stranger than fishin / carp casino / wisdom for whimps

so i´ve lied, i´ve cheated, i have fucked up - looked down and the other way. fortunately few kind souls have been nice enough to return the favour. feeling all de niro-ish but really being all joe pesci, a little fucker - on the edge and ready to snap at an instant.

being on a carpfishing high (having winkled on out) is like trippin on mushrooms - you go on with it, fascinated, eyes widened - only to find out the next day that you haven´t cracked it all, that you don´t know all the secrets, that maybe there aren´t any secrets after all, that really you don´t know shit. but just like shrooms it´s fun - if you don´t overdo it....

if carpfishing as a whole is shroomish, then tackle tartism is like blow. it makes you feel like a big shot, invincible, ready to take on the big girls. but just like coke, flash tackle won´t automatically have the big girls climbing up the line, it´s all smoke and mirrors, flash bizzaz, plus it rips a hole in your budget. still, just like powder, tackle tartism is fun if you don´t overdo it....

could it be that there is a pattern emerging? can i actually see something out my dry, swollen red eyes? up until recently, i haven´t.

nothing exceeds excess. this boorowed line was my credo thinking that somehow this would elevate me from mediocracy. overdoing it was the whole point, crossing boarders, laughing at the guards, taking a huge dump on their good advice, wiping my ass on their uniforms - only to find out that past the boarders, a carp is still a carp is still a carp is still a carp - and mediocracy can´t be cheated by mediocre punchlines and luke warm liquid xtc.

so what to do? settle for merely average results? real commitment? heroin? crack? straight edge? marriage even?

i don´t know but i´ve decided to find out.

so if you see me on the bank in a swim next to you, don´t fucking dare to cast over into my water or i´ll go all joe pesci on you - the "casino" joe pesci that is, not the "kevin home alone" joe pesci i might add, cuz my balls are starting to grow back again. so beware, fuckers!

whatever you do, do it sensibly!

life is shit. carpfishing just makes it a tad less shitty.

the other day as i was snacking on some freshly plucked kid´s eyeballs, watching wrestling on czech television, i accidently dropped my cocaine vial, i see it drop in slow motion, hitting the remote control, switching the channel, the vial on the dial, epic stuff.

anyway, on came this show, all pastel colours, a clean sort of dullness, with two ladies (Yvonne & Kirsten, Maren & Mareike??) in their thirties that looked like they might have played bass or keyboards in a rrrriot girrrrl band called "the splicing needles" once but had since given up on feminism. and had started tanning, waxing and working out. in what seemed to be a show aimed at the whole of the happy family, they were going on about snorkeling and breast implants and diets, their garden on the balcony and the ten best ways to keep your kids on track and off crack.
i didn´t get the last bit but i´m pretty sure i heard one of them say that snorkeling enables her to "JUST BE". so what nautic exploratory pursuits incorporating a facemask and a snorkel are to Maren and/or Karen, carpfishing is to me.

i was outfished this weekend by mr. carpfishing, CHFM. it´s a sheer pleasure to watch this man angle and i´m well chuffed for him that he managed to get among the good´uns. cheers and big up to you mate! it´s been awesome as always. night fishing and day tripping. bareback, backdraft. no homo. snails snails snails!!

so if you see me on the bank in a swim next to you, don´t slag me off cuz i write a blog and look awfully pale with these cum stains all over me. this is not a fashion statement - it´s sheer horror and angst and fear. and no, i have not been smoking too much of this lovely sour diesel, if you find this installment a bit on the hippie-ish side, so fuck off.

do it like polsi does. carping out!

this is carpcore - the mighty return of the infamous team ganja

a lot of dude sweat. semi naked bodys. there is a sense of liberty in the air. minds thinking alike, along the same lines, towards a goal that is not quite clear yet. like hippie era carpers but with eastern european haircuts and suburban thrift store vintage militia clothing. like puppies, like terrorists, like catch and release crash test dummies. oh glory, oh eternity, clouds glooming kindly drift the other way, oh present tense. sun rise sun set blunts and polaroid sunglasses, sleep withdrwawl, love and lasagne, sound and sounder box, cause, effect, rigs rigs rigs bait bait bait. first i´ll have a cigarette, then i´ll have a coffee. we make our claim, we set our scene, we´ll shoot a movie. we lost the plot. we´ll shoot anyway.

so if you see me on the bank in the swim next to you, please do yourself a favour and take my dick out your mouth, i can barly understand a word you´re sayin, man. tssssssssssssss.......fuck off

be more service orientated & don´t hate!

