This link takes you to all the episodes of our Hooked on Hope pod
https://rss.com/podcasts/hooked-on-hope-re-cast/
Here are just a few choice cuts from my four books. Dig in, take a look and walk around.
Here Is half of the bonus chapter from the new 3rd edition of Terminal Chancer.
Read the Signs
Like an arthritic leatherback turtle, I crawled out of the deep water and slowly climbed the steep, tangled, overgrown bankside; thistles, vindictive mobs of stinging nettles and giant hogweed making themselves all too familiar. On all fours, grasping desperately to get any kind of purchase, I slowly lumbered up the fifteen metres to the top of the bank, and then, once at the peak, I looked back at the cobalt, glassy run I had just fished through. Most of the fifty-metre wade was waist-deep; the last two steps had been a big, wet mistake: I had stepped into a void once occupied by a tree root and almost gone over the top of my waders.
Bedraggled and firmly crestfallen, I cursed my ineptitude.
Regaining my composure, I peered down the beat and began wondering where to fish next when, turning the corner of the bend to enter my direct line of sight, another angler appeared. He was approximately four-hundred metres away and closing in (slowly), the woods behind him providing a dramatic backdrop with their assorted canopy spraying seasonal graffiti of autumnal tones; the exploding firework of colour a reminder to all that winter was the next stop on the line.
Normally, this time of year would highlight the downtrodden and the broken; anglers tyrannised by the river, frayed. That’s how I like my comrades. This guy, though — yes, this guy — instantly gave me a very different vibe. The first thing I noticed was his walk; he was sauntering, legs out first and torso slightly leaning back.
Sauntering needs banning, I thought. How dare he!
Not only was he languidly sauntering, he was also carrying his rod jauntily by holding the butt of it lightly cradled in his right hand in front of his chest, resting it on his right shoulder. To his saunter, he then added a wistful, blissed-out, wandering expression as he casually meandered while occasionally pausing to peruse the scenery. Due to the length of the grass, I could not see his feet to confirm if they were on the ground, but he could very well have been floating.
Bubble? Miaow-Miaow? Red Seal? Jellies? I couldn’t get a read.
Was this guy having his own private temaze party? The last time I’d seen a soft-focus face like this was on a bank holiday weekend in the nineties: Lamont (on 40mg eggs) versus a mountain bike. Like animated spaghetti, he rode around the circumference of the beer garden, threatening to do a wheelie; face contorted with happiness, he thought he was travelling at the speed of sound. Fortunately, half the pub was on eggs too, thanks to the local egg man liberating them from a pharmacy. In our minds, the pub had transformed into a beautiful, euphoric soft play area, with Lamont travelling at the speed of treacle and no work until Tuesday.
Or was there some other explanation?
As I reflected on all the possibilities, I took a step onto the thin footpath, catching his attention. Instantly, the sight of me had him looking even happier. Do I know him? I wondered, as he continued on towards me, radiating glee, lit up by it, positively illuminated by the stuff. Satellites could have easily seen this guy from space; it was like he had a 600W bulb in his head.
For fifteen years, it had been my job to communicate with the deaf or hearing impaired using British Sign Language. Non-verbal communication was my thing; getting a read on people by understanding their body language and facial expressions was my everyday in the cracker factory. He was still a good three-hundred-and-twenty metres away, covering the ground slower than hair growth, when it hit me. There was only one thing that could cause this kind of a reaction in a human being: the dude had just caught an Atlantic salmon, and now this dopamine-soaked living illumination couldn’t wait to tell someone.
To read more pls buy 3rd edition of Terminal Chancer – Available from Feb 2026
Shortbread and Shortcomings – From Anarchy Pie
Comfortably numb or pretty vacant, take your pick. My home river, the Ribble, has kicked our teeth in yet again. While I sit in a semi-catatonic state – like Robert De Niro’s character in the film Awakenings, slowly swaying on a wooden bench in a surprisingly well-manicured riverside angling club car park – Lamont is electrically charged and highly animated, pacing and preaching his pugilistic linguistics like a twisted, strung-out TV Evangelist, his lithe frame angular and tense (think balletic human praying mantis), his slim face belligerent, caustically sneering and contorted. Our set up, lifeless rods are stood to attention, leaning hopefully against the gate, as Lamont goes on eulogising about our forthcoming April trip to the mighty River Spey.
‘Once we get up there,’ he decrees, pointing a long finger at me, ‘this place will just be a horrible, distant, tit hole, fucked up memory. I may never come back here now. This bastard river is killing us. We need a splash of colour, a dash of hot sauce – a flaming adventure and an urgent intracardiac injection, directly into the heart.’ He makes a dramatic, violent stabbing action towards his chest. ‘Look at you, for God’s sake. Pa-a-athetic! Have you looked in a mirror recently? You look like a doughball shaped into a monument to worry. The light in your eyes is fading, your spark has disappeared. Where even are you? Everybody can see the cracks. This trip may just save our lives, do you understand? Nod your head if you understand.’
