Diary Archive '06

Sunday 31st December

I always find the week between Christmas and New Year rather strange, for one thing one tends to forget what day it is, although I occasionally do this anyway after a particularly heavy evening but also it seems to be a period of limbo. The excesses of Christmas are gone but you know that there is more celebrating to come, should one therefore take it easy and cut back on the food and drink or continue sating oneself until January the second? I have determined this year to ease off the eating part but to maintain the liquid component, and therefore the Royal Oak has been the main beneficiary of this decision as I have spent the greater part of each evening inside its cosy walls. Earlier in the week Bro suggested that we go and see what was on offer at the SoM , not an appealing prospect I admit but I humoured him. The place was deserted apart form the odd tumbleweed blowing across the room and a few disembodied voices from the bar. My mood was not lightened by the handpump clip that announced that the guest beer was Adnam's Broadside, (ABV 4.7%). Surprisingly it was not half bad, dark and malty with a fruitiness that gave it some bite. We decided that over the festive period the landlord must have laid in a large number of casks and that this had meant that the beer had time to settle before being tapped instead of the usual method of serving it within hours of its arrival. We had a couple and then rolled down to the Oak where the excellent Cocker Hoop was on. Yesterday I invited the lady wife out for lunch and we drove out to, the unusually named, and recently refurbished, Bull and Spectacles. This used to be a pleasant old pub set in countryside near Blithfield reservoir, and it still is except for the 'pleasant' bit. The place has been converted into a large eatery and had I not been starving we would not have stopped. The beer choice told the story, Wychwood Hobgoblin, Greene King Abbot and Morland's Old Speckled Hen were on offer. Here is a pub that you have to drive to, as it is quite isolated, and the ales are all over 5% ABV, I had a pint of Hobgoblin as it is the only one not owned by Greene King, (the worst brewery in the country IMHO), and I can tell you it was not nice! The food was alright but the ambience of the place was dreadful, all dining tables, wheel back chairs and a log burning stove that is right next to the open door. So poor quality beer and a chilly atmosphere, recommendation, go a bit further on and in the hamlet of Hamstall Ridware you will find an excellent pub, the Shoulder of Mutton, with beer from the Blythe brewery and great food. Last night Mrs. Pint and I strolled down the old place for a quiet drink and sat by a roaring fire in quiet contemplation for twenty minutes or so until Rog and his lady wife entered the premises and we got chatting. I found the Hydes Jekylls Gold (ABV 4.3%), to be somewhat thin and lacking in flavour despite being well served. Rog opted for Broadside and pronounced it good and he should know. Tonight I hope the Gold has gone and we will be back to Cocker Hoop for the New Year celebrations.

Sunday 24th December

Peace and goodwill toward all mankind except, accountants,(especially those at Wolverhampton and Dudley brewery), the landlord of the SoM who cannot keep a decent pint, Gordon Brown for continually taxing the drinking classes and the bloke who made my fairy lights, which after a week on display have three dead bulbs already! Yes, I hear you say, but is not Christmas a time to forgive and forget? I am afraid it cannot be, how can I forgive Wadworth's brewery for cocking up what used to be a bloody marvellous beer in 6X or Greene King for simply existing? However for what it is worth here are my beers of the year. At number three it has to the Brunswick's wonderfully astringent, uncompromisingly bitter, Triple Hop, a pale amber brew that will bring joy to any seasoned drinker and at £1.80 a pint a snip. At number two another fruity and delicious beer from a brewery that I had not heard of until November this year, Newby Wyke's Kingston Topaz. A bit of a mouthful but so is the brew, full of flavour it explodes on ones palate with a glorious hoppy taste. Number one for the umpteenth year running is still Tim Taylor's Landlord. Undiminished by the very best the opposition can produce, it continues to maintain that perfect balance between hops and malt that gives the drinker the equivalent of an orgasm for the palate. Yet TT's have been able to penetrate the guest beer market successfully without compromising on quality. A truly great beer. Last night Mrs. Pint and I wandered down our local to partake of a few and to meet Pearl and his lovely wife. I was not surprised to find the bar had a number of non-regulars in. At this time of year they all come out and play darts and make a large amount of noise. Katie served us with a glass of rose and a pint of Marston's Ashes Ale which is very pleasant for a Marston's beer, in fact they should do away with Pedigree and make it their flagship product or, simply swap names. Either way Marston's could become great again! It is a pale ale with a light fruity flavour and also quite moreish which is why I had five. Pearl and his other half duly joined us as did Bro and we whiled a happy couple of hours in conversation. Tonight I am planning on taking the half pints down with us so we can all have an excellent start to Christmas, and while I am in the mood, a very merry Christmas to those of you who have bothered to read this drivel.

