Extreme Fishing (12 page)

Back at the hotel I have a shower and phone Dad. He is feeling better and tells me he is going to be fine. He’s hoping to get ‘released’ tomorrow. I tell him
he inadvertently saved me from another trawler journey from hell.

‘Saved you from a bit of hard work, eh?’ he chuckles.

I lie on the bed reflecting on how different our lives have been. Compared to his life down the pit, it is amazing how lucky I’ve been and I know he is very proud of me. Dad started out as
a putter (pushing the coal carts), then a face worker, and worked his way up to deputy leader of a team – a role that demanded the respect of the lads underground, which he had in abundance.
Whatever he asked, they delivered. However, his favourite job was looking after the pit ponies. Dad adored horses, just like his brother, Matheson. It was their shared passion.

As I lie there I swear I hear a whinny followed by a long neigh. I sit up on the bed. My mind is playing tricks. I must be exhausted. I lie back down. No, there it is again. I sit up and listen
intently. Now more like a short groan, the kind of sound I make when I put my socks on in the morning. Another whinny accompanies the groan – someone’s in pain. I suddenly twig:
it’s the elderly couple in the next room going ‘at it’, pensioner-style. Oh, my God! Whatever they’re doing sounds sore. I head downstairs for a pint of American lager,
trying to rid my head of the sepia imagery. I take a sip of my Sam Adams. I am lobster fishing tomorrow. I smile as Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Jayne Mansfield/lobster sketch pops into my
head. Now, that would be sore.

Lobster Fishing

Lobster boats go out in all weathers to get their catch, and thinking about how cold it is at the moment I opt to wear a survival suit, a special type of waterproof dry
suit that will protect me from hypothermia should I end up in the drink. Unfortunately I am roasting like the proverbial trussed up like this, and when I meet Jim Ryan, he is dressed in only a
pullover and waterproof dungarees,
not
a full-on survival suit. Now, unlike women, men freak out when they aren’t dressed the same and at this party I have turned up wearing the wrong
kit – it’s embarrassing and Jim takes the piss immediately. I warm to him instantly. He is a jovial soul with a laugh like The Joker from
Batman
. For eight hours he doesn’t
stop laughing.

Jim and his first mate Matt harvest and bait up to 400 lobster pots a day. The forecast is for rough seas but we head out anyway. These are normal conditions for lobstermen and there is no
turning back. After the curse of the
Ocean Pearl
in Canada, I laugh in the face of a mere choppy sea.

We bring up the first pot, which has two lobsters in it. Anything that has a body measuring between three and five inches is a keeper, anything smaller or larger must go back. It’s only a
three-man boat but there is still a pecking order. One of them catches the pots; the second job is to remove the lobsters, size them and put elastic bands around the claws to prevent the amputation
of fishermen’s fingers or other lobsters’ pincers when they get a bit feisty, and the third job is to re-bait the pots before putting them back out to sea. Rather like Peter Mandelson
or Camilla Parker Bowles, I am the third man. You’d have thought an extra pair of hands would have been helpful to a two-man crew, but in reality I am a bloody hindrance. Re-baiting is the
job you give to the genetically challenged bloke – it’s pretty straightforward: you fill the traps with cod skins, which are honking, and throw them back out to sea – but I
still
can’t master it and am slowing the whole process down. The closed season is limited to only three months a year (January–April), which means these guys need to catch as
many lobsters as possible five days a week. I fear I am beginning to have a negative effect on their bank balances.

‘Jim, I’m covered in fish guts, you can’t go home to your girlfriend smelling like this . . . or maybe she likes the aroma of rotting herring . . . cod skin and rotting
herring, guaranteed a girlfriend or your money back,’ I say, still baiting the pots.

Jim beams at me and cackles like The Joker. These guys absolutely reek of fish and now so do I; cod skin is in every pore. They fish all day, go to bed and then fish all the next day. I
don’t think they’ve seen a bar of soap for months. It’s like when Napoleon sent the apocryphal message to Josephine: ‘Home in three days. Don’t wash!’ So
typically French. Whether it’s true or not is unimportant; let’s just say we all know why the French invented perfume.

Matt gets me to start bringing up the pots, and nineteen later I’m exhausted – it’s tough work. Jim says: ‘It’s not for everyone.’ He works ten hours a day,
doing 400 pots five times a week, and why? Because he absolutely loves it. For some, like Peter Cook, it would be possibly ‘the worst job they’ve ever had’.

