There's nothing more comforting than the sorrowful mysteries of carp or chub

Fisherman's Blues on TalkSport: Keeping it reel.

Fisherman’s Blues
“It’s hot. It’s humid,” says Keith Arthur on Fisherman’s Blues (Saturdays and Sundays, 6am). “I’m thinking about the creatures being sacrificed on the altar of insanity that is global warming. Text me. Here’s Alan in Luton.” There’s nothing more comforting at 6am on a Sunday than Arthur recalling the sorrowful mysteries of carp or chub, taking phone calls and letting other voices interweave in a lilting and nicely depressing hum. 
Alan in Luton is worried about the lack of available flies made from peacock feathers. “I’ve been struggling for years now,” he says. “My tackle’s inadequate for what I’m doing.” As usual, Arthur is not just sympathetic about inadequate tackle but actively helpful, making suggestions for alternatives (“How about a pheasant’s tail?”). But he knows his callers don’t really want solutions. They just want to say, “I’ve been trying to google it,” and know someone is nodding kindly on the other end of the line, aware that soon this conversation will be over and so will the show and everything will drop back into its usual order. 
Then Richard calls. He is panting slightly, possibly a little delirious, burned by our apocalyptic July. “I’m just back from the Crane,” he says, “and it’s alive with fry!” It is important to communicate the extent to which this message has the quality of a broadcast being made from the top floor of a high-rise ten days after the zombie hoards have seized control. “I want the people of Twickenham to know it’s back. It’s alive!” Arthur sits forward, casting off 20 years of melancholy. “The Crane?” It’s a river that was ruined two years ago when Thames Water diverted raw sewage into it to prevent a back-up at Heathrow, killing 10,000 fish. So ruined was it that only in March an environmental charity noticed a “green tinge” in the water and made the sign of the cross.
“Take your kids down to the Crane!” yells Rich. “Break a branch off a tree and stick a maggot on a small hook and you will catch fish. Hundreds and thousands of fry! Perch! Barbel! Not pike, because I’ve never actually seen a baby pike, but anyway everything else is everywhere!” Then Richard utters a sentence never before spoken on Fisherman’s Blues – a sentence so romantic it seemed to contain the full scale of adult life, a sentence so inspirational it was the aural equivalent of silvery Perseus swooping down to the aid of all humankind: “Don’t bother with tackle!” 
Don't bother with the tackle. Photograph: Getty Images.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 29 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood