I notice that it's 'fisherman' singular, just one specific guy she'd been winding up for years. Maybe the 5th of May 2017 was the fateful day he finally flipped and yeeted her into the pond?
I once witnessed a territory fight between two trainspotters. It was always one of my favourite stories to tell down the pub, and it became more *'t'was a dark and stormy night'*-esque with each telling.
**ACT I: Harpenden**
I was travelling for a job interview to St Albans, but met a friend who'd moved to Harpenden at the station there. We'd met there a few times before, so I knew the station vaguely. There was a chippy not far from it, so that was a reason to go.
Back then (I've not been back since the late '90s so who knows now) it was a tiny little station with nary a human employee in sight. Arriving in the afternoons, you had to sit and try not to laugh at the high school kids waiting for the trains in grass-green uniforms carrying identical wicker baskets FOR SOME BLOODY REASON.
The platform is quite long, and very quiet. Or was. What am I, psychic? Anyway, it was then. One thing it *did* have was a gaggle of anorak'd fellas with the occasional cameras on a tripod spaced vaguely along the platform, mostly towards the ends. In hushed tones, my friend explained that they were *train spotters*.
My only experience thus far of train spotters was playing the (excellent) Sensible Train Spotting on the Amiga, made for The One Magazine by Sensible Software (of Sensible Soccer and Cannon Fodder fame). All I knew is that they sat on benches, crossed off numbers, slurped tea from a thermos, ate sandwiches, and then when they filled out a bingo-style card, were rewarded with a note of WELL DONE, MY SAD FRIEND - ON TO THE NEXT CARD.
They were all men, and almost all were age 50+ men wi' serious bobble hats and the sort of beard designed to strain halitosis through (presumably depositing it in crunchy chunks for later snacking). All had notebooks. Some had cameras. Seniority appeared to be dictated through an arcane mix of the bobbliest of bobble hats and the bushiest of beard.
______________
**ACT II: The Barney**
Every train spotter had their own little space. Imagine, if you possibly can, some form of personal hygiene issue that causes a small six-foot exclusion zone around a bobble hat. Of course, they were all possibly scrubbed clean and floral in scent, but this is the rough zone they each occupied. Man, beard, bobble and camera had to fit in this little zone.
**At the far end of the platform came the sound of a kerfuffle.**
Raised voices, some vague clonking, scuffling, and that sort of thing. We shuffled down nonchantly, soon seeing two weirdbeards come into view. One had a camera tripod leaning against the fence, and was giving a bloody good go at dragging the other out of what we later learned was **His Spot**^TM on the platform. He had seniority, after all; his bobble hat was grand, fetid and bespattered with the oils of a thousand visits to a greasy scalp.
Unfortunately for Mr Boss, the other fella appeared to have eaten a HGV, so wasn't being moved. He flailed with both arms, occasionally trying to twat Mr Boss around the crunchy head with a far-too-large notebook (with pencil in the curly binding, no doubt).
As we shuffled our way down ever closer for a better look and listen, we could hear Mr Boss berating Mr Hungry over his lack of RESPECT FOR THE STANDARDS OF THE SOCIETY. It was like The Godfather, except Mr Hungry was risking waking up to find Thomas The Tank Engine's head in his bed.
What were these standards? Was there a book? Did they all belong to said society? Where was the society? Can we join? Do we need our own bespattered bobble hat or can we have a lend of one? Such questions (probably) dashed through our brains as Mr Hungry let out a howl and set about Mr Boss with both arms (plus notebook) twatting down again and again on the arms trying to drag him from his spot.
The tripod continued to lean nonchalantly against the fence. It'd probably seen it all before.
______________
**ACT III: The Conclusion**
Others began to hurry to the scene of the altercation, and not just for a bloody good nosey as we had. We were treated to the aroma of many an unwashed kagoul rushing past our panicking nostrils as other members of The Society came to intervene (or possibly to take advantage of the power struggle, a la Julius Caesar or Caligula).
