Last month, Mike Johnson of Paignton SAA caused quite a stir among Westcountry sea anglers by breaking a British Shore Angling Record with his 22lb 12oz Thornback Ray landed from the beach at East Portlemouth.

Now, like many of my fellow anglers, I read these announcements and feel an overwhelming urge to hit the venue and try my hand – and usually (and, as I’ve slowly grown to realise, foolishly) I do.

But why don’t I ever learn? It’s always the same old story: I’ll hurriedly chuck my gear in the van, race to the venue with only the briefest of pit stops at the bait shop (not even stopping for half a cup of coffee), handbrake turn into the nearest parking area, jump out Starsky and Hutch style and proceed to trip and stumble over my rods, rests, bags, lamps, bait box and beachbuddy in the frenetic scramble to close the distance between myself and the next potential British record.

However, as I clear the final brow between myself and the latest red-hot mark, all thoughts of rod bending leviathans are dispelled in an instant and replaced instead by a more immediate consideration: Where on earth am I going to fish?

As ever, it would appear that I’m not the only one gripped by record fever. As I near the mark, the tiny gaps in the wall to wall carpet of anglers grow no larger. Row upon row of hopefuls continue to rain leads into the recently productive swim. There’s hardly enough room to swing a cat let alone a 6oz gripper.

But after driving for an hour and a half to get here, I’m damned if I’m going to turn around and go home empty handed. Instead, I’ll dodge leads and tangle lines for six hours and only then will I go home empty handed.

And so it happens, in almost script-like fashion, I pick my moment to cast (when the monofilament spider web before me is at its thinnest), we then all take it in turns to retrieve each other’s gear and exchange forgiving words and, in one of the many quiet moments, we tell one another how a British record was caught here only yesterday. I don’t know if we discuss it because it makes for great small talk, or simply because it stops us from losing the will to live during these typically dire post-record sessions.

Upon being enthusiastically re-briefed on recent events for the 40th time, I can’t help but think back to the one, solitary pouting caught between the twenty or so anglers throughout the whole session. With each subsequent 'big fish' comment I glance down at my supersized landing net, my fully charged camera and pristine electronic scales and die a little inside.

Could we see 2 British records caught from the same mark in the space of one week? Deep down we all know that it isn’t going to happen, but record fever is a curious thing. All it takes is one column in the Western Morning News to trigger a ripple effect that rings through the tackle shops and culminates in 35 anglers converging on a mark about the size of a rig wallet.

This I know, as I’ve been #35 many a time. But not anymore – I vow never to be caught up in the hysteria again. Well, maybe just once more – but next time it’ll be different, you just wait and see.

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