Diary Archive '05

Saturday December 24th.

Welcome to all of the Pint persuasion. A very merry Christmas to you. As the day draws nigh, in the small but perfectly formed village that I inhabit, preparations are now complete. The festive décor is in place, many houses are illuminated at night, the village shop is running out of cranberry sauce and the alehouses are stocking up on poor quality beer secure in the knowledge that the fools who drink will happily part with £2.40 a pint. All, that is, except the dear old absentee landlord who will be offering over the holiday period some Castle Rock Elsie Mo and Fullers London Pride, but more of that later. Last night I invited Mrs. Pint out for a tipple and we wound our way to Ghandi's place where we met up with Bro and were enjoying the last pint of Jennings' Cocker Hoop when a group of spotty adolescents strolled into the bar unaware that it was full of over forties. To say they stood out like a pimple on otherwise unblemished skin would be an understatement. Naturally Ghandi asked for ID and, when they could not produce any gave them their marching orders. I only mention this as it led to a tirade from Ghandi about what a muddle the new drinking laws were. This is unlike him as he is normally a gentle soul. He then cleared off down the cellar and left the debate to continue. Well, as the Jennings had run out and Theakstons XB was on Mrs. Pint and I took our leave, but Bro continued to practise his debating skills. So it was just the two of us that strolled into our local. As Mrs. Pint observed, it is as comfortable as putting on a pair of slippers. We ordered ale and received Elsie Mo, a marvellous, pale orange, bitter beer, and fell into conversation with the Woodbutcher and Al. Somewhat later bro appeared who, having fallen in with our local leprechaun, had come via the awful gastro-pub where he had suffered a gastric attack by Ruddles County. He then proceeded to carp about the Elsie Mo. "It's a bit flowery", he whined. The absentee landlord seized on this to offer up a sample of London Pride. Bro and Al nodded sagely as they tasted it and pronounced it good, although to my palate it was a day off being ready. Al will give approval to anything that comes from the big smoke, even Youngs, but imagine my horror when Bro ordered a pint of it! Turning down the splendid Castle Rock for slightly green Fullers. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy London Pride, it is a very good product and served well can compete with most but this was not quite in tiptop condition yet. I decided to converse with the Woodbutcher but he was selling slots on a raffle card at £2 a go. "What happens if he doesn't sell them all", I queried. "Just read the small print", said the leprechaun, "invalid if incomplete". Mrs. Pint had a go anyway, parting with my hard-earned cash to a gleeful Woodbutcher.

Tonight I expect I shall look in and wish all a merry Xmas. Have a peaceful but boozy time.

Doctor Pint.

Sunday December 18th.

In our little community the old denizens have some local wisdom by which they can tell that Christmas and the winter solstice are approaching. Grizzled old men nod their heads sagely and utter things like, "when the Oak's fire do roar it be cold out of door". These sayings have been passed down from father to son for generations and can usually be relied on to give a good indication of the season. Take for example that old saw, " when Christmas draws near there'll be nought but shite beer", how true. Yestereve my brother and I set out on a quest to find something of interest. I glanced up and looked into the frosty night sky and saw a star. " Let us follow it", I said to bro. Yea and lo it led us to Ghandi's where sadly his guest beer had run out and the next one was not ready, leaving only Pedigree. "Sod this", I said and proceeded up the road to the SoM. Here the landlord had at least got a guest beer on tap, unfortunately it was only Green King Abbot which is, at best, a mediocre drink. Still I was not prepared to go back out into the cold without a pint inside me so I ordered a couple. For once it was not unpleasant, but neither would I drink it out of choice. I was about to suggest leaving to my bro when who should walk in but our dear old friend Pearl whom neither of us have set eyes on for months. We had another. Pearl was his usual jolly self, spinning his traveller's tales of beer, sex and football. He had a very 'interesting' video on his mobile phone that appeared to show a couple doing what couples do best and was keen to send it to my phone. Fortunately I was able to put him off by claiming not to know how to enable my mobile. Later we continued our long journey down to the Oak in the hope of finding Christmas cheer but were to be sadly disappointed. The absentee landlord had Jenning's Snecklifter on, (which he insists on calling Shirtlifter) which is passable and was in good shape but tastes too liquoricey for my liking. Ah well, as they say round these parts, " Come the new year there be decent beer", let's hope so!

Sunday December 11th.

Yesterday Mrs.Pint and daughter disappeared into town so I was left with my son and the task of putting the Christmas lights up outside our house. These are a modest affair of some 'icicle 'lights and a string of flashing blue stars. This I did and then returned to England versus Pakistan. In the afternoon we erected the tree and decorated it, put up a few decorations and now the house looks rather jolly. That was until dusk when it became apparent that my next door neighbour had rather outdone my attempts. His house is lit by a much larger batch of icicle lights, a mass of blue lights, some chaser lights and an illuminated steam engine. The whole thing can be seen from space and looks like a branch of cineworld. Later we popped out for a jar of Taylors at the Shoulder in Lichfield and then returned to the SoM in our beloved village. Spitfire was on offer and while not marvellous was passable. However when Mick joined us it had run out and we were told that he next guest beer wasn't ready. Sad but true. We then moved on to the olde Star Wars bar but did not bother ordering as on entry it became obvious that, the once enthusiastic landlord, has now become a lazy beggar and only had on Marstons and Banks' Original, neither of which is any good IMHO. So it was down to my local. Mick was feeling rather thirsty by now as he had not yet had a beer. Happily the absentee landlord had some Oldershaw's Newton's Drop available and we tucked into it. The Oak is a wonderful small boozer and on winter evening is made more cheerful by a roaring fire which is so efficient nobody can get within five yards of it. Sitting by it is to risking singeing ones clothes and the AL keeps it well stoked with what appear to pieces from his garden shed. Plank after plank is piled on the inferno. Later we tried the other Oldershaw beer, High Dyke and found it to be a hoppy, fruity brew that had a pleasing family resemblance to the Newton's Drop. On turning the corner into my street a little later on, I noticed my neighbours house, still illuminating the whole street like an oversized kebab house. Who's worrying about energy?

Sunday December 4th.