Sunday December 17th.

There are several things that can be guaranteed to make me bad company at this time of year. Endless repetition of Jonah Louie on the wireless stumbling through some mawkish song about stopping the cavalry is one. Do songwriters have a collective form of madness when it comes to penning Christmas ditties or am I just being churlish? Think 'Mistletoe and Wine', a song so sickeningly emetic that only the vile Cliff Richard could be persuaded to record it, or the relentlessly cheerful 'Merry Christmas Everyone' sung by that serial pederast Shakin' Stevens. No, they are simply shite. Another thing that makes me an irritable old grouch is that ever-popular, fall-back present the selection box. Of course, these are just a means to get people to buy up unpopular products by sticking them in a pack with more edible ones and then charging more than the face value of the contents. I don't believe anyone eats 'curly-wurlys', they are simply thrown away with the wrapping paper. Also, does anyone actually play the games on the boxes? You know the ones I mean, where you have to cut out a spinner and stick a sharpened matchstick through it and then play some race game that even a mentally challenged two year old would find tedious. What about masks? One cuts them out only to find they are so small they would struggle to fit on a hamster. This year I have a cold. Unfortunately for those around me I am a very bad patient, literally. I will not accept that the common cold lasts for a week or so and expect to be done with it in two days, after which time I become increasingly ill tempered. No amount of Lemsip, Vicks Sinex or Boots Cough Syrup seem to have any effect, the only remedy that appears to work at all is sucking a Fishermans Friend and I can tell you he's getting brassed off with it. All of which leads me on to yesterday evening when, despite feeling under the weather, I bravely soldiered on and made my way down to my local. After two or three pints of Cocker Hoop I felt a bit better. Bro, Al, Mick and the Woodbutcher were all there. When the Cocker Hoop ran out Stevie did not have a replacement ready. Bad show, we thought except for the Woodbutcher who defended the diminutive landlord by arguing that he was only a couple of hours out in his calculations and that Jekylls Gold would be on tomorrow. This cut no ice with Bro who pointed out that if you are a couple of hours out when fuelling a 747 the result is you land several hundred miles short of America, in the Atlantic! Never-the-less we had to settle for the Marstons Ashes Ale, which, to be fair, is not an unpleasant pint. This morning I awoke feeling dreadful, the combined effect of paracetemol, cough sweets and alcohol is not to be recommended.

Sunday December 10th.

