Extreme Fishing (33 page)

‘We’ve got something very, very large on the end here,’ I say. ‘OK, we’re at forty feet. We’re at thirty feet, Riccard. We’re at twenty feet,
we’re at ten, nine, eight, seven . . .’I start winding with all my might. ‘Oh, that’s a weird-looking fish – look at that. What
is
that?’

Neither Riccard nor I know. In fact, we don’t find out for a couple of days and begin to think we’ve discovered a new species. I am hell-bent on calling it a Robson – even
though it’s as ugly as sin, I want a fish named after me. But, God, it’s a minger – a cross between a barracuda, an oilfish and a gar with a black sail, like a ghostly pirate
ship. I think of names that actually suit it, like the Cowell. Yes, that works. Or maybe the Mandelson, or even better the Janet Street-Porter, although the mouth’s not big enough.

Three days later we find out from a marine biologist that it is a barracouta, or black snoek. Identifying fish can at times be very difficult, particularly as they’re known by different
names around the world, which is why the Latin term in the universal language of classification is so helpful. This is a
Thyrsites atun
– it’s a versatile, oily, bony fish that
can be grilled, fried and tinned. It was hated in Britain during World War II because canned snoek was associated with deprivation and rationing. Ask your Great Aunt Margaret, or anyone of that
generation, if they remember tinned snoek. Just from the look of it Riccard and I don’t fancy a bite, so we pop it back to go and frighten the other fish.

We decide to try our luck one more time and immediately something enormous fights with the reels. We pull it up and it takes the line back down. This happens again and again, until the reels are
screaming under the pressure. The motors whir. Is it a shark? Riccard says it’s not fighting like one but whatever it is it’s enormous. The reels pull the fish to forty feet, thirty
feet, ten feet, and then the creature takes the line back down to fifty.

‘It’s going to burn the engine out,’ says Riccard.

‘What the hell is it?’ I say, imagining the undiscovered and mysterious creatures down there, like the one Riccard’s never been able to land. Perhaps it’s a
world-record-breaking giant goldfish over 100 pounds? But, then again, it’s more likely to be a bull or tiger shark holding on to the fish I’ve just caught, desperately trying to steal
my prize for himself. The motor continues to struggle, until crack! The line snaps – it’s over and the fish is gone without a glimpse or even a clue. But whatever it was has just broken
a line built to take 250 pounds! I look at the rod.

‘It’s busted the whole rig. I’m kind of glad that we didn’t bring it up,’ I say. ‘As I have come to realise on this journey, some fish aren’t meant to
be caught.’

We put the ruby snapper I caught on the barbecue and cook it until the flesh is succulent. I scoop up the meaty white flakes with my fingers and, as I chew, wonder if I’ll ever discover
‘the Robson’.

‘You will have to come back and fish for longer with me next time,’ says Riccard. Then maybe, just maybe, we will land one of the undiscovered monsters of this strange but incredible
lost world.

November 2010, At the Ends of the Earth, Series 4

Arriving in Moscow sets the tone for the rest of the trip. It’s cold, grey and not one person is smiling. At our hotel, the reception has no reference of our
booking. The middle-aged shot-putter behind the desk is a thoroughly unpleasant individual who grudgingly finds us a few rooms for the night. It’s a dour place and it’s so bloody cold
as we carry our stuff up the rickety stairs to our rooms. I open the door to reveal my threadbare bed with a minimum of battered 1950s furniture. This hotel is so bad, even Lenny Henry
wouldn’t advertise it.

I look out of the window onto the streets below. It’s snowing. Everyone is wearing Cossack hats and furs and walking with their heads down. It’s like a Norman Cornish painting.
Norman, who is still going strong at the time of writing this book, is a pitman painter from the northeast who captured the factory workers and miners, their heads lowered as they trudged to work.
They probably had stoops a bit like my dad from being cramped in unnaturally small spaces underground. But there’s no mining here: people have their heads bowed because of the biting cold and
probably a good old dose of Russian melancholy. Have you ever read a cheery Russian novel? I haven’t, but then again I’m not sure I’ve managed to finish one.

