‘In keeping with this eccentricity, his fishing tackle and attire was time worn; modernity was not a quality Fez appreciated. When others were sporting Pegley Davies or East Anglian glass fibre, Fez was perfectly happy to rely on his beloved split cane’
I’d always assumed that ‘Pheasant Plucker’ (or just ‘Fez’ as he was later known) took his nickname because, frankly, he was a pleasant enough chap but it turns out there was more to it than that.
Fez was a country boy that found himself in 1970s suburbia; less ‘Jack the Lad’ and more ‘Jack Hargreaves‘ and as out of place in Dagenham as a miner in Mayfair. That’s why he adored the Rotor Gear coach trips so much, as they took him to his beloved countryside.
It didn’t matter whether Fez drew no. 1 one out the hat, or no. 51, for the venue walk-off, as he’d always be the last to settle and fish. He’d stop every ten yards for a close-up with snowdrops, to inspect a bird’s nest, or he’d be climbing a tree for chicken-of-the-woods. If it was a narrow path to the venue and Fez had drawn an early number, it was accepted custom to give him a bang on the head for good luck as you went past.
“ …Coming through, Fez…fish to be caught…leave those tits alone…” and a thwack of a maggot tin on the back of his cloth cap would follow.
In keeping with this eccentricity, his fishing tackle and attire was time worn; modernity was not a quality Fez appreciated. When others were sporting Pegley Davies or East Anglian glass fibre, Fez was perfectly happy to rely on his beloved split cane. For dace he waggled an Aspindale, tench and chub would be tamed with an Oliver’s general float rod, and if it were anything else (like a big bream), the old Wizard and coffin lead was his approved approach. But Fez wasn’t always known as ‘The Fez’; he’d earned his moniker.
An early November start saw the Rotor Gear coach collect a full allocation of lads from the factory and head up the old A10 to L.A.A. rota water at Littleport. The mood was quiet and at least half the boys were hunkered into seats with coats and scarves pulled tight but that soon changed. Approaching Foxton in the low-hanging mist, there was an almighty bang at the front. It was such a fright that Terry the driver thought he’d hit a farm worker in the gloom. The old Plaxton screeched and smoked to a halt and Terry was much relieved on inspection to discover it was only a stupid pheasant committing ‘hari-kiri’, leaving a dirty great feathery smear on the windshield. Quick as a flash, Fez was out the coach and running back down the road to grab the lifeless bird which he shoved inside his coat.
“That’ll do for me dinner, boys!” he said proudly, as he made his way down the aisle with his prize.
Well, you might think that’s the end of the story to explain how Fez got his nickname but, oh no, not at all! Twenty minutes later, just outside Ely, there were murmurings and rumblings within Fez’s layers. It turned out that Mr Pheasant was no more than a little stunned by his experience and upset to be tucked inside a smelly jumper heading away at pace from his pheasant friends.
With an almighty scream, Fez leapt skywards and hung, motionless, in fear, a face straight from ‘Hammer House of Horrors’. Simultaneously, clothing went in all directions and the now very-much-alive pheasant scratched and pecked everything in range as he took flight, leaving a blood-ridden Fez in hot pursuit.
Have you ever tried to catch a cornered pheasant? No, I don’t suppose you have, so I’ll tell you what happens. After much spilling of claret and emotion and, just when you think you have hold of the bird, an explosion of feathers effervesces as it wrestles free again. Imagine on an Olympic-scale, a heavyweight pillow fight and you’ll picture the scene. You couldn’t see past your nose for plumage.
Fez was a dementor, running up and down the coach trying to re-catch his dinner. Eventually, half bald, the bird was contained in an empty keepnet sack and despatched by repeated blows with a wheel spanner. After what seemed like eternity, the feathers settled and Fez slumped into his seat with a warm (now very dead) package on his lap. The ‘Pheasant Plucker’ was born.
That season, Denny and I did a clean sweep of Rotor Gear trophies. The following year we did it again but this time went one better with Denny’s lad winning the Junior Cup to boot. Jealousy was rife amongst the men and Denny became a seam of contention amongst the Committee. He needed a new challenge and enlisted me to help. The success of Denny’s lad had given him an idea; he would adopt the Junior Section!
Denny’s success in club matches was founded on three attributes. First, his ability to read water. Denny never plumbed the depth; nine times from ten he could set his float on instinct. Laid over the top was determination. Finally, he never left anything to chance. When Denny drew his number, first or last, he’d know precisely where he was headed. He had an enviable book of contacts and if none were available for a particular venue Denny would visit the week before to plan his strategy.
Denny took this near-professional approach into his management of the youngsters. Entered into a local junior league, the week before a contest, Denny would have the team visit and walk the venue. First hour was on foot, stopping at each peg, discussing depth, species, bait and all the variables. Only once the walk-through was complete could the lads fish.
On Thursdays they’d gather at Denny’s, all ten or so lads, to discuss the venue in the context of strengths and weaknesses, the anticipated conditions for the coming weekend and to choose bank runners and team. Stick float was a Shiddy brothers’ speciality. ‘Philbobday’ could catch fish in a puddle. Scratching was for ‘Noughts’. ‘Coops’ was great on a big fish venue and ‘Jimbo’, being Denny’s lad, well, you never needed worry about him! ‘Skiff’ was the captain, not so much because of his angling skills but rather for his calm approach and dependability.
They swept all before them and I particularly remember Skiff’s bag of hemp and caster Flatford roach on an incredibly challenging day. The lads also began to feature as top weight on the coach trips, much to the chagrin of the grown-ups, even eclipsing Denny on occasions (such was the brilliance of his coaching). I adored the whole gang but was particularly fond of Skiff if I am honest, and Denny let me fish with him sometimes. The teacher became the pupil.
