Angling: Rash of problems for angling's fiery Fred

FISHING LINES

LIFE OWES Fred Stammers, who lives in north London, a few favours. As well as being disabled, Fred has a terrible affliction - and it's not the one you might assume from his surname. He is a keen fisherman and regularly angles at his local Stoke Newington reservoir. But he suffers from an allergy that is the stuff of nightmares for any avid piscator. Fred is allergic to fish.

Oh, it's easy to mock. I recall doing a radio phone-in some years ago, where I played a similar situation for cheap laughs. (It also taught me something about the nature of people who are callers to radio phone- ins, but that's another story for another time.) Anyway, this chap called into the programme. "I have this terrible allergy," he said. "I go fishing every chance that I can, but I'm allergic to maggots. What should I do?"

Well, I should have told him to try other baits such as worms, bread, sweetcorn or luncheon meat. I could have advised him to try fly-fishing, spinning or sea fishing.

I could have suggested that he used gloves (not the bright yellow Marigold ones, but the second-skin ones used by surgeons). I didn't do any of these things. What did I suggest? "Take up golf."

I feel a bit bad about that one now, especially after suffering a few bouts of hay fever myself. On one occasion, it became so bad that I had to stop fishing, which gives you some idea of just how serious it was. It happened on a scenic part of the upper Thames on a balmy summer's day. The scent of wild flowers was so rich that it was like walking through the perfume department at Harrods (not that I go there a lot, you understand). The pollen was so heavy that you could capture it by waving a net.

Hayfever sufferers will know the next bit. I started to sneeze and rub my eyes. The more I rubbed them, the more they complained. Though the chub were feeding, I soon realised that I couldn't fish any more because I couldn't see my float. My eyes had become puffy, my nose was streaming. This beautiful day in the country had lost its magic.

Back in the car, I peered at myself in the rear-view mirror. God! I looked as if I had just undergone an operation to remove the bags from my eyes, or tried to tell Gordon Ramsay that I didn't think much of a chef who used processed peas. The drive back to London was awful because I could hardly see. Even back in west Hampstead (sounds posh, but it's really a downmarket bit called Kilburn), where trees and flowers are so uncommon that people stop and point, it took another day before I recovered sufficiently to venture out again.

For a while, I thought it was the end of my fishing. I feared that I would be restricted to fishing on Birmingham canals, where flowers are banned, or perhaps on charter boats miles out to sea, in itself a distressing prospect for an unreliable sailor. But it never happened again - or at least, not to that degree.

Still, it made me far more sympathetic to all those who are allergic to the ammonia that maggots exude, or the ground nuts that are found in some groundbaits, or rods made from wood, or even those who cannot fish with artificial flies made from feathers. But Fred's allergy tops the lot. According to this week's Angler's Mail, which revealed the story, Fred is allergic to the protective slime worn like an overcoat by all fish.

"I have to wear rubber gloves and I can't hold the fish at all," he says. "It's a shame because I can't get any pictures of my fish. I have to use a disgorger [a small tool for removing the hook] the whole time, and keep the fish in the landing net."

What must it be like, when your float goes under, to think: "Oh no, it's a fish?" It's like a golfer being allergic to golf balls, or a swimmer coming out in a rash if he goes near water. In similar circumstances, I fear that I would probably take up macrame or whittling wood. But Fred's determination probably proves the adage that fishing is a lot more than catching fish.