The following piece is extracted from Extreme Fishing Monthly published by The Erotic Hobbies Group.

Bobby Giraffe will be back next week, when he can be bothered or if someone makes his bail. Whichever is sooner.

The excitement normally starts the evening before the trip, so much so that I generally need to pop down a couple of sleeping pills to get me off for the night. Even then I wake up way before the alarm goes off at 3.30am. Normally I am terrible in the morning, rolling over and over promising myself 10 more minutes, playing stick, that sort of thing. Today though I am up in a flash ignoring my morning glory and getting straight into the shower. I nearly retch as I brush my teeth; it’s always like this, the mixture of nerves, tension and excitement leave my system in a horribly nauseous state. I skip breakfast. On the drive down to the lake my anticipation heightens to what can only be describe as fever pitch. All the gear is packed and there is barely 22 miles or 50 minutes between me and Long Lake. My foot gently caresses the accelerator as I drive as quickly as I consider safe. I don’t want to expire before I arrive, that would be a disaster.

It’s just after 4.30 as I reach the secluded little spot which I favour at this time of year. After a brief prowl around, to ensure that I am alone in my lakeside idyll, I begin unloading my gear. Fishing rods, tackle box and of course the little tent which I erect to keep my activities secret from anyone approaching from the rear. Dawn is just breaking and I am already feeling the tingle down my back that this special place always gives me. I sit down to begin, sometimes I smile to myself like a kid on Christmas morning but sometimes my face must be a picture of concentration as I assemble my gear. As I mount the reel at the base of my spincast rod my mind wanders to previous trips and my pulse and breathing quickens. The 9 pound Little Tupper brook trout last July 4^th, the three beautiful smallmouth bass that made November 06 my best ever fishing trip or the dirty little pike that stole my heart on my first visit here 7 years ago. Now with everything nearly in place I choose my hook. Just holding that tiny piece of moulded steel gives me a gentle stirring in my loins. My balls are beginning to tingle and my hands shake as I tie a Hook Snell and finally I am ready. Reaching into the bait box I extract a nice juicy tender little worm and hold it up before my face, my other hand is heading for my groin but I manage to stop myself in the nick of time. With one hand holding the worm I gently manoeuvre the hook into place with the other, getting the right spot is especially important to me. The side of the worm bulges briefly as I push the hook in and the tension is released with a little gush of fluid as the shiny metal penetrates the soft flesh of the bait. Ready at last I stand up to cast in. I never wear underwear fishing; something about the hard, industrial seams of the denim on my genitals increases the anticipation and makes every move send shivers up my spine.

Finally nearly 2 hours after waking I cast off, my float settling on the calm black water of the lake. I reel in the slack so that line is taught and ready for snagging. I settle back down into my seat, place my rod into its stand and slowly move my hand between my legs. I just know its going to be a lovely morning…

The Flood

Practically all the events described below are almost completely accurate in nearly every detail. Only some of the names have been changed to protect the innocuous.

The Flood

Well, what a week it has certainly been in the life of good old Bobby Giraffe. Really America is proving to be quite an eventful and dare I say expensive old place. Spending and drunken guilt have gone through the roof whilst sleep, tea drinking and ceilings have fallen through the bloody floor.

The most noteworthy event of the week took place last Wednesday in what some people are now describing as the Great Flood of Brooklyn. In an effort to make friends, and dare I say influence people, I invited a couple of American chaps along with me to watch the Champions League final between Chelsea and Manchester United. Obviously, as everybody knows, you can’t (and probably shouldn’t) watch football, or soccer as these buggers call it, without drinking vast quantities of beer. Unfortunately due to the rather inconvenient time difference between here and blightly this meant the game kicked off at 2.45 in the afternoon. Subsequently the booze started flowing not long after 1pm. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Well anyone who knows old Bobby Giraffe (AA member since 2001) knows he can hold his own in a drinking pit for as long as the next man. Sadly this was a seething pit of swarthy looking British ex-pats, so the competition was, pretty bleeding stiff. So it was as the afternoon turned hazily to evening, with the red hordes celebrating their second rather fortunate Euro Cup win in living memory, that I found myself softly swaying on my stool. Well to cut a long story short, following a minor ‘sweeping’ from an old Irish Gent, we found our way via various bars to the early hours of the morning.