A very good morning to all readers. Why? Because I do not have the slightest trace of a hangover despite visiting Derby last night for a few beers. Yesterday began with the annual putting up of the Christmas lights, a task fraught with difficulty. The male half-pint volunteered to assist me and although his help was appreciated it actually took me three times as long to accomplish the job. When all the lights were up the whole family went off to a pub in Rosliston to celebrate my niece's eighteenth birthday. Bro, his lady wife and a vast horde of relatives from Bristol descended on the Bull all intent on enjoying themselves. I was delighted to find the landlord had Jekyll's Gold on handpull and ordered a pint to sample it. The beer was very good and the party was a great success. After the do we returned chez pint and proceeded to erect the tree. I had had a couple by this time and it was all I could do to muster some enthusiasm but we got it done. After such exertions I was forced to have a good hours nap. I woke up to find the TV showing Strictly Come Dancing, a programme that appears to have as its premise the idea that celebrities dress in skimpy costumes and make buffoons of themselves by executing the rumba badly. The Woodbutcher at eleven thirty p.m. makes a better job of nimble footwork despite having the handicap of ten pints and no sense of rhythm. Anyway by the time I had freshened up and Mrs. Pint was ready to drive myself, Bro, the Woodbutcher and Mick to Derby where we were planning a visit to the Alexandra to see the absentee landlord, (the former licensee of the Royal Oak). True to form the absentee landlord was absent, whenever there is some hard work to be done he goes awol and early last night the place was pretty busy. In fact it took Bro ten minutes to get the attention of the rather rotund and mentally challenged barman who then took ten minutes to supply us with beer. there were several guest beers on tap including Castle Rock Hemlock, Edge Hill bitter and Mordue Five Bridges. I chose the latter which at ABV 3.8% was light enough to be a good session beer but turned out to rather thin and low on flavour. Next up I went for Elsie Mo which had just come on and it was tip-top, with a peachy flavour and malt finish. By this time a colleague of mine, Rob, who was at school with Bro, had joined us so we felt we had better have another one. The absentee landlord still had not put in an appearance so we left him a note explaining that we were underwhelmed by his non-attendance but the beer was excellent. We then quickly walked the twenty metres to the Brunswick. Here Bro was most upset as Tim Taylors was off and Rob was not permitted to drink Marston's Pedigree. The Woodbutcher persuaded him to try the Brunswick's own offering which was called Station Approach, (rather unimaginatively I thought), this turned out to be quite similar to th way Marstons was of old. I went for the Brunswick Triple Hop which was not as astringent as the last time I wrote about it but was very good. We had a final beer, I had the Brunswick's own bitter, (again excellent) before taxiing home. All in all, a good night, apart from finding the xmas lights outside my house had developed a fault, so I am planning a trip to buy yet more.

Sunday December 4th.

It is that time of year again, when we are all urged to be jolly, generous and gluttonous despite the fact that December has only just begun and three weeks of dreary work lie ahead before we can finally put our collective feet up. At risk of being called Ebeneezer I find I am increasingly bored by the whole shebang. Yesterday I went shopping with Mrs. Pint, who is incredibly organised. Town was heaving, even at nine-o-clock in the morning; tempers frayed in car parks and people raced around clutching bulky carrier bags from Accessorise and Boots. As I wandered around desperately searching for something to buy for the lady wife I was struck by the fact that although the streets and car parks were as busy as a brothel in the Houses of Parliament the stores were not. Primark was a prime example, outside the hordes buffeted me through the doors, inside, was an oasis of calm with a few shoppers casually perusing the wares. Perhaps people have already done their Christmas shopping or are being cagey about what they spend but not a great deal of cash appeared to changing hands. Mrs. Pint and I went for a cup of coffee. Good Lord, just how difficult is pouring hot liquid into a cup? Firstly the number of staff working was insufficient yet BHS could afford to spare two employees to irritate passers by and frighten their children. One, who dressed in a moth eaten teddy bear outfit two sizes too large, limply stood around waving dementedly whilst the other tried to encourage shoppers to try out a tinny Taiwanese karaoke machine. Why weren't they inside serving? I don't care whether a mangy teddy bear or a pissed up Santa serves me coffee. Instead I got a hare-brained slip of a girl who apparently had to go and pick the beans off the bushes. When at long last I was in possession of two luke-warm mugs I then had to get by the profoundly stupid youth on the till who exercised all of his brain power in working out how much I owed. We drank the coffee in half the time it had taken to buy it! Later on, back at home, as it grew dark it became apparent that some of my neighbours, eager to prove their seasonal credentials, had already strung up Christmas lights making their houses appear to be extras in a Bollywood blockbuster. I was grateful to Bro who drove over to the Horse and Jockey for a pint of Tim Taylors before returning to the village. I collected Mrs Pint and we strolled down to our local. We were greeted by a large inflatable Santa driving a large inflatable train, (why?), while another large inflatable Santa, (who bore a close resemblance to Homer Simpson), balanced precariously on the roof. Once inside we actually did have a jolly time. The Woodbutcher and his wife were there as well as Mick and Bro, (who was probably annoyed that Santas' train didn't have a number or the correct wheel formation). The Jekylls Gold from Hydes brewery (ABV 4.3) was in very good shape and I downed several pints while my wife worked her way through the pubs stock of Gold Label barley wine. The pub, of course, was festivally decorated throughout, mine hosts having done a fine job. Walking home I noticed that all the illuminations were now switched off, perhaps the fuel price hike is having an impact, we shall see.