At last the festive season is in sight so we can all begin to look forward to a jolly old time, oiled by large quantities of real ale. However first I had to get over the intolerable situation I had been put into on Saturday evening. Unfortunately, for me at least, we were invited to a 'bit of a do'. The daughter of one of Mrs. Pint's friends has recently got hitched in New York and for some reason decided to invite us to the post-wedding celebration. Now this sort of thing is really for the families of the happy couple to have a knees-up and get to know each other, (or dislike each other as the case may be). Of course some of the newly-weds' friends may be invited to add a certain rowdiness to the proceedings but in my humble opinion it is not for the likes of me. Of course Mrs. Pint , being her rational self, wasn't having any of it. The half pints got their instructions, "polish your shoes, comb your hair, smarten yourself up , we're not going to an Aled Jones concert", sort of thing. I got short shrift when suggesting I was not feeling well and had a migraine coming on. Eventually she got me into a jacket and tie and we ended up at the 'do' at about eight -o-clock. The place was full of happy, smiling people making polite conversation. sadly I had been designated driver for the evening and was unable to drink. Well not too sadly as the bar only had lager or the loathsome nitrokeg. The minutes ticked by 8.15, 8.30, 832. I amused myself by making rude pictures from the confetti that was scattered on the tables, 8.46, 854. I played with my mobile phone, 8.59, 902. I tried holding my breath for as long as I could, 9.06. The disco was dire, all the DJ seemed to have was old Tamla-Motown records which he playd at an irritating volume, too quietly to hear properly but loud enough to impinge on ones thoughts. My thoughts drifted towards my dear old local where bro and Mick would be happily sipping their pints of Cocker-Hoop. 9.30, 938. At last the DJ announced that the buffet was open resulting a scrummage that the All Blacks would be proud of. I was becoming terminally depressed, 9.39, 9.40. " Lets have a big hand for the bride and groom as they take the first dance", Cue flashing disco lights and a sudden increase in volume to deafening. 9.45 and I have had enough. I plead with Mrs. Pint to take pity on me. She looks at the half-pints and sees that they are in a vegetative state and agrees that we should 'slip out'. Once outside climb in the car, mad drive home, get in the house and quickly throw on jeans and a t-shirt and I am away down the Oak. I was so pleased I even bought one of the absentee landlords' half price cheese and onion rolls that he couldn't palm off on anyone else. Several pints of Cocker-Hoop later I felt considerably better. Thank the Lord for the new drinking hours, they were made for occasions like this!

Sunday November 27th.

A fairly dismal evening's drinking last night as we trawled the village but found nothing outstanding. Ghandi had some rather green St. Andrew's ale on, the S.O.M. had the Tunnel brewery's Sweet Parish Ale which was nothing of the sort, we didn't even try the Middle Bell's Abbot and instead settled for Wells' Bombadier at the Oak which at least had the virtue of being in good condition. Friday was rather better as my local had Titanic Iceberg on, a beer that will shortly feature on the beer pages of this site. It is a very astringent pale brew necessitating me making several trips in my pyjamas to the toilet for glasses of water during the night. Always a good sign!

As for the new opening hours Ghandi said it would make no difference to him as he opened till midnight anyway and my local intends to open till midnight on Saturdays and stay open till eleven on Sundays. The latter seems a good idea, Sunday closing has become an anachronism, I can remember on honeymoon in Anglesey pubs being closed all day, bloody Methodists! Bank holidays also need addressing. It seems ludicrous that you have to drink up at 10.30 on the Sunday but that you can drink to all hours on Monday in the knowledge that work awaits with the dawn. At least this anomaly will be put right. As for Good Friday, I shall say no more.

I''m afraid there is no picture this week.

Sunday November 20th.

Called in at the redoubtable Coopers last night and found to our surprise that it has changed hands since we last paid a visit. The new owner is establishing a small chain of alehouses around the area and the beers of choice appear to be those brewed by the Tower brewery in good old Burton on Trent. We all decided on a pint of the cooking bitter to begin with, it was a delightfully fruity brew with distinct hop flavours and we soon decided to try another. This is what decent drinking is all about. You should look forward to another pint of the same, not reluctantly endure a further drink. For a change we sat in a raised area to the right of the bar and chatted about various things with the barman from sport to beer with some discussion of colcannon inbetween. For those who may not know this is an Irish delicacy made from...you guessed.....potatoes with savoy cabbage and spring onions. Bro had apparantly not heard of it as he attempted a joke about dead clergymen until we explained that the word was colcannon not cold canon. All this was very nice so we had another, this time I went for Hoskins Supreme, a beer that used to be brewed in Market Bosworth but is now occasionally brewed by Tower. This was also excellent and a had a bit more body than the ordinary bitter. Anyway we opted for another. By now time was getting on and we called for a taxi home. The driver was a nice young fellow and we engaged in conversation with him also. Finally we called in at Ghandi's where the Cocker Hoop was still going strong. At last I rolled home, changed the TV channel, ate half a large pork pie, made a hot drink, went to bed and left the drink untouched as I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. All in all a perfect night out.

Sunday November 13th.

At last the weather is turning a little colder and a man's thoughts turn to winter evenings and a log fire blazing in the hearth, the company of family and friends, rich food and a pint of good ale. Speaking of which, this weekend has been rather spiffing on the beer front. On Friday Mrs. Pint and I wandered down our local for a couple of drinks and had a most enjoyable evening. Alan and Akin, that well known comedy duo, were in and we were joined by the Woodbutcher and my bro for some rather excellent Jennings Cockerhoop that the Absentee Landlord served us straight from the cask. One fears for this ale as the brewery has been taken over by the unlovely Wolverhampton and Dudley, so we enjoyed it while we could.

On Saturday Mrs Pint dropped us in nearby Lichfield where we repaired to the local branch of Wetherspoons. The wide selection of beers on tap gave us pause for thought but eventually we settled on Golden Promise from the Caledonian brewery. It was a tasty and fruity beer but served a little too cold for my liking. The pub itself is cavernous building that has been opened up into one gigantic room, adorned with various spectacular light fittings. As usual the place was heaving with customers of every description, old chaps in tweed jostled with underage drinkers, loud parties of young, binge -drinking, tarty girls rubbed shoulders with dedicated ale drinkers like ourselves. At last, troubled by the sight of a fair amount of female flesh, we made our way to the Queens Head. Lichfield on a Saturday night has, like many towns, become a mecca for those seeking to get hammered and is not a prticularly pleasant place to be out walking. Groups of young men and women patrolled the streets making a lot of noise, regurgitating kebabs and showing acres of stomach all at nine-o-clock. I dread to think what it is like at chucking out time. However the Queens is an oasis of calm and we ordered our Tim Taylors and stood at the bar chatting. To our surprise in walked Pinfield who by our reckoning should have been at the local cricket club dinner and dance. It turned out that earlier on he had dropped into the Queens for a few snifters and left behind his carrier bag full of trophies which were now required at the do. Sadly they were nowhere to be found but this didn't prevent him from having a swift half of Beowulf Wiglaf, which he downed in two gulps. He then left the building. We decided to sample the same beer and found it to very nicely balanced. After being driven home by bro's lady wife we opted for a quick pint in the Royal Oak which still had the Cockerhoop available. All in all a most satisfactory weekend.

