Extreme Fishing Read Free Page B

everyone in the Green tribe was really worried and said, ‘Was it the oysters, Brian?’ ‘No, the escolar [puking sound
effects].’ And they all said, ‘Gosh, well, we won’t eat that again’ – and that knowledge was planted in my DNA in an attempt to protect me to this very day. However,
today I am going to ignore all of that good sense and eat it for the sake of entertainment on Channel 5.
    Enter Joni waving two large knives at me. He shows me how to remove the toxins and cuts the meat away from the spine because this is the most hazardous part of the fish. Although any part of the
skin could also send me to hospital with blue lights flashing – it’s like playing a game of deep-sea Russian roulette. I wring the oily poison out of a piece of the filleted fish as if
it’s Russell Brand’s bed sheet, and we pour loads of salt on the fillet, just as you do when you spill red wine on the carpet; in the case of this fish, the salt draws toxins out rather
than wine. 2
    Joni fries the escolar without oil or seasoning for a few minutes and lunch is served. We move through to the dining area to taste our handiwork. It’s like being a guest of Blofeld. I put
the poison to my lips; like a fussy child attempting to eat broccoli, I open wide and nibble a small piece. It’s like motor oil – but not Castrol Edge, more Mick’s Garage’s
own brand. I turn to camera and my face starts to lie like a cheap Spanish watch.
    ‘Mmm,’ I start to say.
    I chew some more and have an epiphany: ‘Trust your instincts, Robson,’ I hear Uncle Matheson say.
    ‘That’s horrible! That is shocking. I’m sorry, I can’t eat that. What
is
that? The islanders love it? Are you mad? Mmmm, the lovely buttery taste . . . It tastes
like shit. Oh dear me, I think you have left some of the toxins in it, Joni.’
    But the chef decides that the reason I’m not enjoying it is because I’ve put too much salt on, and, oh joy of joys, he gives me another piece. It tastes a bit better but that’s
like saying Hitler was a bit better than Stalin. In that moment, I realise the only way this show has a chance of working is by me being brutally honest at all times.
    Rock Fishing
    The next day I am rock fishing with my old mate the poisonous-fish chef, Joni, and his brother. Using a twenty-one-foot bamboo pole, we’re hoping to catch some
delicious parrotfish, which will make a nice change from the ‘I can’t believe it’s not butterfish’ that tastes nothing like bloody butter – not even close.
    I am unravelling fast today as I had little sleep during the night, convinced that I was slipping into a toxic coma brought on by my sampling of the frightening oleaginous scavenger. I clamber
over volcanic rock to get into position for our first take and then stand precariously on a craggy lump of ignimbrite and attempt to explain the topography of the islands on camera.
    ‘The Canaries sit on top of a huge underwater mountain range, causing plankton and lots of fish to well up from the depths below. Argh!’
    A large crab jumps out at me from a rock pool, waving its claws angrily. I shriek like a girl and hop across to another rock. Out of nowhere a dog brushes past my leg unexpectedly, which nearly
sends me over the edge. The director shouts for me to get into position – bloody easy for him to say from down there on the ground, which is
flat
. It’s really dangerous on the
rocks, especially as I am currently neither physically steady nor mentally sound.
    I used go fishing to unwind and relax but now it’s having the exact opposite effect and all I want is to hide in my wardrobe and hug my shoes. As I dangle my hook into the water below, my
bottom is like a rabbit’s nose on a spring day: twitchy. I’ve never had this symptom before; my nerves must be shot. Back at the hotel, however, I discover this twitchiness is due to
something else entirely: parasites, to be precise (the word comes from the Ancient Greek for ‘professional