Whitehouse & Mortimer: Gone Fishing, episode 1 review – lumps in the throat when Paul Whitehouse scattered his father's ashes
Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing (BBC Two) was one of last year's surprise TV hits, a fact acknowledged as soon as this follow-up run began. “So can you believe it, Paul?” asked Bob Mortimer. “A second series!”
“I did check out David Baddiel’s availability,” harrumphed Paul Whitehouse. “But apparently he’s not free, so it’s you again.” “I wanted Holly Willoughby,” replied Bob.
Of course, the chemistry wouldn’t work as well with anyone else. Mortimer’s infectiously silly sense of humour and haplessness with a rod balances perfectly with Whitehouse’s irascible persona and piscine expertise. Gone Fishing couldn’t have been more perfectly cast if it was an odd couple sitcom. Which, some of the time, it is.
The gentle-as-a-sigh premise is that Whitehouse decided to take his old pal Mortimer on angling trips to help him recover from his triple heart bypass. In return, Mortimer arranges accommodation and cooks up “heart-healthy food”. Its secret is that it isn’t really about fishing, just like Top Gear isn’t really about cars. It’s about the rambling conversations they have while on the riverbank.
For this opening episode, now in a pre-watershed slot – not that it made any discernible difference, since the duo’s daft comedy is more about buffoonery than the occasional swear-word – they travelled to the picturesque River Usk in south Wales, where Paul's father first taught him to fish as a seven-year-old boy with a rod from Woolworths.
As they tried to catch wild brown trout, the pair discussed their respective childhoods, reflecting on mortality, parental love, the wonders of nature and the fragility of life. Whitehouse’s father Harry died just last year, aged 86, and he confessed that it was still raw. Mortimer sympathised, revealing how much he misses his mother Eunice, who passed away a decade ago, especially on Sundays when he used to phone her.
“Before you know it, they’re gone,” sighed Whitehouse. “Except they’re not gone, are they?” “No, they’re always in your thoughts,” agreed Mortimer. He recalled his elderly mother-in-law staring at butterflies or flowers with a smile on her face, musing: “I’m beginning to believe it’s worth living for that.”
If all this sounds maudlin, it definitely wasn’t. Gags flew by about bears and Bruce Springsteen, cous-cous and prunes. They sang Mary Poppins and Candi Staton songs, did Ursula Andress impressions, strummed guitars. struck catalogue model poses and injured their creaky knees during a football kickabout,
The peaceful Brecon Beacons backdrop resembled a Constable painting. “I honestly think that view is like paradise,” said Whitehouse contentedly. “There’s one word to describe it: glorious.” Yet even the vista wasn’t taken entirely seriously. When Whitehouse climbed a tree and Mortimer asked what he could see, Whitehouse deadpanned: “I can see history. Poetry. English misrule. Colonialism.”
Back in their cosy cottage digs, they compared childhood photographs. Whitehouse proudly showed off the snap that once saw him crowned “Baby Smile of the Rhondda Valley” but Mortimer immediately spotted an awkwardly positioned extremity: “Paul, please don’t strike me but your right foot would appear to be a pig’s trotter. A hoof.” I was in helpless hysterics, just like they were.
In a poignant closing sequence, Whitehouse took the opportunity to give his late father a fitting final send-off by sprinkling his ashes on his favourite waterway. Mortimer quietly left him to it, the camera panning up and away down the river. As Llanelli Male Voice Choir’s rendition of Land of My Fathers struck up, I found a lump in my throat.
Gone Fishing remains lyrical, life-affirming and full of laughter. Who needs David Baddiel or Holly Willoughby?