Sunday November 6th.

Last night Mrs. Pint, myself, one half-pint and a friend attended the Gala Extravagaza Firework Display at my local. This has become a regular fixture on the round of social events and as such it is important to be seen there! We strolled down at about 7.20 p.m. in eager anticipation. I went to the bar to purchase some Old Hookey direct from the cask which the absentee landlord was jovially dispensing. Sadly this years display clashed with another large firework show in the village and there attendance was perhaps lower than it might have been. The fire was blazing away as the absentee landlord and friends made their way out, rather like gladiators at the Colosseum, to light up the skies over the pub. The crowd held their breath as the first rocket was lit, only to exhale again when it failed to go off. Eventually, despite advice not to, it was lit and nearly scorched a track up the back of Colin's white coat. After such excitement the resulting explosion was a bit of a let down but things gradually improved. The trouble with dos like these is that the crowd is mostly people who normally wouldn't be seen dead in the pub. We were standing near a couple who had an irritating child who kept pushing in and out and inbetween our legs. "Louka don't do that", "Louka would ums like a drinkie", was the pathetic attempt from his trendy parents to bring him under control. "Louka stand still or I shall make use of my horsewhip", might have been more appropriate. "Oh look that must be the scouts' display", a woman said pointing in entirely the wrong direction. She was obviously disoriented by a being at a strange alehouse. Meanwhile the A.L. and friends kept lighting fireworks and narrowly escaping a barbequeing.

Later on Mick and my bro joined me at Ghandi's place for a pint of Belhaven St.Andrew's Ale which was very pleasant. Fruity but with some malt. When that ran out Highgate Fat Catz replaced it, a pale brew but at 4.9% strongish. Again though it was quite drinkable.

Sunday October 29th.

I have had a busy week since last writing, particularly on the drinking front. Last Monday I had occasion to drive into nearby Derby with my brother and having completed our business we called in at the Brunswick Arms, (see Pub Prescriptions), a pub that I have not visited for some time. Therefore it was reassuring to still see the wide range of draught beers on offer, twelve or more. Bro, as usual, opted for Timmy Taylors Landlord and pronounced it very good, I, on the other hand, being a tad more adventurous went for one of the Brunswick's own beers, Triple Hop. It was indeed an exceptionally pale beer with a very fruity flavour but also an incredibly dry finish. Definitely one to try again. In fact the Brunswick had four home brewed products on sale, amazing for such a small plant. On Wednesday I had a miserable evening's boozing, even my normally reliable local had some poor quality ale. Do brewers ever taste their own drinks? Do they even care? I suspect in the majority of cases the answer is a resounding no. Yestereve Mick, bro and I nipped over to Lichfield to try the Duke of Wellington. We arrived in the middle of a 'halloween' party and the place was pretty busy. We ordered some Theakstons Bitter which I have to say was uninspiring and insipid. We then went on a hike around the pub to try and find somewhere to have a quiet conversation. This proved impossible, having moved away from the packed bar we found ourselves next to a large loudspeaker that was pumping out James Brown, bro led us through the crowds of drinkers to the bar only to find a large plasma screen TV showing Scooby Doo. I was relieved to leave this nightmarish situation and take a ten minute walk to the Queens Head. This too was crowded but simply because it has the best beer in town. I had Acorn Brewery's Gold brewed in Barnsley and it was pleasantly drinkable with a strong taste of hops and a background malt tang. Bro opined that all good beer should make one look forward to finishing it and then get another. This seemed a reasonable definition until Mick pointed out that there were many occasions when the beer had been so unpleasant that it was a pleasure to finish it and to get something decent. I must just finish by saying that the Oak had Oldershaws bitter on offer when we arrived there and it seemed pretty good but I shall not offer an opinion as by then I was rather drunk.

Sunday October 23rd.

Today is an important day. No, this is not about Trafalgar day although the eponymous sea battle has far reaching consequences. The fact that we are not a nation of horse munchers, onion vendors, garlic eaters, winos and German appeasers are just some of them. No, this is not about stuffing the French. Today myself and a selected few including the Woodbutcher are going to attempt to move my brother's garden shed, in one piece. The planning that has gone into this feat would be worthy of Nelson himself. Batons have been screwed to the base of the shed and thoughtfully covered with insulation to make handling them easier. The plan is then to lift the building, rather like a sedan chair, and site it in its new position. Naturally I am hoping one of the half-pints will video the event so that if anything goes wrong, (i.e. it collapses in a heap of matchwood), we can send the tape off to 'You've been Framed' and buy a brand new shed with the proceeds.

Mick and I met up last night at Ghandi's place to find Black Sheep bitter on tap and the local rugby club about to leave after a bout of sustained imbibage. Ghandi surveyed the damage, it looked like a herd of incontinent bison had passed through his bar. However he recovered sufficiently to pour us a pint of ale and very good it was too. After a couple we wandered off down to our local where we were offered Marstons Wicked Witch. It tasted vaguely unpleasant like a slightly stronger version of Pedigree. The absentee landlord, realising we were not enamoured of it, offered to get us a round of his next guest which was Deuchars IPA. This was as good as the Wicked Witch was poor and because it had been drawn straight from the barrel it was perfectly flat and had a wonderful flavour. I am hoping for more of the same tonight paid for by my brother in recognition of services rendered.

Sunday October 16th.

Yesterday I decided to accompany my brother and my niece and Mick and Nick to a football match. It is at least two years since I last bothered to go. I also ventured out into the village last night for a pint or two. After sampling both activities it is difficult to choose which was the more boring.

The first problem was how to fit three in the rear seat of bro's car. Normally one would expect to cope but this was far from normalcy. Nick is a fair sized chap but Mick is 'homo giganticus' The result was that I was squashed into a space that a hamster would have found claustrophobic. I was surprised when we arrived that I didn't float out of the car like a sheet of newspaper. As we had arrived several hours early to get a 'good parking place', (in a back street that could have been a stunt double for an alley in Bhagdad), we ambled into town to find a chip shop. The one we found was basic but clean and the grub was tasty, in fact it was to be the highlight of the afternoon! On to the game. I am afraid, despite wanting to feel involved and interested, it was extremely dull. The goal was a shambolic affair arising from a corner that itself resulted from our centre half and goalkeeper being incommunicado. The fact that there were several clear fouls in the process did nothing to dispel the gloom that descended, both metaphorical and literal. One knew it wasn't going to end happily ever after. What I found particularly depressing was the stupidity of the supporters around us. Instead of incisive comment and spirited chants to lift our boys some loudmouthed oafs decided the best way to help the team was to call the referee an onanist and the opposition supporters, excrement. At a football match you can really see that as a species we are three square meals away from anarchy. Any way after I had returned home, crushed again by Mick's massive bulk, I decided to take the car into Burton and try out the British Oak pub which is also a small brewery, Cottage Ales. The result of our little excursion seems to be a real gem. There were five or six beers on handpull three of which were brewed on the premises. As driver I was only able to have one but the basic Cottage bitter had a good malt-hop balance and left a pleasant aftertaste. I shall report again from this pub. When we arrived back, having dropped the car off, it must be said the fare was disappointing. The SoM had nothing on, Ghandi had a poor Marstons brew called Wicked Witch and the Star Wars Bar had Banks' Original, a wholly uninspiring choice and a watery, soapy drink. At least my local had some Jennings Snecklifter on offer which while not to my taste was in good condition and had a strong liquoricey flavour. So all in all not a particularly interesting day brightened only by Brenda's tasty chips and the pint of Cottage bitter. Perhaps next week........