my stick mix recipe

so what exactly goes into my stickmix? let me think. in there goes.................... fuck all cuz i don´t fucking use sticks. if i want to get my hands all smelly and greasy i might ass well jack off. or write this.

oh. i was invited today to join a secret society, a sect, maybe a cult even? it is all very mysterious and shadowy at this point. i have only met what i presume is the crown general, the sun god, the lemmy of this tribe yet and he, as you would expect from a man of such allure, was very secretive and would only let me in on what he called the "sole and soulful" purpose of this transuniversal movement: the appreciation and pursuit of carp and vagina.

i started out to strike up a sponsorship deal with (pleaseinsertbaitsponsonamehere) and that´s what i get for my efforts? well i´ll join anyway. maybe i can be assistant sun god or deputy lemmy. and then get sponsored by horst & klaus baits.

so if you see me on the bank in a swim next to you, please take one of my rods, break it and stick it straight into my eye. please then proceed to act as normal and pay your taxes and maybe change the colour of your hair once, maybe twice bianually. fuck off.

be more likeable!

50 mill all the way / bringing queerness back into carpfishing

do your bobbins have to be level? i get out at night to make sure that mine are. even if my rods are not set up perfectly parallel only inches apart because the fishing situation dictates it, i stil go all the way to insure that both bobbins are set at exactly the same distance from the blank of the rod.

if i have to resort to using a rod pod i spend ages making sure that everything is level and the whole set up looks the part. does it catch me more fish? i highly doubt it, but then - it´s not all about catching them, is it? if you put in some time and effort you will catch them sooner or later. cuz after all carpfishing is not rocket science (even if it is so much fun pretending).

now, as ou could guess from the whole bobbin issue, the aesthetics of carpangling play a major part in me becoming this sad, obsessive carp fiend. even back in the dark ages of rubbish buzzers that would squeak every now and then, even in windless (and of course fishless) conditions, the era of shitty army clothes and rods and reels that didn´t match - even back then i knew what i wanted me and my swim to look like. i remember being just as happy when i got my first set of matching, proper carp rods as i was when caught my first 30lbs carp. does this make me the most superficial person ever? like i give a shit.

i love it. tackle tartism to tha fullest, baby! flash bizzaz. dresscodes, brandnames, premium ranges, the shades of olive, the greenish olive, the brownish olive, the subdued tones, the realtree patterns, stainless steel everything, stainlesssteeleverything!

i am seriousely considering having my next set of rods made up with 50 mill rings from starter all the way through to the tip ring. that would look seriousely cool on a 3,5 lbs hi-s blank and if it offends the 9 ft 12 ring stalker type brigade thats always brabbling about "the soft playing action" of their kit, all the better.
so that´s one reason why i love this game (that makes carpangling sound gang related, but in a gay way). it all boils down to just looking way better as a carpangler than a rollerblader (do people actually still rollerblade?).

so if you see me on the bank in the swim next to you,getting a suntan on my unhooking mat, with my speedos on, trying to hide my rollerblades in them - make sure you zoom in on the (pleaseinsertbaitsponsornamehere) tattoo on my ass before you load it up on the net. oh, and fuck off!

stay glitzy,

baitflossing a dead horse

so this obviousely isn´t working. no calls from big bill, no buckets full of bait at my front door - i feel deflated. it must be that i jumped onto the blogging bandwagon too late. my rise to fieldtester status and ultimately superstardom has come to a sudden halt before it even started. if despair, rejection and shame mixed together came as just one reeking flavour then i am oozing it, i can feel it tingling on my tongue, i can see it creeping up the nostrils of everybody around me, i am humbled, i am hurt, i can´t see the fucking point, i am my usual self.

as i sobbingly tell a mate about it he quite rightly points out to me that there is obviousely a lack of carpy pictures among a mass of poorly written pulpiness. these baitspoons of word dropped cunningly into the vastness of the interlake are about carp, and catching carp, and releasing carp after all. and trophy shots are "part of the deal", proof of the pudding stuff, putting a tag on your quarry stuff, mine´s bigger than yours stuff - you get the drift.

so here´s the first piccy. it is the fish i´m after this year and just this weekend i got a chance to see it on the bank. i was both gutted and elated to see the fish - gutted cuz i knew i wouldn´t catch it in this session and happy cuz i´ve never actually seen a fish of such proportions in flesh.

