** New PB? Beware the Big Hands Brigade **
Last weekend’s capture of a record-breaking Back Lake mirror prompted considerable praise for the successful angler.
And rightly so; backed as it was by a brace of 30s (including a truly remarkable fully-scaled) – both of which were banked from this notoriously tricky pond, using ‘old school’ stalking tactics incorporating freelined worm.
So; genuinely great angling, and a much deserved result. Or at least… that’s how most folk saw it.
Inevitably, however, a couple of … keyboard correspondents felt compelled to call said angler a liar, claiming – based on the (granted) less-than-perfect snaps taken by a bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived fishery owner (me) – ‘That int a 40’.
Which of course it was. As verified by Messrs Reuben and Heaton. And it was a new ‘40’ for the fishery, too; so I was doubly chuffed, for the lad and for us. But I have to wonder: should anyone really give a rat’s wotnot, if the fish didn’t actually top the 40 lb barrier?
For the record, I was fortunate to catch the same fish 18 months ago, at 38lbs and ounces. Did the extra weight make it any smarter; tricker to outwit?
Doubt it.
And does joining the (fast-growing, let’s face it) UK 40s Club confer any measurable benefits – a Lifetime Achievement Award with commensurate annuity, say; or, perhaps, making one more attractive to the opposite sex?
Again, unlikely; I can’t recall anyone quitting the Carp Society, due to a surfeit of groupies.
But I digress.
The bigger question: what, pray, qualifies anyone – least of all, a half-pissed (not to say, generally, and inexplicably, pissed-off) Insta-critic – to judge a fish’s weight, with just a cursory glance at an iphone?
For me, at least, Father Dougal’s struggle with the complexities of perspective (“This is very small; this is far away”) is as nothing, compared to the challenge of pinning a weight on a Facebook catch pic.
Of late, I’ve seen known 50s that resemble modestly proportioned crucians, nestling in ‘digger bucket’ hands; and low-20s that appear to have consumed their captors, the latter’s Chad-like heads barely discernible above a wall of fishy flesh. (Wot? No Drennan Prize?)
The likelihood of accurately guessing the weights of either: slim to none. Barring, I suppose, some form of virtual theodolite, facilitating a precise calculation based on the protagonist’s handspan (which, if certain comments are to be believed, is the only reliable gauge).
Ultimately, though: why bother?
Between the swivel-eyed sociopath (Vlad The Insaner) in the Kremlin and an overheating planet – double-digit inflation and our skip-fire of a government – we really do have more pressing concerns.
Don’t we?