Sunday November 26th.

After last weekend's excesses it was probably quite fortunate that last night I was at a concert along with Mrs. Pint, the half-pints and my good friend Rog. We had all gone to see Steeleye Span who were on their Christmas tour. I was feeling slightly depressed as the concert didnt start until eight-o-clock and the prospect of getting any beer seemed fairly remote, however we arrived at Derby Assembly Rooms with half an hour to spare so I thoughtfully suggested a swift drink. Sadly the choices at the bar were Worthington Creamflow or Carling so I was forced to drink Guinness, which in the circumstances was not too bad. Rog is a veteran of Steeleye concerts whereas I last saw them when I was at college in 1970. I was, therefore, quite surprised that two of their number were still performing. Naturally Maddy Prior was quite wonderful, her voice having mellowed somewhat from the rather harsh edge that it once had. Peter Knight, the fiddler, was on excellent form and as a unit they were very polished and tight. Even the half-pints whose musical tastes are more rock than folk seemed impressed. During the interval Maddy Prior mixed with the crowd selling raffle tickets in support of her charity work, some of which we bought. Unfortunately there was one person who had to engage her in conversation that went something like, 'Ive got all your albums on CD and vinyl, theyre quite wonderful, oh and Ive got a recording off the radio from 1986, when I was off work with gangrene, of course Ive not been too well recently having had a sexually transmitted disease but now the scabs are going I feel a lot better, what's Tim Hart doing now? How are your children? I took up guitar once myself but.....' Where do these people come from?

Surprisingly I was home by elevenish so I dropped off the family and headed down my local for a quick couple of pints of Snowy Peak. Thank the lord for extended opening!

Sunday November 18th

What a glorious morning, for two reasons, one the sun is shining brightly and the weather is crisp, and two, I awoke from sleep to find I felt as fresh as if I had not drunk six and half pints last night. Four of us descended on the Coopers to sample their wares and what wares they were. Beers on offer were Crop Circle from Hopback, Newby Wyke Red Squall, Titanic Iceberg, Thos.Salt's, Thornbridge Brewery's Jaipur I.P.A. and Bass. We were like kids in a sweetshop with money to spend, at length we settled on our choices, I went for Iceberg which is a pale golden beer, slightly sweetish with a strong bitter finish. Second round, I opted this time for the Newby Wyke beer. This too was excellent but quite different in character, a deep ruby colour but pleasant hop and liquorice flavours came through as it went down the hatch. Round three, I chose to have some Salt's bitter but Mick brought me a second pint of the Red Squall which, if anything, tasted even better. Round four, I went to the bar and picked the Iceberg again but whilst there I got chatting to a lass who was also trying to decide what to purchase. She had a sample of the Jaipur I.P.A. and kindly offered me some. It was most impressive, an incredibly light colour and a drinkable mix of sweetness and bitterness and had it not been ABV 5.9% I might well have been tempted.That such a strong beer should be so light and delicious ought to be illegal, but this small Derbyshire brewery needs further investigation! . Bro and Mick had also, earlier on, tried the Crop Circle which they had heartily approved of. Did any of us feel the need to try the Bass? I shall leave the answer to you dear reader. Out with us for the first time on a Saturday was Rog who has always been a devotee of Pedigree, by the end of the evening he was converted! We rounded things off at the Oak where they had Cocker Hoop which was every bit as good as the other beers and consequently I shipped another two and a half pints and left the place not far short of midnight. Today I shall be Christmas shopping with my dear lady wife trying to find suitable gifts for all and sundry. Naturally I shall need a pint or two this evening to relax myself after such a trying day.

Sunday November 12th.