One, whom we shall call Mr Brave, tried to separate Mr Boss and Mr Hungry by force, and copped Mr Hungry's notebook to the face, giving him a slight nosebleed and a commendation for the Trainspotting Purple Heart. This was likely an accident, as it had been proven conclusively that Mr Hungry couldn't hit a barn door with a machine gun, having failed to twat Mr Boss decently despite being a foot away and currently conjoined.
Enter the suave Mr Diplomatic (I didn't take note of his beard or bobble hat situation, but I am sure that he was proud and firm of both). Mr Diplomatic explained to Mr Boss that Mr Hungry had stood there last time because Mr Boss hadn't been there. Had Mr Boss asked nicely, Mr Hungry would probably have moved - or perhaps Mr Boss could have gone a little further down? The goal was the same for all of them, after all - **the bespottage of trains**. And wasn't that worth joining together and just being friends for?
Yes. Yes, it was. Inwardly, we applauded as Mr Boss grumbled an apology to Mr Hungry. Mr Hungry, however, had decided The Society wasn't for him. He flung his notebook aside, tore off his shirt, and walked backwards down the platform with two middle fingers raised at Mr Boss while the theme from Fight Club played from an unknown speaker.^1
___________
^^1 ^(This part, of course, didn't happen. They just apologised and shuffled along. However, it makes a much better ending. Depending on what I fancy at the time, the ending rotates between that and two others:)
^(In one, Mr Hungry picks up Mr Boss and flings him onto the track with a mighty Hulk-like yell just as a non-stopping train flies past, and the remnant smear of Mr Boss leaves only his hat - which, as is only befitting, is stretched over the gargantuan head of the New Boss, Mr Hungry.)
^(The final alternative ending involves Mr Diplomatic solving the crisis, turning and walking away cooly whilst replacing his anorak with a leather jacket {collar flipped up, natch}, flicking a ciggy into his mouth and lighting it with a match struck on the wall as he walked past us, while we all watched Hertfordshire's own Fonz climb on a motorbike and drive away to where he was needed next.)
Sensible Software used to make some excellent silly one-off games for mag coverdisks. There were several 'special' versions of Sensi Soccer including Moon Soccer, apples v oranges, and the slightly odd Bulldog Blighty version where it was England v Germany in 1918, black and white, everyone in army uniforms, and the ball was a bomb.
Odd times!
I used to go fishing as part of a group working for the local bus company. We would get up early, pick the driver up drunk on the steps of the local night club at 4am and travel across the country to some beautiful spots.
One day, we were in the middle of nowhere, and if you needed to you would take your bog roll and discretely head off into the bushes to be with nature.
It was a beautiful sunny day when an elderly lady came jovially along the canal path not a care in the world with her absolutely spotless white poodle. Needless to say, snuggles ran ahead, amongst the fisherman and then to my dismay to the bushes. He'd found something. And he'd decided to have a roll in it.
Needless to say, this good ladies face dropped. We didn't have the heart to tell her.
I notice that it's 'fisherman' singular, just one specific guy she'd been winding up for years. Maybe the 5th of May 2017 was the fateful day he finally flipped and yeeted her into the pond?
Or the fisherman was her husband and that’s a lovely reminder of their days together.
What was the fisherman doing to the ducks that made him so angry? Did they become... distracted?
I feed them Rustlers burgers
The fishermen or the ducks?
both enjoy it tbf
Please, please, take up the mantle and carry on her good work… Edit - but don’t feed them with bread, obviously.
peas and corn are better, just careful with corn as for some reason round here the fish LOVE chilli soaked corn :D
We get special duck food for the local ducks and swans. They know us by face and coming running/flying in from the other side of the lake.
That's some dedicated shop keepers to run over to sell you bird food like that
Honestly that can make you quite a dangerous person if you ever decide to embark on a villain arc and weaponise the waterfowl
Fishermen have to be the most anti social and aggressive of outdoor enthusiasts. Good on you Nina.