Sunday October 9th.

Some days one just feels that everything is going well. Today is one such. I awoke a little later than usual, pulled back the curtains and saw sunshine. I pottered downstairs in my delightful village residence, and made a large mug of English breakfast tea and warmed a croissant, lovingly, in the microwave. What could be better than a peaceful Sunday morning knowing that shortly my brother will be running/plodding nine kilometres round the village whilst I sit here reading the papers. Of course he is not doing this out of a love of running, it is in fact for charity, (I believe he has raised a hundred pounds or more for breast cancer), and he will be joined by many more athletes for the event. However this explains why, on a night when we were able to obtain some decent beer my bro restricted himself to two and a half pints. Yes, last night the absentee landlord had the very wonderful Elsie Mo bitter from, that splendid brewery in Nottingham, Castle Rock. In fact he has confided to me that he also has a barrel each of their Hemlock and Harvest Pale beers. The Elsie Mo was in excellent shape. It weighs in at 4.7abv. but drinks more like a 4.0 and is highly refreshing, in fact I ended up somewhat overrefreshed, to borrow a phrase from my good friend Pinfield. It is a blonde beer and as such is very pale in colour and has a distinct family resemblence to Harvest Pale. Sadly I suspect it will gone by the time I write this as there was only a nine gallon barrel, but the good news is that Hemlock is next up!

So it is back to the papers and a nice cup of tea before popping out to see how my bro has fared, and, quite possibly, a quick pint.

Sunday October 2nd.

Talk about after the Lord Mayor's show, yestereve Bro and myself ventured forth into our picturesque village to see what treats the local alehouses had in store. First port of call was Ghandi's place where we recieved a warm welcome and anticipated a pleasant pint of Titanic White Star. This beer is a regular on Marston's guest list and is one of the few that is genuinely drinkable despite being quite strong, (4.8abv). Sadly the pint we got was somewhat below top condition and we only partook of one. On to the Red Lion or the Star Wars Bar as my good friend Pearl christened it, after the strange creatures who inhabit it. On route we quickly checked the SoM to see what they had on in case it was Tim Taylors, (well by the law of averages it will appear one day.) However the SoM, had no, that's right, no guest beer. I am sorry to say that the Star Wars Bar was little better. Banks' Original was their offering. Pleasant enough I suppose if you like an insipid pint. In case you are not familiar with this particular beer, it used to be called Banks' Mild. The brewery obviously thought that Mild needed a new image or no-one will drink it so Original it is. It is pity they do not realise that instead of tinkering with the name they actually gave it some flavour more potential drinkers would try it. Anyway I resorted to Guinness after one pint. So we legged it down to the old faithful, the Oak where we had the best pint of the evening, Wychwood Hobgoblin. Dark and fruity but a little strong for a session. Pat joined us for a turn on the quiz machine where we displayed admirable knowledge about Nobel prize winners. I have to confess feeling a bit 'peeky' this morning, I put it down the Guinness!

Saturday September 24th.

Wonder of wonders, I am coherent after a beer festival. As it happens I did not go beserk drinking all the beers of 1060 og or more but restrained myself to a few carefully selected halves. Bro, Pinfield , Rowland and I arrived at around 7.00 and walked straight in. I was greeted by a crowd of acquaintances who to judge by the noise had been in there since 5.00. " The bloody 15% beer's run out but I've got one that tastes like cherry cola", was typical. Only Clive remained sensible, stolidly drinking his way through a few barrels. We split up to collect our first drink of the evening and I went to get a half of Beowulf's Beorma bitter. When I came back there was some merriment at Bro's misreading of a brewery name, "lets have some Bell End" . Suggestions for names produced amusement, 'the whole nine inches' and 'knobcheese' were two of several penis related monickers. Whilst purchasing a half of Whim Arbor Light I met Wesley who I haven't seen in some time. Naturally we picked up the conversation where we had left off a couple of years ago as blokes do. I was introduced to his new ladyfriend who is from Doncaster and we passed a pleasant quarter of an hour until I had to repair to the overcrowded loo. On my return I was accosted by Mick , the woodbutcher and several other denizens of the small village where I dwell. By now it was becoming impossible to move without bumping into somebody so I went to the nearest stall and got some O'Hanlons Wheat Beer which, I must say, was rather spiffing. Eventually Pinfield obtained a taxi and we returned to the Royal Oak where disappointingly the choice was Pedigree or Brakspears. Still by then I was past caring.

Beers sampled.

Church End 'Banana Bonkers' ( Pleasant banana flavoured beer with a hoppy finish). Beowulf 'Beorma' (Light pale but a bit uninteresting). Whim 'Arbor Light' (Tasty, refreshing and hoppy low gravity bitter.) Enville 'Nailmaker' Mild (An interesting drink with complex malt and hop flavours, not really my sort of thing though.) O'Hanlons 'Wheat Beer' (Best beer of the evening, light and refreshing).

There was only one moan all night and that was from my sibling who reckoned the Irish should stick to brewing stout after trying the Hildens beer.

Thursday September 22nd.

Tomorrow is our local beer festival and, along with some friends, I shall be visiting

it. Therefore it may be some time until I am sober enough to write more and even then I doubt I will be capable of remembering much about it. See you all on Sunday (I hope).

Sunday September 18th.

This will be a very short report as my brother and I found no, that's right, no acceptable ale anywhere in our delightful village. Here is the list for what it's worth.

S.oM. Very poor pint of Tanglefoot. Tasted bland and of very little at all. Then the barrel ran out. The new beer was Everards Tiger. My brother persuaded me to try a pint. It tasted bland and of very little at all. How does the landlord manage it? How can a good beer like Tiger be so nondescript? The answer is, of course, as I have complained before, that it is simply tapped too early! We decided to ask the absentee landlord, later on, how long he keeps his beer before serving.

