100 YEARS OLD AND STILL WORRIED ABOUT A FISH...

TWO weeks ago there was a report on the evening news about an angler in Bournemouth who nearly died after kissing a Dover sole. Apparently he had caught the fish and intended to kiss it before throwing it back in the sea but the fish slithered out of his grasp and stuck in his throat, stopping him breathing and causing cardiac arrest. Fellow anglers performed CPR on him until a paramedic arrived and extracted the fish with a pair of narrow forceps.

What I have been waiting for, however, is a report of what happened to the fish. The paramedic reported that he was able to extract it in one piece, so I have been wondering whether they then cooked it and ate it, threw it back in, or sent it to a taxidermist for stuffing as a souvenir of the event.

After a fortnight, however, I have seen no further details of the incident. I am therefore reduced to speculating about what happened. Here is the scenario I consider most likely:

There once was an angler who swallowed a fish, Who’d ever wish to swallow a fish? That’s outlandish!

There once was an angler who swallowed a chip, After giving a fish a kiss on the lip, But the fish had given the angler the slip,

As soon as the fellow had lost his grip.

It dived down his throat and he swallowed the chip,

And he almost bade the world toodle-pip.

He swallowed the chip to go with the fish,

Which jumped down his throat with a slither and squish,

Which never had been the angler’s wish. It’s childish to kiss a fish, And really rather dangerous-ish. Oh dear, he’s going yellow-ish.

There once was an angler who swallowed some sauce,

To flavour the chip he’d swallowed, of course, And maybe also the Dover sole, Which once was part of a massive shoal, Before it saw an open goal, And got completely out of control, And down his throat it took a stroll, And the fisherman’s life it almost stole, How lucky the paramedic’s patrol, Arrived in time to save his soul, Not to mention the impudent sole, Which he then pulled out of its cubby hole, And placed with onions in a bowl, With carrots and some sliced girolle.

And that’s how they cooked the Dover sole, Over a fire, heated by coal, Near Bournemouth pier on a comfy knoll, They ate by the light of a girandolle, And the fisherman signed a binding scroll,

To say that he’d never again kiss a sole, Of if he did, not swallow it whole, Instead he’d stick to toad in the hole.