Oh dear, I am afraid that this Saturday's drinking proved to be the antithesis of last week. On Thursday it was Mrs. Pints birthday so the whole family ate out in the evening at the SoM which, despite my savaging the landlord occasionally, does do a decent meal. Imagine my delight when, for once, the beer was also quite excellent! The Salopian Brewery's Hop Twister was a tasty hop flavoured brew and because it put me in a good mood we all had a jolly time. It all began to go downhill on Friday night when I popped down my local anticipating a few jars of something delicious and instead was offered Castle Eden Ale brewed by the thoroughly discredited Camerons or Thwaite's Bomber, a bland and utterly boring beer. I opted for the Thwaite's but to be honest, it wasn't very good. There is no blame attached to Katie and Stevie, it was served very well, it is simply that the product is poor. The same cannot be said about Saturday's drinking. It was, quite simply, the worst I have had all year! My good friend the woodbutcher had invited the Pint family to his daughter's 18th birthday do which was to be held at the village bowls club. I can truly say that I have only once, in the past thirty odd years, set foot inside the place. Last night reminded me of why. It is normally the province of septuagenarian sots, alcoholic parents who need to have somewhere they can take obnoxious children and blokes who have been barred from every other drinking establishment in the community. Let me start by saying that as a party it was most successful and the woodbutcher's lass had a thoroughly good time, but for those among the crowd who enjoy a well served ale it was an unmitigated disaster. I took one look at the bar and opted for Guinness, sadly it was off. Mansfields Smoothflow, 'Sorry sir its off', said the airhead posing as bar staff. I had to settle for Pedigree, as you know, not my favourite beer but even I could not have imagined it would be so badly kept. A biology laboratory has jars of things that taste better. I left three quarters of it and opted instead for the Banks Smoothflow. This at least had the virtue of tasting of absolutely nothing. As usual Bro and Mick were in attendance and struggling manfully to down the Pedigree. At last I could bear it no longer and I nipped down the road to the SoM to purchase a pint of Adnams Broadside to take back to the party. This was not particularly good but at least it did not resemble the juice from a jar of gherkins. Come eleven-o-clock I could stand no more and we made our way home after a mere three pints. Mrs. Pint confirmed my suspicions when she told me that the wine she had been drinking was equally poor and vinegary and that even the woodbutcher himself had confided that after two pints he had to move on to cans. The half-pint's lemonade had been cheap nasty and sugary. So what lessons can we learn? Do not venture into the Bowls Club unless you are over ninety with no palate and a death wish, under four and therefore not worried about tooth decay or you are a pub pariah even at the Star Wars Bar. The only good thing I can think of is that the Bowls Club provides a haven for society's misfits and keeps them out of normal drinking venues. It is however, without doubt, the worst licensed premises I have been in for a very long time.

Sunday November 5th.