The rest of the crew go to bed but Peter, our indefatigable soundman, and I stay up and drink vodka for medicinal purposes. I take a sip and immediately choke – it’s like rocket
fuel. An old boiler, wearing the dress she was buried in, bangs some cold sliced beef in gravy on the table. This is accompanied by cold peas and potatoes (all tinned), pickled fish and boiled
eggs. Everything is cold – it reminds me of a trip to East Germany before the Wall came down. The vodka dulls our senses and anaesthetises our taste buds, and we are slowly able to ingest the
food. We take another shot of the firewater and retire to bed. It is so cold I get under the covers fully clothed and watch my breath make steam. As I drift to sleep I decide
not
drinking
vodka is more of a risk than drinking too much here. I vow to top up for the rest of the trip in order to keep out the chill.

In the morning the same woman, wearing that same sage-green dress, slams our breakfast down. It’s not much of an improvement on dinner. Today we’re heading for Eastern Siberia. The
new director, Matt Richards, is an energetic, affable guy, full of ideas. Sadly Jamie is booked up with other work so can’t join the gang back on tour this time. I miss Jamie but am warming
to Matt’s ideas on how he wants to expand on the humour side of the show. I smile at Peter and Craig Herd, back behind the camera, and say, ‘Yeah, Siberia’s going to be rich
territory for gags. The land of hundreds of Soviet forced-labour camps, where millions perished under Stalin’s rule. There was a reason why he sent people to Siberia, you know?’

‘Why?’

‘Because there was no chance of them coming back. It’ll be a laugh a minute, this episode.’

Matt smiles. He remains upbeat and ever the optimist.

Khabarovsk Krai

On the plane to Khabarovsk, I have never seen such a bunch of glum people in my life. The pilot makes an announcement that sounds almost cheery: ‘There is a
technical problem with the plane. I will keep you informed.’ Twenty minutes later he comes on the intercom again. This time he sounds like his dog has just been intentionally run over by the
men who burgled his house and killed his wife: ‘The technical problem is now fixed so we can take off.’ The passengers’ faces fall further and as the engines start they go from
glum to looking like members of a funeral cortège. We must be heading to a really bad place.

The atmosphere gets worse as we come in to land. The mood goes from funereal – the dipped heads of Norman Cornish paintings – to Edvard Munch’s
The Scream
. If I thought
people in Moscow were miserable, the Khabarovskians are suffering from chronic depression. I am now seven time zones away from Moscow and 3,000 miles away from home. Even the gulags didn’t
make it this far. Right now I would give my left testicle to be back in Britain, drinking a pint (of Sauv Blanc) in my local, standing by a warm fire and hearing laughter again.

On the way to meet the fixer, Isabella, the Khabarovsk landscape is barren, lonely and grey. The winter is brutal in the far east of Russia, and the temperature drops below –30 degrees. I
look across the Amur River and it’s like the face of the moon: a rocky field of ice. Only the middle is still flowing. People pick their way across looking for a spot to dig a hole and
perhaps, if they are lucky, find a fish.

We get out of the van. It is so cold that it almost burns. In spite of this, however, Isabella is dressed in a blue skirt, thin tights, flat summer shoes, a pink headscarf and a cardie, complete
with a white handbag. She stands there shivering. I am not sure she’s built for the job. We introduce ourselves and quickly discover she also doesn’t speak a great deal of English. As a
fixer you have to be a translator – it is part of the job spec. Matt looks panicked. It’s as if the real fixer has double-booked and his mum’s agreed to stand in. (‘Your
fixing job is easy. I shall make you proud. Go to your other job, Josef.’ ‘But you don’t speak good English, Mother.’ ‘No, but I will learn. Nothing is as hard as
Russian.’)

As I prepare to film a PTC dressed in full Arctic gear, five layers of thermals and Arctic boots, I glance over at Isabella, still shivering, looking like she’s just popped down to Tesco
on a mild spring day. I smile. Maybe Matt is right about finding the humour on this trip.

. . . And action!

‘Khabarovsk sits at the edge of Russia, less than twenty miles from the Chinese border. It’s on one of the world’s longest rivers, the Amur – and apparently because of
its spectacular beach and similar latitude to the French city – it’s known as the Nice of the Far East.’

Yes, it’s guinea-a-minute here. I look at the moon rocks. It’s not a beach, it’s more like a coastline, because it’s –20 and everything is frozen over. And
it’s on the same latitude as Nice? So what! I’ve been to Nice and it’s nowt like this bloody place. I’ve spent many a day on the Beau Rivage Plage, in my Speedos, doing my
Daniel Craig impression. If I did that here, my testicles would retract to my ears and you’d have to call me Susan. I don’t think the French Riviera is in trouble yet.