As he finishes off his firing squad monologue, he shines his phone torch at close range across my eyes, checking for signs of life.
He’s right, we need a tiny rebellion. There has to be a silver lining; running on empty has a limited shelf-life. The River Spey in April would be a pulse-raising break in the clouds.
After kissing my family goodbye, I skip into Lamont’s Northern Soul ambulance to the tune of Sam Dees singing Lonely for You, Baby. If the passenger window was open, I would have torpedoed into the moving vehicle headfirst, a sentiment echoed by Lamont driving out of Clitheroe like a wanted man. He only calms down once we’re safely doing ninety miles per hour in the third lane of the M6, on a six-hour drive north that’s powered by nothing but pure optimism.
The conversation starts with the potential whereabouts of our dead friend’s sacred notebook (Ahab’s Book of Lies), which lists every spot where he had ever caught a salmon on the Ribble over a fifty-year period. We’ve recently been sent a cryptic map and letter from the grave, delivered by Ahab’s brother, the secretive and elusive Quint. Ahab had apparently buried his journal, but he left Lamont and I a series of vague clues as to its location somewhere along the banks of the Ribble. This inspires roughly one hundred miles of speculation that eventually gives way to a teeth-grinding River Spey stat bomb powerful enough to leave a path of information overload in its wake: optimum water temperature, height, wind direction and air pressure, plus detailed performance reviews of the all the middle river beats. Apparently, our beat has been punching above its weight this season, having already recorded thirty-three fish.
If only all our fishing was done virtually on the internet, we could swap our waders for white lab coats. Science says it will be easy; over five thousand salmon and grilse caught on the River Spey in 2020. Science says that’s four thousand five hundred and fifty more than our home river.
Cheers for reading – All four books are available
Be a Man, Fish the Fly – From book 2 Hooked on Hope
Much of my fishing these days consists of a fair amount of stolen time and mooching about for an hour or two here and there; ‘splash and dash’ would be a good way to describe it. Thankfully, I have a few spots that are always worth a visit if I’m commuting between Clitheroe and my antiques pitch in Preston. In recent years, I have really grown into enjoying my shrimp and prawn fishing (NB, whenever I refer to shrimp fishing, I always mean both shrimp and prawn). The shrimp arrive courtesy of Ahab, who still makes the pilgrimage to Lytham St Annes to get fresh shrimp before dyeing them himself (don’t tell Lamont). This allows me to fish in low water, which means that I can quickly cover a couple of beats and then get on with my day. As with all aspects of salmon angling, it’s completely fruitless ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time.
Unburdened by waders and able to freestyle in only my wellies and a waistcoat, with but a pocketful of Irish prawns from Dee at Purple Whiskers and a tabaco tin of shot, trebles and pins (I’ve worded that poorly. I have other clothes on, too! Jesus, erase that mental image), I sling a net over my shoulder and carry a rod geared up with braid, ensuring maximum mobility. OK, so as a method of fishing, it’s often frowned upon by fly-only purists, but that’s up to them. Frown away, as far as I’m concerned, because free-lined or under a float, you won’t consistently hook a fish cleaner, and that’s a fact. Run it past the cognoscenti and deal with it.
On the Ribble, I’m authorised by two of my clubs to fish the shrimp, but my other club banned it twenty years ago, back when anglers were still selling fish. Now, however, with the introduction of an annual limit of one fish per angler and a ban on selling your catch, it no longer makes sense. We thought that we had a chance of getting them to let us do it again, but when the proposal to reinstate shrimp was formally brought up during our last annual general meeting, the club president said to Lamont, ‘Why don’t you be a man and fish the fly?’ and we knew then that we were pissing in the wind. Still, it was fantastic to watch a drunk and freshly motivated Lamont then accuse the club of running an autocracy, before shouting, ‘Lucius Quintius!’ in the direction of the committee. Many of us on the Ribble can now be heard fondly say to anybody caught without a fly rod in their hand, ‘Why don’t you be a man and fish the fly?’ It became an instant hit, and I take care to say it to Lamont at least once a week. It never fails to get a rise from him, usually ending in a vigorous, animated, finger-wagging rant. Light the touchpaper and stand well clear and remember that you should never return to a lit firework.
Last season, I caught more fish on the fly (five), but this year I’m struggling on the Ribble. I’ve fished on every lift, but I can’t buy a pull. I’m not alone in this; the river is littered with broken heroes, which is why I like to be able to have a quick bash with the shrimp rod on my lunch break. I fire down to a favourite holding spot and run through it from top to bottom, which usually takes no more than an hour: perfecto! This beat also has the added attraction of a newly arrived pair of ravens nesting in the nearby woods. I’ve become slightly obsessed with them. They’re an impressive bird to observe, and their gurgling croak call is brilliantly distinctive. Whenever they appear in the sky, skirting the wood, I’m compelled to stop and watch them. I’ve even found a feather (it’s got to possess some kind of magic, a raven’s feather, hasn’t it? Yeah, it’d defo have powers).