Ghandi's. Here I had a very poor pint of Pedigree, it had no malt flavour at all and an acidic tang. Left a third undrunk. Bro had a pint of Marstons Double Drop, this too, for a beer rated at 4.9%, was anaemic and without the flavour one would expect. This is strange for Ghandi who usually is on the ball. In this case I suspect it is just bad beer from the brewery.

The Royal Oak. At last, we thought, a decent pint. Sadly disappointment, Sheperd Neame Spitfire was the so called 'guest' beer. As usual The absentee landlord could not be faulted on his serving. This is a poor product and no amount of TLC will alter that. Again no flavour. However we did ask about keeping beer as the AL has a 'Cask Mark'. He told us that generally he leaves it seven to ten days before tapping. I wish he would give the landlord at the S.oM. that piece of information. Anyway we gave up although the AL did have an innovation. Fresh sausage and egg cobs! We felt obliged to take one each as they were not selling and time was running out. At £1.50 each they were a bit pricey but there was a lot of cob. We both staggered home under the weight. I couldn't finish mine but I must say that it was particulalry tasty. More than can be said for my liquid intake on the night.

Sunday September 11th.

What makes a perfect pub? Some of my acquaintances would say fine food, others would point to the luxurious decor. Some people would say a good wine list or a wide range of lagers and beers, good company or a friendly landlord, many would say all of these factors go towards producing a fine inn. For me some of these are important but above all factors, the defining one must be a decent pint of beer! The Coopers is an unprepossessing pub in a back street of Burton. From the outside it looks pretty rough and the area it is situated in is not exactly the best in the town, (although one might argue there are no pleasant areas in Burton). Inside the decor is basic, floors are bare, walls are nicotine stained, the tables are clean but wooden and the seats are old benches. The bar is non-exisistent and if there are more than three people waiting to be served one has to wait outside in the corridor. The food is plain but good, the range of drinks is limited and the toilets are basic and outside.

However the beer is absolutely wonderful, there were several draught ales on last night when my bro , Mick and I visited this earthly paradise. All of the ones we tried were in tip-top condition and we sat contentedly sipping the nectar provided. Castle Rock is a small brewery which shines far brighter than some of the larger ones. The Harvest Pale ale is a light yellow beer with a wonderful hoppy, fruity flavour. The second beer we sampled was Hopback Crop Circle another pale liquid with a thirst quenching hop taste filling the mouth with its fruity flavour. What more can I say? So a perfect pub? As near as it gets for me.

Sunday September 4th.

Wales. Just the mention of the place conjures up images of unspeakable horror but depite this the lady wife and I plus the half pints ventured into it's depths this week and found that it wasn't actually that bad. Our initial destination was Portmerion, famous as the set for the sixties cult TV show 'The Prisoner'. What a delightful place. We explored it pretty thoroughly. Unfortunately I did not get chance to see whether the hotel sold any draught beer though. We bade it goodbye with a heartfelt, 'be seeing you'. Next stop was Harlech castle built by Edward 1 to keep the natives in thrall. It is indeed an impressive edifice and to judge by the visitors it was still keeping Welsh people away, they all had black country accents!

In the evening we visited a pub called theTy Mawr Hotel at Llanbedr. Imagine my delight to find Tim Taylors on tap and also a beer brewed by Evans & Evans the name of which I forget. Anyway the family settled down to a round of currys and I to my T.T.s. The landlord was English as were the bar staff and most of the patrons. It was an added pleasure when a gentleman came in to the bar and asked in his best Wolverhampton accent if the landlord to switch the telly to the footie which happened to be Wolves v QPR . Next day we drove back through Snowdonia, unfortunately as is the way in foreign parts it began to rain later on and continued to bucket down until we crossed the border.

Monday August 29th

I must admit to being fairly active on the drinking front these last few days. On Thursday I arranged to meet up with my good friend Wee Jock and we spent a happy hour or two in each other's company and with a few pints of Tom Woods Harvest Bitter. Unfortunately we were collared by a couple who sought my professional opinion on a particular matter. I managed to pass thme off with some rubbish and by opting for a comfort break. Wee Jock was less fortunate and had to listen to their tiresome opinions. Such persons should be not be allowed out in public. On Friday I ventured down my local, which is, I M HO, a real treasure, and met my brother who has returned from foreign parts and is making up for a week spent drinking San Miguel lager. The absentee landlord was actually in attendance and in a good mood too. When I turned my nose up at Adnams Broadside he offered to fetch me a couple of pints of Belhaven St Andrew's Ale which was maturing in his cellar. It was still a bit 'green' but tasted pleasantly fruity and we spent the evening downing the stuff. On Saturday The lady wife deigned to come out with us so we sallied forth into a nearby town to a pub on the outskirts which, despite being an eatery and rather expensive does serve a marvellous pint. Tim Taylors, Deuchars IPA and Lichfield Sundance were all in tip top shape. Apparantly the wine wasn't too bad either. Back to my local where to my surprise the absentee landlord was still serving. Perhaps he has run out of funds and cannot afford to employ replacements. Anyhow, over a couple of pints of Belhaven I was interested to learn that all of the local pubs' application papers for a new licence had been lost by the solictors. The A.L. was not pleased as it meant him having to take his publican's examination again. My brother and I were quite shocked by this piece of information, surely anybody drinking his beer would know he is competent. The same cannot be said for the landlord of the S.o.M. who wouldn't know a cask of ale from a plant pot. On Sunday we both needed to calm down after an afternoon's cricket. Yes, I know we beat Australia but my stomach was still upset several hours after the final runs had been scored. Still, great to see the Aussies going down the dunney. I am pleased to say a few pints of Tom Woods Harvest and a chat with Ghandi settled my fractious stomach. I think perhaps a couple nights off the beer might now be in order.

Sunday August 21st.

For the last couple of nights I have been imbibing a beer from Lincolnshire, and it tasted quite palatable. Highwood brewery's Tom Wood's Harvest has a distinctly moreish taste to it. This is probably because the hop flavours are slightly greater than the malt, although it still packs a pleasant tang of the latter. Needless to say I have given it a thorough and rigourous testing! Earlier in the week I was pleasantly surprised by the latest offering by Marstons. Every now and then they produce a brew for the 'guest' slot, usually these brews are either quite strong or variations on that once great beer, now much diminished, Pedigree. However Ashes Ale, brewed to coincide with the excellent cricket matches, is a different beast. Amber in colour with a complex flavour, this beer is one that you go back for more of. If only Pedigree were brewed to the same recipe! Perhaps Marstons should do just that. What a pity, then, that my brother and Mick were both holidaying abroad when Ashes Ale was on. Bro is currently enjoying the delights of Ibiza although I can't picture him boogiing down, or whatever it's called in modern parlance, till the early hours. The rave scene passed him by, or more accurately he bypassed the rave scene. Nor is it likely that he is enjoying swilling down pints of Carlsberg or whatever the local equivilant is. Still I expect he has had some much needed R&R.