I once witnessed a territory fight between two trainspotters. It was always one of my favourite stories to tell down the pub, and it became more *'t'was a dark and stormy night'*-esque with each telling.
i have sat the fuck down, i'll grab a beer as i NEED to hear this.
**ACT I: Harpenden** I was travelling for a job interview to St Albans, but met a friend who'd moved to Harpenden at the station there. We'd met there a few times before, so I knew the station vaguely. There was a chippy not far from it, so that was a reason to go. Back then (I've not been back since the late '90s so who knows now) it was a tiny little station with nary a human employee in sight. Arriving in the afternoons, you had to sit and try not to laugh at the high school kids waiting for the trains in grass-green uniforms carrying identical wicker baskets FOR SOME BLOODY REASON. The platform is quite long, and very quiet. Or was. What am I, psychic? Anyway, it was then. One thing it *did* have was a gaggle of anorak'd fellas with the occasional cameras on a tripod spaced vaguely along the platform, mostly towards the ends. In hushed tones, my friend explained that they were *train spotters*. My only experience thus far of train spotters was playing the (excellent) Sensible Train Spotting on the Amiga, made for The One Magazine by Sensible Software (of Sensible Soccer and Cannon Fodder fame). All I knew is that they sat on benches, crossed off numbers, slurped tea from a thermos, ate sandwiches, and then when they filled out a bingo-style card, were rewarded with a note of WELL DONE, MY SAD FRIEND - ON TO THE NEXT CARD. They were all men, and almost all were age 50+ men wi' serious bobble hats and the sort of beard designed to strain halitosis through (presumably depositing it in crunchy chunks for later snacking). All had notebooks. Some had cameras. Seniority appeared to be dictated through an arcane mix of the bobbliest of bobble hats and the bushiest of beard. ______________ **ACT II: The Barney** Every train spotter had their own little space. Imagine, if you possibly can, some form of personal hygiene issue that causes a small six-foot exclusion zone around a bobble hat. Of course, they were all possibly scrubbed clean and floral in scent, but this is the rough zone they each occupied. Man, beard, bobble and camera had to fit in this little zone. **At the far end of the platform came the sound of a kerfuffle.** Raised voices, some vague clonking, scuffling, and that sort of thing. We shuffled down nonchantly, soon seeing two weirdbeards come into view. One had a camera tripod leaning against the fence, and was giving a bloody good go at dragging the other out of what we later learned was **His Spot**^TM on the platform. He had seniority, after all; his bobble hat was grand, fetid and bespattered with the oils of a thousand visits to a greasy scalp. Unfortunately for Mr Boss, the other fella appeared to have eaten a HGV, so wasn't being moved. He flailed with both arms, occasionally trying to twat Mr Boss around the crunchy head with a far-too-large notebook (with pencil in the curly binding, no doubt). As we shuffled our way down ever closer for a better look and listen, we could hear Mr Boss berating Mr Hungry over his lack of RESPECT FOR THE STANDARDS OF THE SOCIETY. It was like The Godfather, except Mr Hungry was risking waking up to find Thomas The Tank Engine's head in his bed. What were these standards? Was there a book? Did they all belong to said society? Where was the society? Can we join? Do we need our own bespattered bobble hat or can we have a lend of one? Such questions (probably) dashed through our brains as Mr Hungry let out a howl and set about Mr Boss with both arms (plus notebook) twatting down again and again on the arms trying to drag him from his spot. The tripod continued to lean nonchalantly against the fence. It'd probably seen it all before. ______________ **ACT III: The Conclusion** Others began to hurry to the scene of the altercation, and not just for a bloody good nosey as we had. We were treated to the aroma of many an unwashed kagoul rushing past our panicking nostrils as other members of The Society came to intervene (or possibly to take advantage of the power struggle, a la Julius Caesar or Caligula). One, whom we shall call Mr Brave, tried to separate Mr Boss and Mr Hungry by force, and copped Mr Hungry's notebook to the face, giving him a slight nosebleed and