Miracle of the oafs and fishes

Well, I suppose I asked for it. If you go fishing with an organisation that glorifies the art of failure, you shouldn't really be surprised if you don't catch anything.

When the Bath-based Old Blankonians invited me to their annual dinner, I planned to dash down, say a few tasteful words and scoot back to Cambridge. But foolishly, I let my curiosity overrule my head. Were these guys really duffers? Or were they competent fishermen who, for reasons of misfortune or circumstances beyond their control, had suffered failure more often than most?

Hopeful of some good hard-luck stories, I accepted an invitation from the secretary John Bennett to join his members in a pike-fishing expedition on a prime stretch of the Bristol Avon. I should have known better. After spending a weekend in their company, I can reveal that they are not only a bunch of total duffers, but also mercifully free from the ravages of intelligence. Old Blankonian members have refined the art of not catching fish to a quite remarkable level of incompetence.

Harsh words, you may say. But let me give you a few examples. The night before, they proudly displayed their secret baits. One member had transported a deep-frozen salmon parr all the way from Hull. No matter that Avon pike do not see a lot of salmon parr (perhaps "any" would be a better word); no matter that the same parr had appeared on two previous trips and been found wanting. Other baits included a trout head.

Talking the night before, it rapidly became apparent that success to them was a relative word. It meant not falling in; not getting your car stuck in the mud; not losing too many floats or hooks. It had very little to do with catching anything. The Old Blankonians have been going for six years, and one member is still awaiting his first fish.

But as a group, they were far from downcast. On the contrary, there was a buzz of excitement. In fact, to ensure they did not miss a moment's fishing, they planned to leave at 7am. As a notorious late-riser on fishing trips, I pointed out that it would not be light until at least 8am. "Ah, we need to secure the good spots," they said.

And so it came to pass that I was woken up at 5.30am. Although the river was a mere 10 minutes away, club members were so eager that they dashed off without breakfast. Even the birds were not stirring when we arrived. The frost was thick as a light snowfall, and it was way below freezing. Our chances of seeing to rig up our tackle, let alone catching a pike, were somewhat lower than the combined IQ of the idiots all around me.

An angling axiom: the distance you walk from your car is in inverse proportion to the number of fish you will catch. You can imagine the rest. This lot headed miles upstream to a featureless stretch with nothing to commend it except the fact that the walk had restored circulation in my feet.

Still, it was a good job we got there early. A lone angler headed along the bank at 10am. But it was only the venue secretary, Robin Gay, who had wisely snatched an extra few hours in bed. He hadn't missed anything.

The day was not without incident. Later that morning, a sculler came down. Then another. And another. Gay had cunningly chosen the day of the area's biggest rowing event, with more than 100 boats racing up and down our part of the river.

It was too much even for the Old Blankonians. "I know an even better spot," pleaded Gay. It required, inevitably, an even longer walk. By then I had realised that none of them had a clue about where pike live, so I wandered off on my own.

As the light started to fade, line trickled off my reel. The others came running up in anticipation. Unfortunately that pike thought better of a late lunch and dropped the bait.

The Old Blankonians breathed a collective sigh of relief. A fish would have spoilt their day.