Nanai, Sikachi-Alyan

Isabella comes with us in the van to meet the Nanai tribe in our first filming sequence. The roads are treacherous with ice but that doesn’t seem to bother our
driver, who is motoring along at an enthusiastic pace, talking all the while on his mobile phone. In fact he’s never off the damn thing. We begin to slow and turn off onto a beaten track
leading into the forest. As we climb, the trees become denser and denser, and the snow gets deeper. At 1,000 metres up we hit a three-foot bank of snow. The fixer’s job, during the recce
before the shoot, is to let the director know that they can get from A to B safely. But it is now obvious that Isabella has never fixed anything in her life. She encourages the driver to keep
pushing through. He tries, revving the engine and putting the tyres in a spin, but we slip backwards. We are stuck deep in the forest, halfway up a hill, trying to explain to Isabella that there is
no way we can make it through. She finally agrees and says, ‘Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?’

Not quite the response we are after.

‘What shall we do?’ says Matt.

‘I don’t know,’ says Isabella.

Matt takes charge. The driver is still glued to his bloody phone. We get his attention. In my mind, I imagine slapping the back of his head and throwing his phone out the window but instead Matt
puts a firm hand on his shoulder and suggests he hangs up. The driver turns his head to look into Matt’s black, angry eyes. He cuts the call and starts to turn the van around. But we have no
snow chains, no snow tyres, and we’re in a little minivan like a Bedford Cruiser, full to the gunnels; like the fixer, it just isn’t built for the job. The driver is ignoring our
protestations. He will do things his way. He tries to go forward again, then back. It’s like
Austin Powers
in the snow. The engine whirs as he tries to get traction; he puts the
steering wheel in full lock; he tries the same in reverse until smoke billows from the back. Finally he puts his hands in the air.

‘We are stuck,’ he declares in Russian.

Yeah, well done, mate, we told you that half an hour ago. We all look at Isabella for a solution. She looks back at us and starts to cry.

‘I worried we are in the middle of woods with much snow. My cat? How will she eat?’

She meows and mimes eating, to get the importance of her message across. We are all agog. From that moment on, it’s not about the show any more, it’s about her hungry ginger tom.

After an animated discussion it is decided that Isabella and the driver should remain with the van. We leave her to organise a 4×4 to pull the van out of the snow and solve her pussy
problem. The debacle reminds me of a time when I had just set up Coastal Productions and we were filming
Come Snow, Come Blow
with Tim Healy and Rodney Bewes from
The Likely Lads
. The
crew and I were on our way to a recce when I said to the driver, ‘Hang on, we’re going in the wrong direction.’ He said, ‘No, I am late for my trumpet lesson.’

‘What? But we need to be in Ashington.’

‘Well, I need to be in Newcastle – my band’s in the National Brass Band Championships.’

‘Well, why the hell did you agree to drive us?’ I said, infuriated.

‘I thought it would work out but it didn’t.’

It was of course his first, and last, driving job, and the band didn’t even make the finals.

The crew and I unpack the van. We now have to lug our stuff half a mile up the hill, through three foot of snow, to a wooden shack where the Nanai are waiting to do a dance – well, they
do! Peter and I bemoan the fact that we have no vodka with us. Everything is slowly coming apart at the seams. Matt’s blood pressure is rising but veteran Craig tells him to keep on filming
the story and it will be OK. I am carrying the least, as usual, so I bound on ahead to act as crevice spotter.

‘If I disappear, then it’s deep!’ I shout.

I start throwing snowballs at the crew. None of them thinks it is funny. I get Peter slap-bang on his baldy head.

‘Stop it, Robson!’

‘I am just trying to boost morale,’ I say, throwing more.

At the top I am pelted in a revenge attack. Snowball fights always improve spirits.

At the top of the hill we find the Nanai people. There are two women wearing traditional purple embroidered tunics and holding long sticks, and a larger lady in a red outfit with a woolly hat,
who’s on drums. They couldn’t be less pleased to see us. We are an hour late, and because of that the men have buggered off. A dog bounds out of the woods and runs at Prada. It looks
like a Rottweiler. Prada, carrying his heavy sound pack and boom, legs it through the snow like John Cleese. This dog is obsessed with him; it snarls and barks as Peter runs in the opposite
direction, knees high. It’s comedy genius but Peter is genuinely scared. We look to the women to stop the dog. They look over vacantly and do nothing.