. They want to be Chris Yates and they dress accordingly, all wax jackets, flat caps and serge trousers. Then there’s the tea and fruitcake, Kelly kettles on the bank, a glass of port or single-malt whisky back home beside the roaring log fire. It’s a jolly old romantic time being a Chris Yates do-alike.

It must be quite odd to be Mr Yates. He seems a likeable man with a taste for the antediluvian yet could not have anticipated the fandom fuelled by his record carp, although clearly he made sure he got publicity for that and subsequently marketed himself well. People who know him hint that he finds irritating the spectacle of Yatesian copycats. Probably he finds them funny too. There is an internet forum dedicated to him, mentioned in the previous Secret Angler post, the TFF, a Chris Yates fan club in all but name. The bloke who runs it has said it’s his dream that one day Yates will ask to join. A studiously offline individual, that is unlikely, though CY has allowed himself to be advertised as an honorary member. A member of your own fan club? That would feel strange.

The notion of a famous angler is to me much like the notion of a famous train spotter or tiddlywinks player. He certainly deserves praise for his books because he is able to write very readable prose even if it all feels a bit light and fluffy. And he has mapped his life the way many would like to — not working too hard, spending plenty of time fishing, doing his own thing, which for him happens to be using oldish fishing tackle. But dressing, walking, talking and stalking carp like the man and  mimicking his habits, doesn’t turn you into him; it just makes for a sorry imitation. The sagest advice ever offered is be yourself.

There’s not much harm in this kind of adulation, other than to risk embarrassment, or cries of ‘get a life.’ Rather it’s the characters of the fans and the cliquey nature of the fan clubs that are so lamentable, perhaps the inevitable outcome of true-belief. I’ll leave that subject to another post.