Clinton bought into the business around this time. I can’t remember the exact figure, but Niels bowed out, and Clinton’s buy-in was structured as a loan account—about two hundred thousand rand, if memory serves. He essentially got his shares for free while covering my loan balance. The cash injection was exactly what I needed to kick-start life in Johannesburg again and, hopefully, keep my beautiful wife in the comfort to which she was accustomed.
Terry was now working with Kim again at the Willowbrook and De Waal shop in Johannesburg, and they’d moved to Parkview. At some point there was a deal: Terry and Kim were given shares in the business, and I signed surety while they earned them out. The details are hazy, but Terry effectively became a partner. I hoped she was happy. Mikey was at St John’s; things were stabilising. Clinton was fully involved, and we were pouring energy into launching the Fly of the Month Club, with a particular focus on breaking into the UK market.
It was 1999, and the internet boom was in full swing. Our Fishy Pete’s email club had been the forerunner to Fly of the Month, and we now had a website hosted by a third party. I told Clinton we needed our own server, and he sourced a solution. Enter William Stuckey—a pipe-smoking, self-proclaimed genius with a small ISP called ZANet, which he literally ran from his house in Fourways. Clinton did a deal with him, and soon we had our own server: perched on bricks (because the place flooded regularly) and backed up by a truck battery. Eccentric doesn’t begin to describe him, but he kept things running.
Clinton and I met daily to work—me building out our site, him prowling the fishing forums. These were the Altavista days; Google was just beginning to surface. Clinton eventually connected with a retired merchant navy captain, Dave Westwood, who tied flies and had a loyal UK following. Our idea was to feature a different fly-tier every month, and Dave liked the concept enough to become our first UK contact. The logical next step was a trip to London.
Clinton, ambitious and entirely self-made, was already running on multiple tracks. He’d set up his wife Lindsey in a thriving company, Nu Angle Medical, after her previous employer collapsed. Fishy Pete’s was his passion project, but he had the resources to go big.
I suggested we stay with my sister Briony, who by then had retreated from White River after a fallout with Niels and Carey. She was living in a three-storey Chelsea townhouse, bankrolled by John Bredenkamp. Clinton imagined a modest bedsit. What he walked into was a freestanding Chelsea home—and he nearly fell over.
Briony picked us up from the airport and casually announced, “I’ve got a treat for you. We’re going to the Disney theatre tonight.” At the time, she was close friends with Etienne and Anita de Villiers; Etienne was head of Disney Europe, and private premieres were a regular perk. That night’s guest list included Bob Geldof, Twiggy, and other celebrities. Clinton looked like he’d stepped onto another planet. (For any diehard Geldof fans: the man has legendary body odour, but that’s by the by.)
The theatre was intimate—maybe sixty plush seats, half full. Nobody knew what was screening until the lights dimmed. It was Gladiator. This was February 2000, and the film hadn’t been released yet. It was a surreal, cinematic punch to the gut.
The trip was a whirlwind. We borrowed Briony’s Mercedes and drove north to meet Dave Westwood in person. Honestly, I wasn’t blown away by either the man or his flies, but he had connections and suggested we exhibit at the Chatsworth Show later that year. Back in London, we attended Briony’s fiftieth birthday party at Etienne and Anita’s mansion—a proper stately home. Clinton was convinced he’d backed the right horse.
The only sour note was Briony’s lodger: Erin, an attractive American whose parents were friends of Briony’s. I was starved for affection, and Erin’s warmth hit me like a shot of oxygen. One night we went out drinking, came home, and ended up lying side by side on the kitchen floor, holding hands. No kissing, nothing more. Just… temptation. In a jolt of sobriety, I thought, What the hell are you doing? I apologised, bolted upstairs, and climbed into bed next to a snoring Clinton. The next morning, Erin shrugged it off. “Whatever,” she said. She couldn’t have cared less.
Back in South Africa, I tried to confess the incident to Terry. “I don’t want to know,” she said flatly. That summed it up. All I wanted was a family that felt like home again—a wife happy to see me walk through the door, someone to bring gifts to, love that felt alive. But it was gone. And what was I clinging to? Somewhere in my head, I was convinced that if I could make Fishy Pete’s and Fly of the Month a financial success, maybe Terry would fall back in love with me—if she ever truly had.