“Nah, not me please, mate.” I’ve just walked up to a fella called Alf and asked him for a picture. He’s at Burgess Park, standing outside a tent planted inside one of the many fishing bays that line the park’s lake. Inside a couple of his mates sit on decking loungers, sipping on pint cans of Stella. It’s just past midday, and the sun is barging past stubborn, grey clouds confronting unsuspecting eyes. Alf looks at me, sniffs, his eyes dart away from my gaze and then return within an instant. “I’ve been up all night, innit.”
Before moving to Burgess Park – situated in between Camberwell, Peckham and Bermondsey; a sort of homeless, recreational wonder – I hadn’t ever given much thought to who exactly I thought fishes. If you were to accost me with an assumption I would’ve provided an unfair, slightly cartoonish answer: unhappy, middle-aged midwestern American men. Who unsurprisingly come far and few between in England.