It was at a Hampshire fishery and I can't remember which. There were very few others fishing and it was great to be all on my own away from the frenetic London advertising world.

Then, as occasionally happens when fishing, along strolled some civilians, a fortyish couple out for an afternoon stroll.

This is often a little disturbing because non-fishers are never aware of the rules of etiquette regarding walking behind an angler in mid-cast. Not only is it difficult and irritating for the angler – but it's bloody dangerous for the civilian.

Nevertheless, it was a lovely day and civility costs nothing.

The chap ambled off the path towards me and I let my interrupted cast drop sadly forward into the water to rest, bit my lip, and smiled.

"Ad any luck!" came that old chestnut.

"No, but I've caught two!" I replied impishly, hoping that would end the conversation.

I became instantly aware that this chap was fascinated with fishing and was probably stopped from going by his scary wife who, I suspected, thought the whole thing was quite distasteful and was worried that there was a vague chance of her husband actually enjoying himself.

We chatted briefly for a minute or two with me trying desperately to not encourage him too much as while they were there, I couldn't cast – and therefore couldn't fish.

Then his wife (I somehow assumed they were married) now with arms on hips in attack mode, made her move.

"Why do you do it!" she snapped and with three or four determined steps she was with us.

Her husband looked at me apologetically and silent. I turned back to face the water and thought momentarily of strategy.

At that time I was a smoker and as it was become increasingly evident that I wasn't going to get a cast for a while, I rested my rod on that bank and slowly lit a cigarette. Now, most smokers are fully aware that they shouldn't do it but hate being lectured by the passive smoking brigade.

Here was a 'passive angler' and my hackles were up.

But as it was such a lovely day, I decided to try the soft sell approach first, and if this failed, Plan B. I picked up my rod so as to be 'at one' with my sport and said gently, and probably not very convincingly, "Oh, how can you possibly not appreciate just being here…out in the country on a beautiful day like this with all the wildlife…" I pointed across the lake to the Hampshire countryside hoping that this tactic would work but I somehow knew that wasn't what she meant.

"That's not what I meant!" she boomed, but it was worth a try.

"How can you be so cruel to these poor fish – it's totally barbaric, unnecessary and inhuman" she spat. The husband cringed and made a weak attempt to intervene.

"No, darling, it isn't at all like…" but was stopped dead in his feeble tracks.

"It should be banned!" she screamed – and I decided enough was enough.

This was my 'space' and my leisure time and this harridan had invaded it – so it was on to Plan B, and if that didn't work, Plan C.

I slowly put my rod down, again and removed my Polaroids. This, I thought, was the angler's equivalent of rolling up the sleeves ready for action and I swear I could hear the sound of 'A Fistful of Dollars' music in the distance.

I turned towards her and asked "Do you eat fish?" and waited eagerly for her to dig herself a hole with her answer. "Of course I do but that's totally different – for a start they're commercially…" That's exactly what I wanted to hear…and stopped her dead.

"Let me tell you what happens to your commercially caught fish" I said calmly but with the sudden authority of a headmaster – and sliced her to silence.

"Firstly, it's dragged around in nets with thousands of other fish for ages like being packed in the London Underground in the rush hour which is extremely distressing for them…" So far so good – she remained in stunned silence. I suspect she hadn't been spoken to like this for quite a while.

"Secondly, they are then hauled up from the depths very quickly and literally get the 'bends' as do divers causing, no doubt, extremely severe painful headaches…" The headaches bit was possibly a bit flippant but it worked. Her mouth was now opened into a gape!

"Thirdly, their swim bladders, which are designed to keep them at a certain depth, burst, causing intense pain – and finally they are loaded onto the boats and left to crush in piles in the hold and literally drown in agony". Excellent. I though she was going to pass out.

"When I catch a fish, IF I'm allowed to" (I said with more than a touch of sarcasm), "my fish is on the bank and dead within 10 seconds".

Now, that isn't quite true, as when a trout is killed you 'despatch' it by administering 2 or 3 sharp blows to the head with a priest – which actually knocks it unconscious and it wakes up dead, so to speak. But this, I thought would only confuse her and spoil the fun.

"As for the hook hurting the fish – let me tell you, my dear…" (I loved the 'my dear', it was so patronising) "that just about everything a fish naturally eats cuts its mouth, such as other fish with spiny fins, freshwater mussels, crayfish and spiky nymphs – so an angler's hook is probably the most pleasant bleedin' thing it's had all day"

I was now in full flow and couldn't be stopped, even by this awful woman, and began to talk faster and louder…

"And as for the pain of the hook – what would happen if I put a hook in your mouth and walked away, pulling the rod…I'd tell you what would happen…you'd quickly walk towards me…but if that is a fish…I'll tell you what happens" (I think there was a bit of finger prodding going on by this stage) "it does exactly the opposite and buggers off in the opposite direction THUS according to you madam, increasing the pain!".

I was now running on all 6 cylinders.

Just for added colour, I threw in the story of the small perch that I once caught three times in about 20 minutes (I could see it clearly) and that was it. My repertoire was almost complete and she was more or less down and out, but it wasn't enough.

I was still very annoyed with this unnecessary intrusion and decided that Plan C was called for anyway. It's a bit like kicking a chap when he's down (or in this case, a woman) but there you go.

"AND, incidentally, I have paid £20 for a licence to fish. I have also paid £40 for a day ticket to fish this water…" and here comes the knockout punch… "and this is a private fishery on private land – and you're trespassing!"

By this time the woman was a deep red colour and on the verge of apoplexy.

She glared at me, shaking, for a few seconds and stormed off with her husband chasing her like an obedient terrier with short, hesitant steps and I'm sure I detected the odd shuddering of the shoulders as he secretly giggled.

I metaphorically blew the smoke from my rod arm and continued fishing feeling very pleased with myself.

That evening, the entry in my fishing log read…

'CAUGHT 5 TROUT. (3 RAINBOWS & ONE BROWN)

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From the 'never to be published' book, HOOKED FOR LIFE