Jim gives me a
Homarus gammarus
anatomy lesson. Each lobster has a crusher claw and a pincer claw, and can be left- or right-handed depending upon which side the crusher claw is on.

‘The female tails are fatter and the crusher claw is smaller,’ he says. He turns one over: ‘See that he’s got two pricks? They’re hard.’ He picks up a female:
‘See her, she got soft ones, kind of like real life, right?’

I tell him it’s a family show.

To explain more fully, lobsters have feathery appendages called swimmerets under their tail, which help them swim and also helps the female carry her eggs. The first pair of swimmerets closest
to the head are soft on a female and hard on the male. These are what Jim was referring to as ‘pricks’. Lobsters nest in rocky areas where they can hide, but they also burrow like
rabbits in the sand and live in depths of up to 400 metres or shallower waters. Their main diet is a daily platter of
fruits de mer
: crab, mussels, clams, starfish (not the chocolate ones),
marine worms, small fish and shrimp. Another bit of trivia is that the creature’s anus is at tip of its tail, so bear that in mind next time you order lobster arsehole salad.

Back on dry land we cook the lobsters for a feast on the beach. The correct way to kill a lobster isn’t by tossing it in a pot of boiling water, but in fact by placing it
in a pan of cold water and gently heating it up. The warm water sends the lobsters to sleep before the water begins to boil, and it is a much more humane method of killing these creatures. The
major pigment in lobster shell is called astaxanthin, which in live lobsters is bound to proteins that change colour, to green, greenish brown or blue. As we cook the lobster the bond between the
proteins and the astaxan-thin is broken down to release it to its free state and true colour: red. So now you know why their shells turn scarlet!

We settle down and eat our bounty. Jim and Matt cover theirs in loads of butter (‘Butter makes everything better,’ Jim smiles.) I have mine steamed with a hint of lemon, just like I
do at J. Sheekey’s in London. I’m such a ponce. They slurp the butter like gravy, dipping their bread in it. The lobster tastes remarkable, not that they’d know it as they may as
well have had Krispy Kreme doughnuts with theirs. I suppose eating lobster gets boring after a while. I’m glad there’s such a good perk to a very tough job.

Wild Bass Chase

Cape Cod isn’t all about heading out into the wild Atlantic; some great fish lurk in the creeks and rivers that feed the Cape. However, winter’s on the way and
finding fish that haven’t migrated south yet is going to be a real challenge. I meet Mike Rice, who will be showing me where to catch striped bass. The thing I love about the striper is that
it’s covered in black and white stripes just like my beloved football team, Newcastle. To catch a Geordie of the ocean is my destiny.

I shake hands with Mike, a good-looking, charismatic, lean guy who reminds me of Jon Bon Jovi. At this time of year, the local fishermen here have to cooperate on an almost military level to
maximise their chances of catching, so we join Mike’s fishing buddies, Brian, Pete and Scotty, to discuss strategy.

‘So, what’s the plan, Mike?’ I ask.

Mike’s all over it: ‘What we’ll do is split up. Pete’s going to one area, Scotty’s going to another, we’re going to go to a small creek. They’re all
pretty close, within twenty minutes of each other, so if one spot starts to get active we can jump in the truck and be there pretty quick.’

These fishermen tell us the striped bass are in their thousands in this area and it’s just a matter of finding them. I’m excited – the chase is on! Mike and I head for Scorton
Creek, which is flat and marshy but conditions are perfect for catching bass on the fly. The light is constant and not too bright, and I’m starting to feel pretty confident.

After three or so hours of relentless casting I am tired and very bored. ‘I don’t think there’s anything here,’ I say to Mike. ‘But you know it’s not just
about catching fish, is it?’

‘No. It’s about being out here,’ he replies.

‘And the companionship,’ I add.

‘Some of my best days on the water have been when I haven’t caught a thing,’ he says nonchalantly. Alarm bells ring in my head. I remind him I’ve travelled 4,000
miles.

‘I’ve got a wife and kids, Mike. A personal reputation. There’s a career at stake here,’ I say.

Mike knows I’m not going to be dicked around on some kind of wild bass chase. He is under pressure so he checks to see how the others are doing. Brian’s caught and released a
fourteen-inch shad. If shad are feeding, the bass could be, too. Time to head to Brian’s spot to see if we have better luck there. We arrive at Sandwich Harbour and the first thing I see is a
seal. This is not a good sign as they like to eat all the fish, but the other lads caught here earlier so we decide to stay in spite of the competition.

