The great river of life, much like the beautiful, winding chalk streams of Hampshire or the ancient, powerful flows of the Trent, is rarely predictable. It carries us along on currents of joy and tranquility, but it is also merciless, confronting us with unexpected turbulence and devastating shifts in direction. For millions of viewers, the BBC’s critically adored series, Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing, has served as a gentle, reassuring meditation on this journey, a balm for the soul that uses the simple act of angling as a backdrop for profound reflection on male friendship, mortality, and the importance of finding peace in an often-chaotic world.
But now, as the duo of Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse returns to the water for a highly anticipated new chapter, the gentle current has become distinctly slower, more challenging, and infinitely more moving. The central thesis of the show—two men, both survivors of serious heart disease, finding solace and a shared second chance in the British countryside—has evolved into something far more urgent and poignant. This is no longer just a tale of two friends recovering; it is a raw, unvarnished documentary about what it means to grow old, to face physical deterioration, and to rely on the unwavering kindness of a long-standing friend when your own body begins to betray you.
The “change” hinted at in the return of the series is not a seismic shift in format, but an emotional and physical recalibration rooted in Bob Mortimer’s ongoing, severe health battle. The laughter is still present, the banter still gloriously absurd, but beneath the surface of the picturesque scenery and the heart-healthy meals lies a truth Bob has shared with a characteristic blend of frankness and humility: he is “still suffering very much” from the crippling aftermath of shingles.
This was no ordinary case of shingles. Contracted in his muscles, the illness lingered for a brutal six months, causing significant neurological and physical trauma that led to a shocking loss of muscle—specifically, “an awful lot of muscle” in his legs. The revelation is stunning in its clarity and heartbreaking in its context. While viewers may recall him being briefly replaced by Lee Mack for a single episode in a previous run, the true extent of his struggle was largely unseen. He had previously confessed that during the filming of one recent series, his mobility was so compromised that he often needed to be taken to the riverbanks in a wheelchair, which was then strategically hidden out of sight of the cameras. The effort involved in simply getting to his fishing spot was immense, a silent, daily battle fought before the cameras even began to roll.
The latest return to the screen finds Bob bravely continuing his recovery, “desperately trying to get some strength back” in his weakened legs. He can’t run, he admits, but quickly adds with typical dark humour that he doesn’t do much running these days anyway—a poignant attempt to minimise a struggle that is profoundly impacting his life and the physical demands of filming the show. This vulnerability has defined the tone of the new episodes. As Bob shared, the conversations between the two friends frequently turn to the undeniable reality that they are “beginning to feel our age.” They are slower, less strong, more forgetful, and perhaps “a bit more grumpy.”
This willingness to confront their collective physical decline, their shared sense of time running out, is the true heart of this new season. It is a subtle but deep-seated shift that elevates Gone Fishing from charming, quiet television to a vital piece of current affairs programming on the subject of aging well—or, more accurately, aging honestly—in the modern world. The show’s brilliance has always resided in its unscripted intimacy, the way it uses the meditative rhythm of fishing to coax genuine, deeply personal confessionals out of two men who have spent decades communicating primarily through comedy. Now, that intimacy is intensified by the urgency of Bob’s physical frailty, turning Paul Whitehouse into less of a co-star and more of a steadfast emotional and physical anchor.
Their friendship is the show’s most powerful character, a living testament to the kind of profound male bond that often goes unacknowledged in public life. The series itself was born from crisis. Following Bob’s emergency triple heart bypass surgery in 2015, he became, by his own admission, reclusive. Paul, who had also dealt with his own serious heart issues, recognised the danger of isolation and offered the simple, life-saving invitation: “Come fishing.” The river became the therapeutic space where they could talk about their fear, their health, and their mortality without the pressure of a doctor’s office or a comedy stage. The new dynamic of Bob needing greater physical support only serves to deepen this foundational narrative. Paul’s gentle guidance is no longer just about landing a fish; it is about ensuring his friend can safely navigate the riverbank, a quiet, protective duty that speaks volumes about their connection.
This tangible frailty has necessitated a change in the show’s very structure. This time, Bob and Paul chose the locations not based on target fish species, but based on personal meaning. They embark on what Bob refers to as “nostalgia trips,” visiting places that resonate with their individual histories and shared pasts. This shift creates a beautiful, melancholy backdrop, fusing their present physical challenges with the memory of their more vital youths.