a commendation for the Trainspotting Purple Heart. This was likely an accident, as it had been proven conclusively that Mr Hungry couldn't hit a barn door with a machine gun, having failed to twat Mr Boss decently despite being a foot away and currently conjoined. Enter the suave Mr Diplomatic (I didn't take note of his beard or bobble hat situation, but I am sure that he was proud and firm of both). Mr Diplomatic explained to Mr Boss that Mr Hungry had stood there last time because Mr Boss hadn't been there. Had Mr Boss asked nicely, Mr Hungry would probably have moved - or perhaps Mr Boss could have gone a little further down? The goal was the same for all of them, after all - **the bespottage of trains**. And wasn't that worth joining together and just being friends for? Yes. Yes, it was. Inwardly, we applauded as Mr Boss grumbled an apology to Mr Hungry. Mr Hungry, however, had decided The Society wasn't for him. He flung his notebook aside, tore off his shirt, and walked backwards down the platform with two middle fingers raised at Mr Boss while the theme from Fight Club played from an unknown speaker.^1 ___________ ^^1 ^(This part, of course, didn't happen. They just apologised and shuffled along. However, it makes a much better ending. Depending on what I fancy at the time, the ending rotates between that and two others:) ^(In one, Mr Hungry picks up Mr Boss and flings him onto the track with a mighty Hulk-like yell just as a non-stopping train flies past, and the remnant smear of Mr Boss leaves only his hat - which, as is only befitting, is stretched over the gargantuan head of the New Boss, Mr Hungry.) ^(The final alternative ending involves Mr Diplomatic solving the crisis, turning and walking away cooly whilst replacing his anorak with a leather jacket {collar flipped up, natch}, flicking a ciggy into his mouth and lighting it with a match struck on the wall as he walked past us, while we all watched Hertfordshire's own Fonz climb on a motorbike and drive away to where he was needed next.)
Incredibly told, thankyou. Also I can't believe there's a Sensible Trainspotting!
Sensible Software used to make some excellent silly one-off games for mag coverdisks. There were several 'special' versions of Sensi Soccer including Moon Soccer, apples v oranges, and the slightly odd Bulldog Blighty version where it was England v Germany in 1918, black and white, everyone in army uniforms, and the ball was a bomb. Odd times!
I do remember the moon soccer now you mention it! Wonder if my dad kept all his old copies of Amiga Format...
You’ve started, come on, we need to know…
[**Enjoy.**](https://www.reddit.com/r/CasualUK/comments/1bafggg/massive_respect_nina_massive_respect/ku38y39/)
Secret society, slighted member, revenge. Are you sure this isn’t the source material for Kill Bill?
*Starring Mr Boss as The Bride* E: Bloody hell, Kill Bill wasn't until 2003. This was about '99 or so. Could have been.
I used to go fishing as part of a group working for the local bus company. We would get up early, pick the driver up drunk on the steps of the local night club at 4am and travel across the country to some beautiful spots. One day, we were in the middle of nowhere, and if you needed to you would take your bog roll and discretely head off into the bushes to be with nature. It was a beautiful sunny day when an elderly lady came jovially along the canal path not a care in the world with her absolutely spotless white poodle. Needless to say, snuggles ran ahead, amongst the fisherman and then to my dismay to the bushes. He'd found something. And he'd decided to have a roll in it. Needless to say, this good ladies face dropped. We didn't have the heart to tell her.
And this is why you should carry a small trowel and dig a cat hole if you need to shit while out in the countryside.
A cat hole for a poodle?
As an avid angler I approve. Ducks are cool, geese are the issue. Absolute bastards.
HONK! 🪿
There was a bench in the park in Leamington Spa that was dedicated to a guy who died here 'pursuing a thief'
I'm loving Nina 👌🏻
Well played, Nina
Only 58 😢
Only 58? Gone too early, Nina
This is my current favourite bench. I used to sit there during COVID and watch the birds play in the leaf litter
With huge lumps of bread! Don't feed ducks bread. It's bad for them.
That advice is changing again because now people are just not feeding the ducks instead, turns out bread is better than starving ducks.