Monday August 15th.

Good grief, if anyone tells you the Isle of Wight is a marvellous place they will either be 170 years old or a bus crank! O.K. so there is some pretty scenery and the beach the lady wife and I found was pleasant enough but just about everything else was Victorian. In particular the roads were a major source of irritation, let's forget that they had not been resurfaced since 1890 or that if they were not going down a 1 in 4 hill they were going up one. The standard of driving was appalling, despite having recently registered vehicles it seems indicators do not function on the island, instead they rely on telepathy and most drivers move along the metalled highway preceded by a man walking with a red flag. At one point I was overtaken by a cyclist who probably reached his destination half an hour earlier than I did. Towns are distinctly wrong. Ventnor, where we stayed, was an shoppers paradise, if you were searching for tat, and I do not mean sticks of rock shaped like parts of ones anatomy. You want junk.... Ventnor has it, old shoes, candlesticks, photographs of buses they are all there in abundance. However if you should want to purchase a pair of sandals, a reasonable request one would think, forget it! The same goes for fresh bread, cakes, toilet paper and other requisites. I was rather amazed to see one shop offering, 'doilies 45p for a pack of 6'. Who on earth uses doilies? The answer is, of course, Victorians. In fact Ventnor is a Victorian resort that is mothballed, stuck in a time warp, I would not have been surprised to see the odd stovepipe hat. No matter, the important question is, 'what was the beer like?' The answer is, 'o.k.ish' the best pint I consumed was Butcombe Blond. As for the isle's two main breweries Goddards and Ventnor they were at best mediocre. The one triumph was a tiny local's boozer called the Volunteer and I would recommend this place to anyone chancing a visit. Blooming marvellous!

Tuesday July 26th.

Much has happened since my last entry but the single most important event was my brother's 50th. birthday. A large gathering of the clans took place in Lichfield on Friday evening. Akin, Blox, Mick and myself met up with Pinners, Pigswill and Doog to celebrate. Unfortunately our first port of call had only Banks or Marstons on so we did not stay long. Likewise at the George and Dragon. However The good old Queens provided what was needed and we settled down to some Timothy Taylors before taxiing home. Mick and I bought Steve a Wolverhampton Wanderers shirt complete with the number 50 on the back and the legend, 'Brefti ' this being his nickname from schooldays. As is usual with such things it came about inconsequentially. A piece of bad handwriting resulted in 'briefly' being read as 'brefty' and so was a nickname born. I added the 'i ' at the end to make it appear more continental. On Sunday the lady wife and the half pints joined me, my sister-in-law, her parents, assorted family and Mick for a meal on the Severn Valley railroad. This was most acceptable as Steve had paid, unfortunately Mick took us via one of his infamous 'shortcuts' which resulted in us taking fifteen minutes longer to get there, however Bar Beacon was mildly interesting. Once we had braved the elements and boarded the train we had a surprisingly good lunch, all the better for a bottle of Bathams bitter. Sadly we had to eat whilst the train was in motion and having arrived at

 somewhere we then had to return from thence. At the station there were several rather eccentric people around and that was just in our party! There were also a fair number of middle aged men mooching about collecting signal post numbers or some such nonsense so we retired to the station bar where there were four or five handpumps all dispensing quality ale. I had a pint of Blackwater or something similar and very nice it was too. Anyhow, I shall be incommunicado for a couple of weeks while I take a well deserved holiday and try some local beers on the Isle of Wight. Cheerio!

Saturday July 9th.

I was in a good mood this week until the appalling carnage in London. England had beaten the Australian scum at cricket and We had pipped the perfidious French to the Olympics. (Note, no more will be published on this site about the dire Lions rugby tour.) However the sobering news from the capital took away any pleasure I was feeling but the idea of such outrages is to prevent normality so I shall carry on as normal. The lady wife accompanied me to the local last night where I was pleased to find the guest beer was Hopback Summer Lightning and unsurprised to find the landlord had gone awol again. The beer was delicious if rather strong, (5%), and I only had a modest quantity. The lady wife had a small glass of white plonk and this totalled £4.95. Good grief, has the world gone mad? I know that the beer is ridiculously expensive being priced at £2.30 but a small white wine at £2.65 beggars belief. When I expressed my alarm the barman, Eammon, just shrugged and sang me a few bars of Abba's Money Money Money. I needed a seat quickly and retired plus lady wife to the lounge where Al and Akin were attempting to play crib. It wasn't long till my brother joined us followed by Mick and lastly the Woodbutcher. I was rather surprised to see Akin drinking Pedigree. The reason, he explained, was that he didn't like the Hopback! Good Lord, have his taste buds been rendered useless from years of abuse by curry and cigarette smoke? We shall see next week when he has to drink Tim Taylors.

Sunday July 10th.

Arrivng back from an excellent gig by Jim Moray, (look him up), I made it to Ye Olde 'Star Wars' Bar in time for a couple. The "guest" was Banks Fine Fettle which I decided against as I had already experienced a rather pathetic pint of their bitter earlier on. I was delighted to see my old chum Pearl and his gorgeous wife in there. Pearl was in fine fettle and we fell into easy conversation. He had been to the rugby club dinner the previous night where an acquaintance of ours had made an exhibiton of himself. For starters he had worn a cream coloured suit, not advisable, and then, as is the way of things, had proceeded to get, I think the correct terminology is 'rat-arsed '. This led to him falling asleep on somebody's driveway and whilst comatose urinated. Fortunately the diveway was on a slope and he was lying in the down wards direction! Naturally the stream of liquid ran down wards soaking all parts of his attire. Attempts were made to wake him to no avail and he is so bulky that no-one could move him. He did not turn up for a cricket match today so I think we can safely assume he was unwell. I suppose he should be thankful for small mercies and take comfort in the fact he didn't shit himself!

Sunday July 3rd.

