No More Pricks
  |  First Published: October 2008

The note said “No More Pricks”. At first I thought it was one of the new rules we’d dreamed up on a hazy night during the last Dudd’s trips to Awoonga and Baffle Creek; when the latest invitee had turned out to be about as welcome as a poo in a wedding cake.

So I ran my eyes over the note once more. It looked too official and readable to be something that Doughers, our official secretary, had scribbled down sometime after 4am in the morning at the helm of Awoonga houseboat Barra One. This looked like it had actually been printed by someone in control of their faculties. Definitely not Doughers then. No More Pricks. Yes, that’s what it said…No More Pricks… Hmmmm. Was it the manifesto of the latest Nimbin Ladies for Ladies group? The motto for a South East Asian condom manufacturer perhaps?

No. A more careful inspection revealed it was something that brought an even bigger smile to the face of many of the Dudds. And to many other coordinationally-challenged fishing people spread across this great state. No More Pricks is a great little idea that stops your lures from getting tangled up and inserted in various parts of your body. Stuffer’s better half had managed to find them for us on the Internet, ready for our next trip. No More Pricks isolates lures into little plastic pouches that even the Dudds can use.

I mean, you know how it happens. We all pretend we know what we’re doing. We’re all out there, chucking our lures around like we have all the secrets to Awoonga sorted out, and the fishing gods are close to laying out their bounty at our wet and sunburnt feet. Lures are flying thicker than spitballs in a veterinarians lecture room. Then someone gets a tap, or perhaps even a lock up for several seconds, and a shout, one part surprise, one part excitement, two parts skidmark spears across the water. Time slows and stops. All heads turn to stare at the gold/Elton/bobbydazzler/trainsmash/rainbow/pinkybeige variety of a bomber/B52/riverrat/Scorpion/jockstrap that has just been attacked.

Within seconds everyone has wound in their lines and is trying to reattach that very same gold/Elton/bobbydazzler/trainsmash/rainbow/pinkybeige variety of a bomber/B52/riverrat/Scorpion/jockstrap to their own line.

And of course while this has to be done at top speed, it must be seen to be done in the most casual manner possible – like you’re taking your shoes off after a Sunday morning stroll around the doodoo in your local dogrun/children’s playground. Like it’s natural. Like you were going to try that gold/Elton/bobbydazzler/trainsmash/rainbow/pinkybeige variety of a bomber/B52/riverrat/Scorpion/jockstrap next anyway.

And like I said, this is when accidents occur. Nasty things happen. Ask Manboobs. No, actually, don’t ask Manboobs, ask his wife as she paid the penalty. But that’s another story…although now that I think about it, it’s strangely related to what I was talking about in the first place when I began this article. Makes me wince just to think about it.

Sorry Boobs. I did say I wouldn’t tell a single person about your accident. Don’t be mad. I haven’t told a single person. Anyway, you’ll get over it. The embarrassment I mean. Not the injury. Didn’t the doctor say it was permanent?


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