Last night Mick, Bro and I made a very important discovery, but more of that a little later. Very kindly Mrs. P. had offered to drive us to the picturesque and cosmopolitan town of Burton upon Trent, in fact to that haven of all things good, the Coopers Tavern. I was unsurprised to find nothing had changed, in this world few things are as reliable as the Coopers. We sauntered to the so called bar and surveyed the small blackboards which have chalked on them the beers de jour. I settled on the Northern Brewery beer, light and distinctly hoppy. On returning for a second it had disappointingly run out so I moved on to Hopback's Red Ember ABV 4.9%. This is obviously brewed for bonfire night and had no real family resemblance to the excellent Summer Lightning never-the-less it was a deep red colour, full flavoured and although well served not really to my liking. On returning for a third I noticed that they had put on a beer from Newby Wyke Brewery called Kingston Topaz (ABV 4.2%), so I ordered three of them and returned to our table. We all took a swig and knew immediately that here was a beer to be taken very, very seriously. As a loud bang from a firework filled the air outside the there was also an explosion of taste as we drank, a fruity, mouth filling flavour which was predominantly hoppy but also hinted at maltiness. It is hard to do this amber coloured ale justice in mere words to, suffice it say that Tim Taylor's need to be on their mettle. It was gone in no time and we decided to have to have another half to check that it really was that good. We got chatting to a bloke from Ilkeston who had made a special effort to visit the Coops and he informed us that the brewery is near Grantham in Lincolnshire which is just as well as the GBG has no record of it, as presumably it is too new to make inclusion. We taxied back to our local to see what treats awaited only to find the pub had been taken over by a coach load of lumbering twenty somethings from Sutton Coldfield who were celebrating something. Perhaps it was that one of them had managed to string a coherent sentence together. We struggled through to bar where Redbrick Snowy Peaks was on offer and once more this was in excellent condition and was most acceptable. Over in the corner I noticed a cowering Al and his lady wife. Using Mick's bulk as protection, I went over and rescued them shepherding them into the relative calm of the lounge. Even Colin, who has never been known to leave his place in the bar had to force his way through to the lounge to get a pint. The most irritating part of this was that the crowd of brummies were drinking mostly lager or Guinness. They were also large and clumsy, shoving their way between drinkers, blocking the route to the loo and making a lot of noise. It was as if the place had been transformed into some sort of zoo what with the constant hooting, cackling, guffawing and loud unintelligible conversation. Katie and Stevie seemed happy enough though, they had made a tidy profit! At last the coach came to take thme back to the safari park and they left. Locals, one by one, picked their way back into the bar, stepping over the debris to reclaim their positions. It reminded me of refugees returning to their shattered homes. I ordered a round of Cocker Hoop to calm frayed nerves. I fear there had been too much excitement for one night although the taste of the Newby Wyke Kingston Topaz will live long in our memories .

Sunday October 29th

This week I paid a visit to Bristol to see Meech who regular readers of this column will know as an old friend of mine from college days. Bristol is a cosmopolitan place but some of its denizens still retain the Bristle accent. In fact in town I came across two Chinese blokes both speaking in their native tongue but with a Bristol burr. True Bristolians find it necessary to place an 'l' on to words with a conveniently overhanging vowel, so you drive to Asdal in your Vauxall Vectral to buy some tomatols. The words 'to 'and 'from' seem to be interchangeable and at its richest the accent can seem incomprehensible. I ver nigh bought a tee shirt emblazoned with, 'praper job'. Anyway having consumed a couple of bottles including St. Austell Tribute and eaten a hearty meal with Meech, his wife, his brother in law Tim, over from Canada and his grown up son we repaired to a local hostelry for beer. Meech lives in the picturesque north Somerset village of Long Ashton with his lady wife. He is a polymath who turns his hand to anything including cookery, DIY and novelty whistling which he does almost absent-mindedly in dull moments. A habit he has had from college days when he would enliven lectures with impressions of various garden birds. The pub we visited was called the Angel and we had a couple of jars of Butcombe's beers. I sampled both the bitter and the gold and found them to be good, although the gold was a better balanced brew. How nice to see local breweries flourishing! On Wednesday I ventured down my local to meet Rog who had spent the day in the big smoke idling the time away while his wife was at a meeting. While browsing in HMV he had seen a CD he fancied and bought it not realising that he already had copy at home. Old age, terrible thing. The beer, North Yorkshire Brewerys Fools Gold ABV 4.6% was truly marvellous. The good beer guide describes it as, 'a hoppy, pale coloured premium brew', this hardly does it justice. It was a delicious, golden pint, full of hop flavours but balanced beautifully with malt. I can thoroughly recommend this one. Last night we popped over to the Coopers Tavern in Burton, where I had a pint of Downton's German Pale, (ABV 4.2%), a yellowish hoppy brew but I preferred the Thos Salt's Bitter that we had first. On our return to the village we went down our local to meet up with Mrs. Pint. Springhead Roundhead's Gold was the beer on offer, pleasant enough but maybe lacking real flavour. Mrs. Pint had decided to try the new-fangled pump that supplied hot mulled wine, after some hissing and other strange noises it produced a glass of dark maroon coloured plonk that she seemed to enjoy, I cant see what is wrong with the old fashioned method of sticking a red hot poker in it, which is precisely what Bro would like to do to the MDs of Marstons, Wadworths, Green King etc etc.

Sunday October 22nd.

