Anglers' Net - The UK Online Fishing Magazine: Enemy Agent

Enemy Agent
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Terry-Doe on 21 February, 2002 04:00:00
 
Ive      just returned from a pleasant week-ends bivvy-up and, during the long
hours      between sleeping and eating, I handled some pop-ups that had been
soaking in      Hutchys Secret Agent carp attractor. This act has left my life
is in      turmoil. Or turmeric, or whatever it is that Secret bloody Agent
reeks of.      That innocent dabble in my mates hookbait tub has left me
cursed. I am      infected, infused and infested with Secret Agent and nothing
I do will shake      it.
As I say, the week-end was perfectly enjoyable but even      before Id
finished unloading the car, Herself began to interrogate me.      Between fits
of hawking, retching and theatrical nose-clamping, she      expounded the theme
of For God-Almightys sake, man, whats that rotten      curry smell? This was
followed by the pointing of a loaded finger at my      designer carpwear and the
order, Right, you can get that lot off straight      away! Obviously, I tried
to de-fuse the moment by adopting my most alluring      expression, twiddling
my imaginary waxed moustache and saying Steady-ON old      girl and
ding-DONG! in my splendid rendition of the great Leslie      Phillips. Sadly,
even this failed to divert her. All I got was a You      absolutely bloody
reek! for my trouble and I was bundled toward the bath.
Half an hour of steeping in pretty much every      dissolvable aroma left over
from the usual deluge of uninspired Christmas      presents, had me radiating
essence-of-everything, after which I collapsed on      the sofa to watch a
promising selection of FA Cup football. Ten minutes      after Id found the
right channel, in comes Herself and barks You STILL      stink of that stuff!
Go and have another bath and dont get out until its      gone. Youve made
the whole house smell, you have! Great.
Well, its too late to cut a long story short, but I      re-bathed, then I
soaked my fingers in bleach, then I took a pan scourer to      them, and, as a
last resort, I spent two hours grinding away my fingerprints      via extreme
force and the application of Doctor Nazis Facial Scrub which      had bits of
abrasive muck mixed into it that appeared to be re-cycled      razorblades. By
the time Id finished my purging regime, only an industrial      grinder could
have wreaked more havoc on my hands. There was so little flesh      left, that,
if I held them up to the light it was like looking at an x-ray -      only pink.
I thought Id executed the Agent and then some, but      the first visitor
that crossed our threshold that evening said, Bleednell!      You bin eatin
curry or wot? Such cultured friends we have. Next day at      work, some three
baths hence, I was greeted with more of the same, plus a      sprinkling of
Whats that smell? and disgusted grimacing. Until now, three      days after
leaving the lake and the scene of Hutchys chemical crime, I      still exude
the least attractive human attractant known to man.
I must resign myself to the fact that Secret Agent is      now part of me and I
am merely a vessel for its distribution. No-one more      than I, respects the
life and works of Mr. Rod Hutchinson, innovator,      thinker, communicator and
purveyor of quality fishing goods, and one time      carping chum of the living
deity that is Lord Yatesy of Redmire. Yet, if I      am honest, I am struggling
to forgive the great man for turning me into an      Airwick Solid.
Sadly, my state took an even sharper turn for the      absolute worst, when I
delved into the raw mechanics of the Secret Agent      deal. Prepare your
sympathy organs for overload, folks.
You see, the root (keep that word to the forefront of      your mind, please)
of the problem is that everything touched by the hands      that touched the
Secret Agent, becomes a silo of chemical warfare. The main      stench
repositories, my fingers, have been nuked by bleach and facial      grinding
paste, but theres a secondary storage unit that has, so far,      received
only a cursory cleansing. Think about it. What does one handle on a      fairly
regular basis during those long winter sessions of continual      tea-drinking
with lager chasers? What is it that requires a fair old bit of      that
handling to coax it into its primary function, when it would much      rather
stay cosy, snug and comically concertinad within the manifold warmth      of
ones thermal wear? Oh yes, THAT.
Please look back upon what was required to expunge my      hands of Secret
Agent. How many of you would fancy exposing any other part      of your anatomy
to such abuse, let alone THAT part? While Im willing to      anoint, daub and
even scrub it to some extent, theres no way on this earth      that Doctor
Nazi is ever going to get his abrasive little hands on THAT.
Thus, I am      sentenced to life as a room de-freshener and general human
odouriser,      condemned to walk this earth smelling like Dodgy Patels
outside lavvy. Im      tempted to reflect that the curse of the super-curry
would be easier to bear      if Id used it on my baits and caught a whacker or
two with it. As it turned      out, I blanked, but the fact is I could have
hauled a plethora of Heathers,      a trio of Two-Tones and the blessed
reincarnation of Mary himself, and Id      still rue the day I unscrewed the
lid from that poisoned chalice. I fear,      too late for me, that this is one
Secret that the noble Mr. Hutchinson      should have kept to himself.
Terry Doe