I would love to be able to say that I remembered the taxi journey back to Brookie, but that would be a, pointless, cowardly and outrageous lie. In fact the next thing I can remember is room-mate number two rushing past my sleeping carcass shouting there’s a flood downstairs, a fucking flood. Quick as bloody whippet I was out of bed and pulling on the first pair of crackers I could find and stumbling through the hall to the bathroom where I found myself paddling in about 4 inches of finest New York bog water. Aghast I began feebly mopping away, a process involving me sloshing the water about from one side of the closet to the other, while the big angry downstairs neighbor stood fiercely watching and enquiring into the status of my tenancy agreement.

Who are you? (with more than a touch of menace)

A friend of Brian’s (drunkenly)

Are you fucking subletting? (menace levels rising)

No, I am just staying for a bit… (slurred)

Well what a sight I must have been, drunk as a skunk, dressed only in yesterdays undies, mop in hand and muttering that I was just staying for a week or so and DEFINITELY NOT sub-letting. Staggering back to bed a few minutes later I put the whole sorry episode behind me and dropped straight back into a blissful sleep. There I stayed until three hours later I was awoken by the lady on the ground floor complaining that her ceiling had also fallen in. Oh my life.

Happily the flood wasn’t my fault after all, merely an example of dodgy New York property and plumbing. So in the end no real harm was done, although that didn’t stop my Thursday being eaten away by guilt, more drink and plenty of what might have beens.

The Arrival

Practically all the events described below are almost completely accurate in nearly every detail. Only some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Arrival

Well I finally made it back out to the good old U S of A and quite an eventful journey it turned out to be. First I was stricken with nerves at Uncle Richie’s house, my previous blasé attitude being replaced with a gut churning sense that I was heading off into the [relative] unknown with very little actual money. I was in turn interrogated and complimented by various members of the airport authorities on both sides of the Atlantic. And then finally my cab journey from JFK to Brooklyn felt like a scene from the sadly never released Speed 3. You know, the one in which Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock get taken on a terror ride in the back of a yellow taxi while their agents chase them trying to apologise for sending them the scripts.

The main cause of the aforementioned nerves was the nagging suspicion that, despite all the information to the contrary, they may not actually allow a near penniless ‘Brit’ into country for three months. This fear was swiftly reinforced by the uncomfortable interrogation I received from the quite lovely Delta Airlines rep at London’s fashionable Heathrow Airport. Who had packed my bags? Where had they been kept? Had anyone else had access to them? Well, I’ve known Rich for over 15 years but I still wouldn’t have put it past the bugger to stitch me up, for a ‘laugh’ like. However, the main focus for their nosy questions was the length of my stay. Three months? What about money? What about a job? I made some noises about credit cards and money owed and thankfully was on my way. At this point the young ladies tone changed somewhat and she sent me on my way remarking that I had “a very nice height”. ?.

There were, however, no such compliments regarding my physical stature from the shaven headed oik at U.S Border Control eight hours and 14 double gin and tonics later. Traditionally getting into the U.S. has never been the proverbial ‘barrel of laughs’ but this guy must have got out the wrong side of the bed, lost a pound and found a penny and then shat himself on the way to work because he was Moody (with a capital M).

How long are staying?

Just under three months.

Three months? (incredulous).

Yes about 85 days.

There then followed a long conversation where I was forced to explain the tricky concepts of ‘staying with friends’, wages that were, quite astonishingly, paid in lieu and finally credit cards. This entire conversation was conducted with my shakes ever worsening and my tongue becoming fatter and harder to control. Finally with my whole being in absolute tatters I was allowed into the fabulous city of New York.

Apparently this place never sleeps; well I can’t wait to see the bags under its eyes!