How Eric Clapton saved my mate Phil’s fishing tackle
I ONCE got invited to a big charity celebrity trout-fishing match in Surrey. Lots of famous faces were promised to be there, and I could take a guest.
So I brought Fat Phil, my local tackle dealer, so called because his name’s Philip and he lives in the pie shop next door.
We had the draw and Phil unfortunately got a bad spot right down the end of the lake in amongst lots of trees.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘We all change round at lunchtime.’ So off he trudged. He’s not the best of casters and every time I looked up he seemed to be apologising to the poor guy next to him who seemed to spend his whole morning getting Phil’s flies out of the trees all around him.
I caught two or three trout in the morning, but when Phil came in at lunchtime, he’d caught nothing.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I kept getting caught up in the trees, but there was a smashing bloke next to me, really kind and patient. He spent most of the morning getting my tackle out of that big oak tree.’
‘What a nice bloke,’ I said. ‘Which one is he?’
‘That one over there eating a sandwich. A diamond geezer. I know his face. I think he comes into my shop to buy maggots.’
‘Yes, Phil,’ I said. ‘He is a diamond geezer, and you do know his face, but not because he comes into your shop to buy maggots. You know his face cos he’s called Eric Clapton.’