friday afternoon and i´ve just finished setting up when matey from
 a couple swims down calls me over. he tells me to bring my set of scales cuz the fish in his sling had bottomed out his 25kg digitals. straightaway i know that my target fish is on his mat. so i hurry over and together we hoist her up on the tripod to get a correct reading on the scales. mesmerized we watch the needle of the reuben heatons almost swing past the magical 60lbs mark, missing it only by a few ounces. what a pig! I snap off a couple of trophy shots for him and salute him from all my heart. it was by no means a fluke and i know that he had put in quite some time and effort to catch this particular fish so it was well deserved. cheers, mate! i shout out as i make my way back to my swim.

it was good to see the fish in good heatlh and looking at it in some other lucky angler´s arms made me even more determined to track it down eventually to get my own proof of the pudding type piccies - since i don´t get to play the "mine´s bigga" card too often anyway.

so there you go - a carp, allzerosandones. since i haven ´t caught one myself in months, i´ll have to think of something pretty soon. can´t be posting other people´s fish forever, but i got this mate and he´s got a computer with some fancy foto chop program on it or something and i´ll have him superimpose some carp from the internet into my hands. sorted!

so if you see me on the bank in the swim next to you - don´t even think about bumming some weed offa me cuz i ain´t got any. plus i´m skint. and even if i had any - i wouldn´t fucking sort you out just because we share a passion for realtree patterns. fuck off!

cheerio

hunter rule # 12b: ALL water is my water/a night out with tha inbred boys/lassein calling

i totally lack any knife fighting skills. no cool moves, no "swoooooosh" sounds as the blade cuts through the dampness of this dampest of damp friday afternoons. as a matter of fact, i don´t even carry a knife on me. there might be a blade on my leatherman but thats a.) pathetic and b.)out of reach in my tackle box. so no shank action then. my mind is racing...... i want to counter the verbal abuse that is thrown at me from the swim next door in true samurai fashion but i can´t even press out a hearty "go fuck yourself" let alone wipe out this gang of inbreds in one swooooooshing deadly blow.

so what the fuck do i do? i try to rationally expla CUNT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SWIM (thats inbred no.3 yelling at me again). see how rude they are interrupting me like that? anyway i try to explain that clearly i´m inside MY corridor of water and that this fact is plainly visible for everybody that has got eyes to see. and what do i get? death threats. inbred no.1 is even considering to come out in the water to fight me. and this dipshit doesn´t even have a boat.

now i know for a fact that my mum and dad are NOT brother and sister, i know for a fact that my haircut is like way cooler than any of theirs and i know for a fact that the marker i just wanted to lower into a likely looking patch near some lilliy pads is defenitely in MY swim. so i know i´m right and they are not. i am fucking right right right right right.

but that don´t mean shit. shit shit shit shit. and i fucking know it. i know that if i don´t give in i will have no peace whatsoever during my weekend session, maybe even a physical confrontation with a couple of enraged alcoholics with bad teeth and even worse tackle. so i pick out the h block marker and row away with my tail between my legs. i feel like my balls have shrunken to peanut size and my dick is even tinier than ever before." i hate myself and i want to die" by this up and coming indie band nirvana would be playing and nagging at me if this was a b-carpmovie. by now somebody had dropped into the empty swim to the left of me. this leaves me with a 10 m corridor to position my two rods. i briefly consider packing packing up and going back to my syndicate lake.

fuck no. i had spent an hour of getting all the gear into the boat and moving it to my chosen swim, putting up the bivvy..... and all that shit just to undo it all agin? i decided to stick it out and beat them on the fishing front. "that´ll learn´em" i thought but i knew deep inside that that they had won. of course i caught and the inbreds didn´t but i hated every single minute of this trip already despite catchin a few little´uns during the next few hours. plus i had seen fish topping right on the spot by the lillies that i had planned to fish, including what looked like a really good fish - aaaaaaaaargh!

saturday morning, way before 8 am some cunt wakes me up to see my licence. i light a cigarette in some sort of breakfastly manner and grudgingly hand over the documents. at least they didn´t fucking harrass me cuz of my bivvy (with bivvies and shelters actually being forbidden in redneck county) so i send them on their way, keep the cursing down and crawl back into the super comfy nashy wideboy bag.
saturday morning, 8.15 am. some cunt wakes me up to see my licence. what the fuck. i light two camels at once and try to stay calm while i´m surpressing an anger attack. i encourage the bailiff to maybe work on their coordination a bit, have a brief chat with him before wishing him all the best, stamp out the cigarettes on my forearm and start to cry.

i pack away my gear in record time and leave, vowing not to return to this lake until late autumn when the inbreds stay at home to beat up their wives, children and dogs, and their children´s dogs and dogs they don´t even know and attend right wing party rallies and u2 concerts and... the lilly pads are finally all mine.

so if you see me in a swim next to you, just remember that i´m a fucking whimp and take advantage of the situation

slack lines