Every talented team has a pinnacle moment and in August 1982, when Denny knew they were ready, Rotor Gear A.C. entered the Surrey Junior Championship to compete against the locals. Denny knew the venue, Kingston Barge Walk, like a farmer knows his fields. The team was chosen to give the best chance of victory, with an expectation that bronze maggots and waggler should win the day but also in the knowledge some pegs might need a stick-float and caster approach. Everything was set.
On arrival, however, it all went upside down. Denny was shocked to discover the organisers had not been sufficiently astute (or awake early enough) to properly peg the swims! Already, the banks were lined with pleasure anglers so the venue would need to be switched. Denny was initially distraught, all his meticulous planning went out the window, but he gave himself a talking too. Whilst Canbury Gardens didn’t have the consistency of Barge Walk.
“Those lads have enough in the bank”he muttered to himself.
The locals were in confident mood. Each team had been sponsored by a tackle-shop and schooled by crack Thames match anglers. T.A.L.A.C., Rob’s Rods and Guildford were the favourites and I must confess, when I got the look of those other teams and the kit they carried, I didn’t think we’d stand a chance. We were a ramshackle lot by comparison.
Denny handed me over to Skiff, gave me a special blessing and told the lads to go win the match. Jimbo was in section A, with Phil Bobday in B, both in the woods. Skiff drew the side of the island on C and next, downstream of the island in D and E, were Warmers and Noughts. Finally, section F was for The Fox but, what a disaster. When The Fox reached his swim, they’d pegged him in the lock gates. In the blinking lock gates, I ask you…and on an August weekend!
Denny went berserk, called the stewards to the lock and after much arm waving and protestation, The Fox was taken downstream and put on the end peg. Now that put the smile back on Denny’s face!
Me and Skiff went to work and I have to say he fished it lovely. It was a tough day with plenty of sunshine and noise to put the fish down. We mixed fishing top and bottom down the inside, with bottom only out to the island, to put together a respectable net of roach and dace for third in the section. Philbobday had a similar weight for fourth but Noughts and Warmers smashed it with a section win and second-place respectively.
Jimbo, however, was distraught; he couldn’t buy a bite! Patient as ever, Denny sat with him for the whole match; he knew this was where it would be won or lost. They looked hard for a roach on the caster, went out on the bomb for a bream and sprayed maggots for dace but all to no avail. This was the toughest section and, with half an hour to go, a last throw of the dice was pinkies down the edge. Bingo! Two bites in quick succession delivered a brace of gudgeon and a precious six points. Jimbo was close to tears; despite all his efforts he felt he’d let the team down.
Denny gathered the lads at the H.Q. and they watched the section results come in, one by one, and go up on the board. T.A.L.A.C. had smashed it so far, with two section wins and a second. A flunk in section B, though, gave a glimmer of hope. It was all down to The Fox and the crowds gathered in anticipation, awaiting the results to come from the bottom end.
When The Fox came round the corner and waved a very wet keepnet above his head, the smile said it all. He’d won his section and those fourteen points gave Rotor Gear a winning margin of three.
“We’ve done it!” cheered Denny, “We’ve bloody well done it!”and with that he skipped up and down and gave every one of those lads a life-threatening hug. In all our days, I’d never seen him so happy.
Every section result was precious but it was Jimbo they all turned to, whose face had gone from disappointment to the realisation that those two little gudgeon were enough to bring the Surrey Junior Championship out to Essex!
All that was forty years ago. Denny still fishes but he’ll tell anyone who asks (including his long-suffering wife) that was the greatest day of his life. I’m sure it wasn’t really, but it certainly was a good ‘un.
With all that excitement, the pinnacle of Denny’s fishing, came the end of an era. Like Busby and his Babes at Wembley in ‘68, winning anything after that was never quite the same (and Denny did keep winning, believe me!). The lads grew up, and had families that grew up too, but they still get together for a fish and a shandy with Denny. He can’t yomp his box down the towpath like he used to but his mind and competitive spirit hasn’t blunted one tiny bit.
Me? Well, I am old, incredibly old and there isn’t much left now that hasn’t been replaced. My fishing life began with Arthur, when he found me as a quill, shed from the wing of an old crow, on Wanstead Flats all those years ago when we fished the Lea every weekend without fail. Later, I had wonderful adventures with Denny, right across the south of England. Then I was handed to young ‘Skiff’ (a.k.a. Tengisgol) and I was the one he ran down the edge, chasing dace and roach (my favourite) on that fateful day in August 1982.
And still, we fish. As another season reaches the ‘back end,’ there are roach to be caught. Skiff put a new cane-stem on me last week, reckoning I’d be exactly right with a fresh coat of varnish, and you know what they say…
“…you can’t put an old float down.”
The End.
Footnote:
These three stories mix fact with fiction. Artie was really my grandfather, Sid Thomas, who never fished but I imagined his life as if he had. He really did go to the trenches in France with the army, as a fifteen-year-old, and later lost his thumb at the Dardanelles.
Denny is our hero, Colin Sinclair, who was like a second father to me and really did lead the Motor Gear AC Junior Section to victory at The Surrey Junior Championship in 1982.
And the hero of the stories? An old quill float that now has a new cane stem, fresh varnish and comes out to catch roach on an old Aspindale paired with a Hardy Conquest. If only he could talk, that old float would tell a story or three!
Writing & Images – Tengisgol – Essex, February 2024
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