I see it as a sign of the times, anglers unhappy with managed impoundments whose proprietors are following Ronald McDonald’s nutritional guidelines. Perhaps it’s the effect of four beef patties-special-sauce-lettuce-cheese-on-a-sesame-seed-bun slowing our desire to live reflexes just enough so only equally obese prey are vulnerable.

It’s a pity that girls don’t appreciate “big fish” – as us pear shaped anglers would be the new fashion esthetic – splitting time lolling in streamside currents and megabucks Hollywood fitness classes where the formerly fit revive sagging movie careers under our watchful gaze. “Brad, ‘feel the burn’ means doubling the Jalapenos on that Bacon burger, now finish up them fries…”

As the popularity of carp fishing has increased, however, so has the size of the fish. In the last 30 years, the British record has risen by 30 per cent, from around 50lb to 65lb 14oz.

Us humans lag the UK record by a paltry 10%, as the CDC statistics show a similar weight gain in humans over the same period.

Calling it a “bait cannon” versus a “Drive Thru” is splitting hairs. Most of our food resembles pellets, once you peel back the glossy wrapper or the deep fried coating – and we’ve never cried “foul” unless our Tater Tots were chilly or our JuJu Fruits removed fillings.

Like man-made lakes, our refrigerator is a semi-sterile barren environment that needs enhancing with pre-packaged, preprocessed cartoon food with engaging names and incomprehensible ingredients.

A lake’s natural food supply sounds as difficult to build as trophy fish – and to their credit, the fish farmers have forsworn the drive thru – ensuring the fish have to move an occasional fin in order to secure their next shovel full of enriched pellet chow.

No, the real issue is that we’re larger. An inch or so in height per decade – nullified by about 4 inches of girth every fortnight. Fish species are growing smaller, with over harvest and pollution – and a smaller fish in a larger, pudgy hand looks … well, completely lame.

All them black and white bleeding fish hanging from gantries died with Hemingway, and we’re straining to hold a dead fish away from our stretch pants hoping the biggest thing dripping isn’t our chin. A far cry from the heroic glare rendered while crouched predatiously over a fallen yet noble foe.

Instead we’ll force feed Carp like milk-fed veal – hoping that their sodden torso overshadows our own ponderous flanks – hiding our bulk behind the fatted calf – while complaining loudly at the quality of the fishery.

I see it a bit differently than the article; we’ve screwed their habitat, kilt their most fit and vigorous bloodline with hatcheries, screwed their women  – and we begrudge the condemned a last meal?