It was the weekend of August 15th that my sister and her husband “Big Bob” (we call him that to tease him) came to spend the holidays of the Virgin Mary with us in the lower Ardeche, at the “Two Vultures” campground .
We parked the RV overhanging the river (perhaps a little too close to the Turkish family with their 8 children, but one doesn’t have much choice during vacation time).
After lunch (my wife grilled exquisite merguez and chipolata sausages!) my sister laid down next to the river with her tits exposed and the tiniest, glitzy string, to work on a tan. On the opposite bank a dozen little gypsy kids, barely hidden by the bushes,were jerking off while ogling my sister; big Bog could care less, but my sister was clearly titillated by the scene. All big Bob cares about in life is fish. He’s crazy about fish: alive, dead, in a can; as long as there is a hint of a scale in his field of vision, he starts sweating like a pig. The provocative breasts of his wife means nothing; when he is near a river big Bob only has eyes for the water, above and below. When I told him that there wasn’t much fish in the river apart from carps that graze the crap of the junk heap, Bob screamed: “Carps? There are carps! Quick! hand me my fishing rod, hot damn!”
Overwhelmed by the noon day heat, I lowered myself onto the beach chair thinking of only one thing: siesta. But the look of Bob with his fly rod, striding up river like a Sioux, was something strange and also marvelous. The image reminded me of the famous painting: ‘Dejeuner sure l’herb” (Luncheon on the grass) by Manet, my favorite painting.
And then, all at once Bob froze and whispered: “There… there… A fucking carp!” In a flash he cast his “special fly” and 5 seconds later all of the campground was alerted by the loud screams of my brother-in-law: “I got her, the bitch! You’re gonna get stuffed, sister!”
All the while I’m watching the poor rod that can’t bend any more, about to break it’s back with this demonic beast. When Bob finally brought the carp into the net I walked over and asked “What the hell kind of fly did you use?”
Well there, I have to admit that “big” went up a notch or two in my esteem when he simply replied: “The carps love to eat bread. So I said to myself that a piece of sponge should be an acceptable imitation!”
Later, to celebrate his triumph, he invited the Turks next door to a round at the campground bar.
It was Mohamed who won the match of flipper.
Please watch WITHOUT sound (music is
carp crap) [vimeo https://vimeo.com/37024082]