In one highly emotional episode, Bob’s nostalgia trip takes him back to Manchester, where he is reunited with Paddy, a friend he hadn’t seen for over twenty-five years. This reunion, facilitated by the show’s structure, is a potent reminder that the most valuable catches in life are not found on the hook, but in the rekindling of forgotten bonds. It’s a moment that asks the viewer: who in your past do you need to reconnect with while you still have the strength and the time?
Paul, too, gets his own trip down memory lane, choosing a location in Wales and ensuring the accommodation is “in keeping with our memories”—a 1970s-style caravan. This focus on past comforts and meaningful locations adds an almost wistful layer to the series, suggesting that as the future becomes less certain, the past gains a golden, immutable importance. They are, in essence, trying to physically revisit the places that shaped them before their physical capacity makes such pilgrimages impossible. The vulnerability inherent in this admission is what makes the show so fiercely relatable and emotionally devastating.
The show’s enduring success, culminating in multiple BAFTA nominations and awards, is not a fluke. It is a cultural phenomenon driven by its therapeutic honesty. Gone Fishing operates as a masterful piece of “slow television,” where the absence of manufactured drama allows the audience to tune in to the quiet, vital drama of being human. In an age of relentless speed, frantic social media commentary, and curated celebrity perfection, Bob and Paul offer an antidote: two genuinely imperfect men, openly admitting their limitations and their fears.
They talk about death, health, diet, regrets, and the subtle indignities of old age with a disarming lack of sentimentality that paradoxically makes the conversation infinitely more affecting. For many men in particular, the show provides a rare, crucial example of how to have these difficult conversations—how to express fear and love without resorting to cliché. Paul’s gently exasperated mentoring of Bob, contrasted with Bob’s unwavering, sometimes childlike, enthusiasm for life, forms a perfect, balanced dynamic. This dynamic has never been more important than in a season where one of them is visibly and physically struggling.
The visual contrast between the youthful exuberance of the landscapes—the rushing rivers, the soaring birdlife, the lush green banks—and the palpable physical exhaustion of the two aging comedians is a powerful cinematic metaphor. It is a reminder that nature is eternal, but the human body is fragile and temporary. Yet, it is within this fragility that the greatest strength is found: the strength to continue to show up, to laugh, and to keep fishing, even when every muscle screams in protest.
Bob’s admission about his lost muscle mass is a profound moment of vulnerability, giving context to the slow, measured pace of the new episodes. When a person renowned for his physical comedy and almost cartoonish energy is curtailed by pain and weakness, the reality check is startling. This isn’t comedy theatre; it’s survival. The fact that they continued to film, making this season one of their most challenging, speaks volumes about their dedication to the show’s core message: keep moving, keep talking, and keep connecting.
The choice of nostalgic locations—the places that Bob and Paul specifically wanted to revisit—is symptomatic of a generation looking back as they slow down. It’s a form of emotional auditing, a way of ensuring that the important memories and the important people have been honoured. The caravan in Wales, the old friend in Manchester, the river that first taught Paul to fish—these are not just backdrops; they are emotional milestones. The show essentially becomes an extended, deeply moving memoir written in the language of trout and tweed.
Ultimately, the eighth series of Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing may be the most challenging they have ever produced, but it promises to be their most resonant. It offers viewers something far more meaningful than escapism: it offers recognition. It recognises that life is hard, that bodies break, and that laughter is sometimes the only effective defence against fear. By openly discussing their physical decline and their deep-seated desire to cherish the time they have left, Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse have created a new, profoundly important chapter in their on-screen narrative.
They look “physically a lot different from the first seasons,” Bob noted, acknowledging the march of time captured by the lens. They have aged, and so has their beloved canine co-star, Ted. But the love, the unique, gentle comedy, and the life-affirming message of friendship remain untarnished, stronger than ever, proving that even when you are desperately trying to get the strength back in your legs, you can still cast a line and catch a piece of human truth. This season is not just about fishing; it’s about the fierce, quiet love required to help a friend endure. It is a masterpiece of emotional persistence and enduring companionship, and its powerful honesty will continue to spark the lively, vital discussions that we all need to have about our own journeys along the river.
This video discusses the eighth series of Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing, providing context and behind-the-scenes insights into the new, personally reflective season.