We cast our lines out again and again in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ll bang into some striped bass. Twenty minutes later it looks as if Mike’s hooked something. The seal is
interested, too.

‘That seal’s just gone for Mike’s fish,’ I say to camera. ‘It’s just gone for Mike’s fish! Oh, he’s right here, he’s right in front of me.
Look at him. Lovely to look at, but at the moment that seal’s a right bastard.’

Jamie wants me to deliver more lines about the seal to camera while the pinniped (from the Latin
pinna
, ‘fin’, and
ped
, ‘foot’) is still in shot. I
continue: ‘People may look at the image of a seal and think, “What a wonderful, inspiring sight” – but to an angler they are a menace as they scare off all the fish and,
surprise, surprise, today our fate is sealed. There’s no bloody fish here!’

In the middle of the take a car pulls up in between me and the camera on the road behind. A guy jumps out.

‘Hey, guys, you makin’ a movie?’ he asks in a distinctive Brooklyn drawl. ‘The name’s Mike, from Mike’s Automobile Collectibles. How yoo dooin’?
What’s the movie called?’

‘Well, Mike, thanks for destroying our take. It’s called
Extreme Fishing with Robson Green
,’ I say, grinning at Jamie, who is looking distinctly pissed off.

‘That’s awesome. Who’s Robson?’

‘Take a wild guess, Mike.’

‘You’re Robson? That’s awesome! Here, I got some caps for you all with my logo on it! Google me. I buy and sell old cars . . . I’m
on
the Internet. I’ve had
four hundred thousand hits!’

‘I think you’re
on
drugs, Mike . . . Could you please get out of my shot?’

‘Have a keyring and my card. You guys are awesome . . . Robson, we definitely got something going here,’ he says, shaking my hand.

‘Yes, Mike, it’s called mild irritation,’ I say, putting on one of his hats.

He gives us a wave, jumps in the car and drives off. Basically he wanted me to plug his company on the programme – and actually, you know what, you have to applaud the guy’s
chutzpah. Mike is going all the way! However, had my dad been here he would definitely have chinned him! I chuckle at the scene in my head of Big Rob throwing Mike across the bonnet of his own car.
I look round at fisherman Mike and imagine doing the same to him. I’m beginning to get tired of being Yanked around.

After another fruitless hour we are heading back to Scorton Creek, again. Morale is low and everyone is frustrated. In the truck, I try to lighten the mood by regaling Mike with tales from my
glittering music career.

‘The act was called Robson and Jerome. We knew we had to stop when a woman brought her two guinea pigs, Robson and Jerome, on a show called
Animal Hospital
. Rolf Harris says,
“What’s wrong?” She says, “It’s Robson, he’s not right.” And then, in front of millions, Robson wobbles about on his back, fitting. Rolf says,
“There’s only one thing to do about this poor little fella.” The vet gets a large needle out and live on TV they put him down. Robson died! My mum rang up, “Have you seen
you’re on the other side? You’re a guinea pig.” “
Was
a guinea pig, Mum.” And in that moment I realised that’s exactly what I had been – Simon
Cowell’s bloody guinea pig. Thankfully I’ve moved on (considerably richer) and he’s now practising vivisection on One Direction.’

Mike is completely uninterested in my stories and I miss Jim the Joker. He was my type of guy – laughed at anything.

It’s three o’clock when we arrive back at the creek. The tide is in and everyone thinks this is now
the
place to hook a striped bass. I’m determined to be the first to
get one. But as the light starts to fade, none of us has caught a single fish. I’ve been thrashing the water for six hours, my hand is blistered and it looks like the bass have buggered
off.

‘Where’s the bass, Mike?’ I yell.

Mike and his mates conclude that we have missed them and they will already have travelled south. Defeated, we head back to the hotel. On the way we pass a psychic’s ‘salon’.
Jamie and I look at one another. It’s time for drastic measures. We are now willing to try
anything
.

The Clairvoyant

The next morning I find out that Dad is being released from hospital. He’s got to have a stent fitted and possibly undergo a bypass but at the moment, owing to
flu-like symptoms and a kidney infection, he’s not well enough for surgery but he is well enough to go home. I can’t wait to see him. Perhaps the lady I am seeing next will tell me
exactly when that will be.