This week has not been a particularly good week for beer although it redeemed itself partially last night. Friday night is a night one looks forward to, rather like er....ummm... Friday night. Not so this week, I had an invite to a formal do. These occasions are always something of a trial starting with having to get 'done up'. I found my suit in the depths of the wardrobe and chipped off the years of accumulated dust, needless to say the trousers hardly fit me anymore and the only shirt I had was one I had worn four times already. All my ties have stains on them and my shoes were badly in need of some scuff cover. Eventually I looked presentable and drove myself to the venue. You may have noticed the word 'drove', yes dear friend, no alcohol all night! When I arrived everybody was making small talk and with no ale available I waited for the meal. The company was convivial enough but the meal when it came was not what I had ordered a couple of weeks ago. The bloody fools plonked a vegetarian option in front of me! A tomato and aubergine stack in a hollandaise sauce. Good grief! However not wishing to make a fuss I proceeded to eat it. How people can be vegetarians eludes me. The tomatoes turned into a pulp while the aubergine slices remained obstinately leathery and the sauce tasted of precisely nothing. Never mind I thought, at least there's the sweet to come. Bugger me, they got that wrong too and instead of profitteroles I got a mangey fruit salad. Two mouthfuls and it was gone. By now it was 9.30 and time for the speeches so I wandered off to the loo and never returned. I jumped in the car and motored home at eighty arriving back in time for a couple of beers at my local. All the usual suspects were there but sadly the choice of beers was Pedigree or some Old Ratarse which was 5%. Neither was very good but at least I got some alcohol into my system. On Saturday four of us visited nearby Lichfield but again the beer was not anything special. Banks' Mild, Bathams, even Tim Taylors were below par. On returning to our local I had an extremely unpleasant pint of Pedigree. So there it is then, Lets hope tonight brings something rather better. I wouldn't bank on it though.

Sunday 26th June.

Woke up feeling a bit peeky this morning. I know what you're thinking, 'doctor heal thyself', or similar. I personally blame it on a fairly poor pint of Pedigree, (or two). Now for today's competition, Spot the Absentee Landlord. Yes, he is there

hiding himself away to the left. This is a rare picture of one of the most reclusive of our pub denizens. Can you see how he is cleverly camouflaged to blend in to the background? You could walk into the pub and not notice his presence. I am of course jesting, in fact you get a hearty welcome as he booms out, 'How are we then? Two pints of Old Commode?'' On a more serious note I must say that the pint of Hall & Woodhouse Tanglefoot was not really up to much. This is because it is a fairly uninteresting beer rather than its being poorly served. Well, must go, I have the out-laws arriving at any moment and have been given instructions to clean the house up. Toodle pip!

Friday 17th June

The trouble with the drinking classes in my neck of the woods is that they have become dyed in the wool. My brother and I came to discussing this very issue the other night when we were chatting about the village hostelries. As usual the conversation revolved around choice. We were fantasising about winning the lottery, buying a pub and beers we would put on. Tim Taylors Golden Best came high on the list as did the beer which we were drinking, Deuchars I.P.A . My brother suggested Robinsons Bitter, which is a fine ale, and I countered with Castle Rock Harvest Pale. This could have gone on for some time but I wondered what interest would the imaginary pub get from locals. I'll tell you what interest, virtually none!

The reason being that people are generally reluctant to try anything different or new. Most of the locals who inhabit the pubs in our village are happy to stick with Marstons Pedigree, Draught Bass or lager. They have drunk it all their lives and won't change just because some landlord puts Exmoor Gold on. You can hear them now, " I don't care if it tastes like rancid cattle piss, I know what I like.". My good friend Andy is a case in point, "I can't that dishwater", he says," I'll stick with a refreshing pint of lark's vomit". I often wonder if his palate will ever mature, but since he still acts like a teenager I doubt it.

Sunday June 12th

Oh dear... the British Lions came a cropper against a New Zealand Maori VX who were pretty fired up. Needless to say I was up and about to watch the debacle having had a good night's kip thanks to Slaters Supreme, which the absentee landlord had kindly fetched up from his cellar for me. Of course Sir Clive, if he were a regular reader of this journal, would have realised by now the error of his ways and given up on the celtic fringe. No-one can honestly tell me that Hodgson or Wilkinson would not have been better than a jet-lagged Jones, and what on earth is Darcy doing playing! Why was the magnificent man mountain Sheridan taken off to be replaced by a Welshman who did not have the necessary power? Why can a linesman spot a missed punch by a Lion but not a blatant obstruction on Lewsey?

Enough, I have had my say. All of which brings me on to an uninspired evening's imbibement. The Shoulder of Mutton had an acceptable pint of Wadworths 6X but this once great beer is a pale shadow of its former self. 'The Star Wars Bar' was rather better, having Thwaites Thoroughbred on, although I detected a rather nasty metallic aftertaste. Again a great northern brewery but this beer was nothing to shout about. So my brother and I settled for some more Slaters at the Oak where we met the likeable leprechaun, Pat . Pat is a Guinness man and will not touch a drop of anything different and claims to be able to tell a good pint of the black stuff from a bad one although I am somewhat sceptical about this as it is all nitro-kegged.

See you soon, The Doctor

Sunday June 5th.

To be perfectly honest there is not a great deal to report on the drinking front so instead I shall confine myself to the weekend's sport. Saturday morning saw me up for 7.30 to watch the Lions game, admittedly it was quite exciting but after some reflection I have come to, what I think is, a reasonable, unbiased conclusion. Here's the meat of it, Play mostly Englishmen with the odd Irishman, no Welsh, no Scots. The Welsh have had a good season but one swallow doesn't make a summer, so to ensure dependabilty, best leave them out. (Yes even Shanklin who had a very reasonable game.) The Scots have had an awful time and are so unused to winning that it is in their psyche to lose so, best leave them out. The Irish are a fine nation and I have no qualms about O'Driscoll leading the boys, unsure about the others though. As for the rest of the places, give them to battle hardened Englishmen like Sheridan, Titterell and Rowntree. So to recap, lets just play a team of Englsih players and be done with it. On to cricket. Bangladesh, gutsy but hopeless...bring on the Aussies. Well that's sport done with, I think I'll maybe stroll down the local and have a couple. Bye!

Sunday May 28th.

AfterFriday night drinking Adnams best bitter, (a rather bland beer), I spent Saturday gently recovering. The lady wife came home, around mid-day, from a shopping expedition, laden with various bags. Before I could object to such extravagant expenditure she produced a package for me! Just lately I have had a bit of scare over my blood pressure, well more accurately a scare over the fact that

might have to cut down on all manner of interesting foodstuffs and possibly alcohol too! Anyway, what she had bought me was a blood pressure monitor so that I could keep a check. This device is far removed from the old sphygmometer which involved getting half-undressed and having a large balloon attached to ones arm which the doctor inflated with a chicken baster. This device fits snugly on one's wrist and, at the press of a button, does the whole thing automatically. The trouble is with these things that you become addicted, taking your blood pressure every ten minutes for three hours or until the lady wife tells you she will,"take the bloody thing back to the shop". However I have since discovered, by reading the manual, (something I habitually fail to do), that there are only certain times when you can take a reading. You must have relaxed for fifteen minutes, not taken food for an hour before, must not have exerted yourself or taken alcohol! this leaves only a very small window of opportunity. So I shall be taking my reading at precisely 16.30 each day, the only time when I can meet all the criteria.

