Chris Avery | Wednesday, 29 October 2025
Part 2 of Chris’ CI training adventure
Practise Session 4
Set up and started and a dog walker with a ball thrower enters the field and studies my movements, I ignore him and continue casting along the tape measure lined up with plant pots marking various strategic lengths. He stays scrutinising me with all the intensity of my witheringly sardonic mentor Mr Gently Benevolent (otherwise known as Mark Surtees) and I am starting to feel self-conscious . The dog with doleful eyes just sits there and pants, with its tongue out.
After what seems an age of this impasse he (the man) eventually breaks the awkward silence and says.
“Can I give you some helpful advice?”
“Yes please, that would be great” I say relieved, maybe he’s a fly fishermen, I ponder hopefully.
“Well” he says rather sagely, and for full effect of the oncoming train of wisdom…… “the river’s 400 yards over there, you’re more likely to catch fish there.”
I sigh and shrug. “I’m just practising” I mumble, the words don’t even reach….He however smugs it off into the distance, pleased with himself and maintaining the very last word on the matter.
What I wonder is his motivation? Was this his gift? Is he expecting I’m now rolling on the floor laughing, won over with his charm, wonderful humour and killer timing? Or does he see me as some idiot that he’s just defeated with his superior wit?
Ten minutes later I get another voice, this time some chap hanging over the gate watching me from 50 yards away,
“Can I give you some advice?” he calls out.
(“No you can Fuck right Off !!!” my inner demon screams..but shrug and say.. )“Don’t tell me ….I’ll catch more fish in the river!”
“No seriously do you want me to tell you what you’re doing wrong”.
I thought I had been casting really well and finally was getting a real improvement. He’s opened the gate and is wandering over, we are now in an exchange whether I like it or not. “I’ve taught lots of people to fly cast in my time.” He assures me.
“Oh, Ok Great, that would be great. Thank you” I feel bad that I had so swiftly pre-judged him.
“You know that rolled up sleeve, you need to roll it down and fasten the cuff” ( I don’t like where this is going, I’ve disengaged the breaks, given him momentum, I can see the lamp post looming up, imagine the coming crunch and can even feel the pain,, but I’m unable to steer clear of this inevitable crash).
“No seriously, trust me, roll down your sleeve and button the cuff.” I comply just hoping to get this over as quickly as possible and move on.
“Your problem is that you have a floppy wrist and no grip, you need to tuck the rod butt in your shirt and grip a bit harder to keep it all nice and stiff”.
Flaberghasted and unable to move this along to a suitable conclusion, I just stare back like an idiot.
“Go on son try it! Try It! It may sound daft but it will …Look, Just shove the butt in your sleeve”.
I desperately want to tell him what to shove up his butt, but can’t think witty and I really don’t want to be rude!
I do as requested and side cast forwards, landing the line with a small loop remaining unfurled, then do a back cast along the floor with a small unfurled loop landing just as intended. Two nice tight loops with remarkably flat fly legs. I’m actually really rather pleased. Hopefully that will satisfy him.
“No, no No, cast it over head like you would fishing!”
Keeping a stiff wrist and gripping for dear life, with the rod tip moving like a windscreen wiper in a deluge, I cast my 40 foot of line back and forth, back and forth in wide open loops.
“See that’s it! You’ve got it… doesn’t that feel better! Wonderful, Wonderful! You're casting really well now! We will make a fly fishermen out of you yet”
“Thank you.” I say as my alarm goes off.
“Time for home now,” stooping to turn it off. “Thanks for my lesson”
“ Don’t forget what I taught you son … stiff wrists and a firm grip!”
“Saved by the fucking bell… yet again” I mutter under my breath!
PS5
I enter the field at about 8pm with half an hour’s light, Mercifully no dog walkers. Under the oak tree in the middle is a gaggle, flock, or shoal of teenagers from I guess the local school, a quick head count and calculation shows plenty of oestrogen over there but it’s slightly outnumbered by testosterone. With that balance they won’t be bothering me.
