One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important.

Rowing on the Derwent on a cold Winter's morn. Derwent River (with Bellerive in the background). June, 2010.

Theme Thursday and it appears that everybody has GONE FISHING.

“GONE FISHING?”, you say.

GONE FISHING.

I myself have rarely GONE FISHING. I’ve gone snorkelling; gone kayaking; gone running; gone swimming; gone off; gone on; and gone apeshit, but I believe that I have GONE FISHING two, perhaps three, times in my life.

It’s the guts I don’t like. I can handle the killing no problem, but the ritual disembowelment in such exhibitionist fashion seems to me profoundly disrespectful for the dear fish’s family and friends. Give the poor creature some dignity!

I’ve long queried the extended airtime given to the multitude of television programs dedicated to the men who have GONE FISHING. While I have no ideological, intellectual, ethical or indeed stylistic opposition to such programs, I wonder why it is seemingly okay to broadcast reel after reel of some pitiable pilchard in its death throes – blood streaming from the gash in its face as a giant metal hook has pierced its face – as two blokes ramble on about the weather.

Indeed, I eagerly anticipate the day where we will be able to see similar programs featuring the strangling of lambs. Or piglets. Even better, there is money to be made with humble Japanese fisherman scientists hauling in minke after minke.

Book it!