Having checked my blood pressure over twenty times I can reveal that readings were normal, hoorah. Consequently I went to town and got bladdered on Harvest Pale, Black Gold, Itchen Valley H.M.S Warrior and Batemans XB. I had a fine fry-up for breakfast and I will not be taking my blood pressure until much, much later today.

Friday May 27th

Last night the lady wife gave me permission to venture forth with a few friends for a curry in town. We were saying farewell to a young man from Romania who has been plying his trade over here in blighty for the past three months. Boggers has been a star and I personally am sad to see him go. However I must express my opprobium at the other young chaps who came with us. Boggers has an excuse for not drinking draught ale as the nearest thing they get in Romania is fermented cabbage leaves but Masher, Pete and Thommo should know better. to put it bluntly, they are lager louts. Not only do they imbibe the stuff but they do so indiscriminately. Unfortunately I was forced into a couple of pints of the vile liquid. Whereas Belgian lagers are respected, Romanian lagers are rare as hen's teeth, Indian lagers and in particular, Cobra lager taste like the remains of Thommo's bathwater. Still I hope for better fare tonight when I shall stroll down the road to see what the absentee landlord has as a guest beer.

Sunday May 22nd

After the shambles that was last weekends drinking I have much better news this week, but before that let me dwell for a moment on that ridiculous spectacle the F.A. Cup Final. I firstly must admit that neither Arsenal nor Glazer United hold much interest for me, but I decided to watch as there was no rugby or domestic cricket on offer. I shall not discuss the game, in which, even the hardened Arsenal fan would admit, Manchester United were the better side. No, what I wish to comment on is the idea of settling the game on penalties. Surely there must be a better way of deciding a showpiece occasion. There have been many suggestions, going back to a replay, a golden or silver goal, even having two balls on the pitch, but I have a rather different idea that combines football and (of course), drinking. Simply put, at full time both teams are issued with two gallons of Owd Roger which they must consume within a limited time, say ten minutes. Then they continue with the game. If after ten minutes there is still no score the process is repeated and so on until one team scores or, if incapable, has the most players still standing. This, I am sure, would make the whole affair considerably more enjoyable for spectators. Even the officials could be given a pint each, or maybe not, they seem to have already imbibed judging by some of the decisions yesterday. Anyhow, this weekend the Royal Oak put on Harvest Pale from Castle Rock brewery and boy did we give it some hammer. It's hoppy, fruiy flavour was a joy to the palate and at 3.8% you don't get even the ghost of a hangover. Marvellous!

Sunday May 15th

Recovering after previous evening's ale. Guest beers 2, (Black sheep Bitter and Bateman's XB). Quality...poor. In the case of Black Sheep it had simply been tapped too early, a mistake that the landlord of the pub in question, never learns from. XB is a different problem. We drank it in two different pubs and, as my brother observed, it had no character or flavour . Do brewers ever taste their own product? No brewer worth his salt could allow such a poor, tastless and unsatisfying concoction loose on the public. My brother tells me that there have been some changes at the brewery and new management is in place. Clearly they have no idea of what constitutes a good product. It is probably the fact that the beer is so uninteresting that has enabled Marstons to buy it cheaply as a guest!

Saturday May 14th

A glorious morning, the sun shining and the lady wife and the half-pints going into town, time to sit and contemplate the pocket-sized garden. I have recently installed a bee nest to encourage wildlife, there are plenty of bees about but they seem intent on nesting anywhere but the aforesaid nest. I was gathering up bamboo canes and other places where they might roost when the young male half-pint decided he was not going to town and the lady wife told me to entertain him while she was out. Blast! Then I had an idea, why not visit the car boot sale at the local? When we arrived I was greeted by the Woodbutcher who immediately demanded money to enter. Reluctantly and fearing the worst I coughed up. At the back of the pub was a small semi-circle of cars displaying their goods. There were LPs by Jim Reeves, CDs by Bewitched and assorted tapes. There were old candlesticks, small vases and little pottery models of cute girls carrying umbrellas. However the best, (or should it be worst ), items were on a stall being run by Al and Steve. Tex, who has just moved house, had found a way of getting rid of surplus furniture. Instead of paying someone to take it to the skip he had persuaded the chaps to try and flog it. There was a sideboard, an organ, (yes a full size electric organ as seen at an old folks home near you), and a circa 1975 word processor. Lets just say that the November 5th bonfire should be good this year! Having found nothing of interest and the half-pint becoming restless I decided to have a quick one and a lemonade for the lad. Imagine my horror when I discovered the place wasn't open. The absentee landlord had struck again. I couldn't be bothered to wait until opening time so back home and hope the lady wife would not be too long.

Friday May 13th

What-ho readers! After a week of hectic work a deserved bit of relaxation and what better way to spend it than at the local. With a sprightly step I set out for the Royal Oak and to my surprise and pleasure the guest beer was Deuchars IPA . To my greater surprise the absentee landlord was in charge dipensing good cheer and real ale with gusto, Akin and Al were playing cribbage, all must be right with the world. The first pint slid down, a refreshing hoppy brew with a dry finish, one hopes it won't it go downhill under the ownership of Scottish and Newcastle although they do not have a particularly good track record, (think Camerons). As I was about to purchase another my brother sauntered in from the (laughingly called), lounge. We were joined by that fine craftsman, Sam otherwise known as the 'Woodbutcher' and of course, Mick. Sam was busy organising an event for the next day, ergo a car boot sale being for the benefit of ....the over 40's footie team. I told him he wouldn't raise enough for the squad to go to a health farm but he ignored my words of wisdom.

So long for now......Dr. Pint (BSc. Hons. Alcohology)

Sunday May 8th

Dear reader, another Sunday and another Saturday night spent downing several pints of what can only be described as delicious ale with some good friends. Mick and I decided, on a whim to proceed to the Three Horseshoes in our small, but perfectly formed village. What a fine decision it turned out to be as Deuchars IPA was the guest beer. The landlord , who is known locally as Ghandi, (because of his stick-like legs), was in a perky mood, West Brom having gained an unlikely and probably undeserved draw at Manchester United. Anyway he engaged us in pleasant conversation while we got stuck into his ale. When we were halfway through the first pint my dear brother arrived bringing with him his cold. After some sniffing and snorting he too began drinking in earnest. You might think that it would be insane to move on from such an excellent beer but, that is what we did. Forward, then, to ye olde Red Lion where much to our surprise and pleasure the guest beer was Hyde's Jekyll's Gold so we were forced to imbibe some more. Later Pearl and his gorgeous wife joined us and we made small talk until at last the landlord booted us all out. All in all a splendid evening.

So long for now......Dr. Pint (BSc. Hons. Alcohology)