At last uninterrupted triangle methods and I’m up with reasonable loops and starting to add line. Sweet progress at last. Half way through the session I’m concentrating on keeping almost straight legs, and I get a feeling I am being watched. I look around and there’s two teenage lads stood 40 feet away with daft smiles on the faces, they’ve wandered over from the gaggle. I look at them but they just continue to grin. This is awkward, so I reluctantly break the ice.
“ How do?”
“..that looks brilliant”
“ No I’m just practicing for an exam, it’s shit, there’s loads to put right”
Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum answer in unison… “It looks Brilliant”
“ Honestly it’s not, I’d fail on those loops”
“It looks brilliant,” in stereo. They are fuckin replicants and whatever I say is going to get the same answer. And they ain’t going anywhere unless this moves on. So I wonder how I can turn this stalemate to my advantage?
“Have either of you tried this, No? Come and have a go it’s easy”.
They take it in turns gradually wafting the line across their bodies and extend into rudimentary flowing loops. Now to get the pause worked in.
As we are talking I notice one of them has something about him that reminds me of a certain casting champion I know.
I split my rod and show them how the tip moves during the stroke that the bend actually creates a straight line. With the top two sections, without really thinking what I am doing, I show them a narrow loop, a wide loop, and the tail demonstration comes through beautifully.
I get them on the triangle method and take them in turn through the horizontal plains to overhead. The first up there has loops, a little wide and very open at the back but it’s a cast and he’s delighted. The other; a mini me James Evans, takes over the rod and works up to overhead almost effortlessly and then slips into loops identical at each side, a few feet high, with ruler straight legs on top and bottom. And the alarm goes off.
The little Twat in just ten minutes of casting has surpassed my efforts already!
PS7
After about 10 mins I’m joined it seems by a man with a golf club and a pocket full of balls… golf balls. I see him set up behind me, lining up into the distance. Strange that in all the field he comes so close but I guess it’s safety in numbers. Fellow nut jobs gathered up, practicing their futile pastimes together.
Though he’s behind I can’t resist a sneaky look back at his set up and the start of his practice swing, it’s good. I hear the thwack and look over my other shoulder, the balls trundling into the distance, I’m sure it’s a 5 or 6 iron, that should have flown!
The next thwack I check over my shoulder and it’s trundling along again off to the right.
My internal sticky beak gets the better of me and I decide to watch the next swing. The back swing looks fine, the wrists are OK the club heads a bit advanced coming down, but then I spot the problem, I’m sure he’ll pick up on it and correct it. So I leave him in peace with his problem.
Another 5 balls go the same way and I can’t resist this anymore it’s consuming me.
“Mate, can I just offer you and observation”, I call across and immediately feel like I might be the golfing equivalent of the butt down the shirt sleeve chap. I’ve opened my gob now.
“Just as your coming down to impact your slightly lifting that left heel up”
”My coach mentioned that too.”
Somewhere in the filing cabinet of my grey stuff pops up a lesson from David Leadbetter to Nick Faldo.. What it’s doing in my head I’ve no idea. Too many bloody golfers in my family.
“Next time you come down, bring a small football or a rugby ball and when you set up squeeze it between your thighs as you practice, It will train your legs to pull in more and you’ll get more anchorage. It will feel weird on the follow through… but you’ll strike cleaner”.
I left still with my creeping tailing tendency at 40’ … but I may have cured his shanking.
PS8
After a blisteringly hot day, the world’s out enjoying a gorgeous evening and the gentle refreshing breeze. The fields a busy community tonight; families picnicking and playing; and young couples too wrapped up in each other to bother me; and dog walkers of course. Life’s sweet, and even the birds are singing more like spring than balmy late summer.
My drills seem to be going good tonight and I’m getting consistency, at last. A car drives along and the peace is shattered with a bellowed “You’ll never catch anything there” and as it drove past I could clearly hear before fading into the distance… “ You Fucking Stupid C***!”
