Two of my dearest pals happen to be Spurs fans, and great fishermen.

One of them, Simon, is a recently retired London lawyer who was phenomenally successful in his career, now devotes himself to valuable charity work and has a very rich family life.

The other, Paul, is still enjoying a stellar career on TV, the stage and film and lives an equally full life domestically. Given all this achievement, I find it interesting and reassuring that fish mean so much to them, as much as they do to me, someone who has a far less dramatic existence! Last week is a case in point.

Mid morning nine days ago, somewhere south of the Trent (we pikers have to be discreet about locations), Simon had his pike of a lifetime. Another friend, Adam, and I netted it for him and we both knew at once that it was that longed-for '30', the stamp of a fish that has stirred my blood ever since I saw my first one four decades ago.

It really was a beast, an awesome example of a big pike in its prime. It glowed in the late February sun and looked as though it would bite off a hand if it could get close. We were all overjoyed for Simon, an angler who has worked many years for this pinnacle of pike achievement, and there really was a party atmosphere around the lake. Yet another pal, Bond, even produced a hip flask so we could wet the fish’s head with a little warming something from a cellar in Eastern Europe.

If the mood could possibly be made more euphoric, the fact that the hooks fell out of the pike’s mouth as soon as it hit the net certainly helped the celebrations. Simon was so close to disaster that the triumph was made even more sweet.

Once the hullabaloo had died down a little, I sat by Simon as he processed the events of the morning. Without doubt, he said, this pike had in a small, but significant, way, changed his life, his fishing life at least. I left him shortly afterwards so he could sit in his own bubble, let the events of his great day wash over him and just drink in the endless dimensions of the drama.

That the great pike was happy lying in the margins a while only added to the marvel of it all and allowed Simon those last moments of wonderment. I walked away, thinking how that fish was landed by the grace of God and how a slipped hook hold even five seconds sooner would have spelt complete calamity. I also remembered back to similar pike occasions when the hooks had come away seconds after netting, two '40s' that I have witnessed and one of my own '30s' - a 36 - many years back, are examples out of many.

A couple of days after this, the memory still fresh, I described the event over the phone to Paul. Thank Izaak (as in Walton of course) Simon landed it, we agreed, or the entirety of 2023 would have been clouded for him. Almost certainly even longer than that, Paul continued. He told me the tale of two lost sea trout way back when he was fishing Welsh rivers pretty obsessively. Both were yards of silver, mighty fish with all the exuberant power of the sea coursing through their muscled bodies and both of the fights were short, brutal and went humiliatingly in favour of the fish. Unstoppable runs. A line breaking like a pistol shot. A fish cartwheeling so high, falling back so loudly, Paul feared it would wake the keeper in the nearby cottage. Thirty odd years ago those sea trout got away, Paul said, but the pain’s as raw as if they escaped yesterday.

What is it about big fish that stir the angler’s blood like this? Both Paul and Simon have suggested their dream season is the one in which Spurs win the Premier League and Arsenal get relegated, but even this magical result wouldn’t cut it quite like the capture of a longed for leviathan. Watching Kane lift the silverware would be an exultation for a week or so, but Simon’s '30' is an enduring miracle for the rest of his days.

I count myself very lucky that my work allows me to witness events like these. I’ve reached the grand old age when I don’t need to see any more fish come to my rod, but I glory in seeing them landed by others, by anglers who mean the world to me.

Many years ago, I coined the phrase “being there” and by that I meant that if I were a part of a serious piscatorial moment, my joy would be complete. For many years I had suffered from the delusion I could be king of the river every day I went out and what a monkey off your back it is when you realise you no longer care.