It sounded like Derek and Clive had made a drive-by commentary on my efforts.
Silence returns, uncomfortably too silent, as all the families and lovers are staring in my direction open mouthed, like I’d invited this rude intrusion into their evening and assaulted their little children’s tender lug holes. The Dog walkers are giving conspiratorial disapproving looks.
I feel like protesting my innocence, but I also feel red in face and it’s creeping to my ears and my mouths drying up. Thankfully my alarm goes off and I hastily gather up my gear and pack for home and those warm welcoming shadows of disgrace.
PS21
After many more sessions of you won’t catch any fish there and variations on that theme, I finally have a session where no one talks to me. I’m left blissfully alone and will return home considering the results of the session and where to go next. It strangely feels a huge relief almost a triumph in itself.
After packing up the tape and paraphernalia I head to the clapper gate, two dog walkers are busy in conversation on the far side. One I recognise, he’s been friendly and in the past been genuinely interested in what I was doing and why I am doing it, I recognise his tubby little spaniel too.
The other chap is older, a jocular looking type with a big moustache and a rehearsed, friendly flash in the eye, probably a Real estate agent, traveling salesman or more likely a retired Arms dealer with a fine collection of priceless medieval weapons of torture. They let me through, I nodded at the spaniel owner then dropped my gaze and headed for the car.
“Hey!”
I turn and the Moustache has fixed a smile and his rehearsed friendly bon homme aimed directly towards me and then utters those words.
“You’ll catch more fish in the river”. And breaks into a huge laugh.
And that’s it! I’ve fucking had it!
I count out four breaths and just return a dead stare, his laughter falls flat on my lack of response, he turns to spaniel man for a support. God bless him he had dropped his gaze and wasn’t being drawn into it.
“Do you realise”, I finally say as calmly as I can. “Everytime, Every-time. I come to this field someone cracks that same Joke at me and thinks they are being incredibly original and hilarious. Do you really imagine that I've never heard that before. You have no idea how wearisome it is.”
Spaniel man tries to break the ice and asks if I am still studying for my exam and then asks how long have I got now.
“Six weeks to go” I say to him. Then turning to face the moustache while answering Spaniel man’s question.
“Six weeks, that’s 42 days of two half hour sessions per day, That’s at least 84 more times that I am going to hear that same lame quip from some ‘funny’ guy who thinks he’s fabulously original.”
The bon homme has been eclipsed with an uneasy silence and brooding atmosphere. The moustache, as their sole representative gathered, has received my accumulated collective reaction to two weeks of this shit from the various sources. Someone was going to get it, eventually.
I turn and head for the sanctuary of the car.
“Mate, Good luck with your exam”
It’s the moustache that said it. I don’t turn, just keep walking and put a thumbs up over my shoulder.
“42 day’s”, I think to myself, “42 days to train these local bastards to leave me alone.”
I can’t wait to get back to being the unclean leper doing 170’s again and failing to hit 120’.
PS 29
I’m setup and practicing my six 40’ false casts with narrow loops identical both sides, and a male comes through the gate with a dog , he says “Hi” to me and shuffles past quickly with his head down, I can’t recognise anything other than he’s a man and don’t register his face it’s a blur, and I have no idea what breed of dog it is. they are no longer individuals or breeds just blurs.
Apparently he knows me, I recognise the way “Hi” is said that I’m not a stranger to him. He could be the moustache for all I know, I don’t know if we have had friendly chats or whether he has copped my grumpy side.
I can no longer remember any of them.
Towards the end of the session a guy calls out from over the wall. “you’ll catch no fish there mate!” I just stop and give him the 1000 yard stare and leave him to make the next move.
More fool me, for a few minutes, there I actually imagined I had them all trained!
All best to all in Sexyloops land (when Paul buys his boat will it be a sexysloop?)
Chris Avery