I am sure you are familiar with the adverts for Ronseal whose tagline goes, 'it does what it says on the can'. We were contemplating just such an honest approach to brewing as we sipped our pints of Banks Bostin' last night. Bro and I had been dropped of in Lichfield at the George and Dragon to meet up with assorted friends to celebrate Pigswill's 51st birthday. The G & D is in this years Good Beer Guide so one might reasonably expect a half-decent pint but this was not to be the case. As Bro pointed out the so called guest beer was one of Banks' own products and was not to either of our palates, and probably nobody else's either. The bitter was cloudy and mild was about the best one could get. So to get back to the Ronseal business, Bro suggested that rather than Bostin' the beer should be labelled Banks' Shite Bitter! After some consideration I suggested the more moderate but possibly pleasing name Banks Mediocre. This has got me thinking, the SoM already has Triple B on handpull or Bob's Bland Bitter as we like to call it, what about Marstons' Uninteresting , Greene King I.P.A. (Insipid Pisspoor Ale), Theakston's Old Unpleasant and Wadworth's Regurgitation Bitter. This would be a refreshing change of approach enabling customers to make up their minds before lashing out £2.40 on something that has the flavour of Inzamam-ul-Haq's bathwater. With these thoughts still in mind, what was now a the crowd of us, headed off to the King's Head to try our luck. Pinners went in first followed by myself and Bro, we were leaving as the remainder of the gang entered having seen Bank's Mediocre was the guest beer here also! Most of the horde decided to stop and have one more pint but we opted to push on to the Queen's where to our great relief Tim Taylor's Superb was in marvellous condition and we swiftly disposed of two pints. The Queen's was surprisingly uncrowded when we arrived but shortly the gang arrived and provided instant shoulder to shoulder drinking. Old man Genitals was most discomfited having bought a pint of Mediocre in the King's Head only to find they changed the barrel, in fact he was not the only one, several of the mob had done the same to find that instead of drinking dishwater they could be downing Tom Wood's or Hobgoblin! We had time for one more and I decided to try the Beowolf Chasewater Bitter ABV 4.4%. I am pleased to say that this beer was not of the Ronseal type and did not taste like its namesake, in fact it was a pale golden colour and had a light refreshing flavour. Yet another small concern showing the big boys how it is done.

Sunday 15th October

Last night the three musketeers, otherwise known as Mick, Bro and myself nipped into Burton to pay a visit to the Wetmore Whistle. This, as you may have guessed, was not a random visit as the pub, refurbished and renovated, is new entry in the good beer guide. (Earlier in the day Mrs. Pint and I had discovered the pub's whereabouts in the back streets of town before taking ourselves to lunch at the Burton Bridge Brewery.) Once there we noticed a hooded youth hanging around the darkened doorway, alarm bells started to ring when he approached Bro. They were immediately silenced as it became apparent that it was not a hoodie he was wearing, but long hair and he was not a youth but the former landlady of the Coopers Tavern! She explained that they had music on a Saturday night and promptly relieved Bro of £9, (almost as bad, you might think, as if it was some vile piece of scum). Things were not as bad as they seemed, you could redeem £6 of the entry fee behind the bar. The beer selection wasn't bad, so we started with a couple of pints of Castle Rock Harvest Pale, a beer so astringent that one might as well have been sucking lemons. A wonderful pint on a summer's evening but perhaps a little light and hoppy for mid-October. What we needed was something more meaty! Off went Mick to the bar and purchased three pints of Vale Brewery's Grumpling ABV 4.6%. This was at the other end of the spectrum. Dark as opposed to a washed out pale colour and almost as malty as the Harvest Pale was hoppy. I still had a swig of the latter left so, as if to prove logic , I poured a swig of my new beer into it to make what should be the perfect pint, Harvest Grumpling! Sadly it was not a success although Bro finished it off. Meanwhile a band was tuning up in the background, why oh why don't they set up earlier in the day? We decided not to stay and wandered through the back streets to the Bridge Brewery where we had the best pint of the night. I had Golden Delicious and it was. We got a taxi back to the Oak where I have to confess I could only manage a half, so whilst Bro and Mick downed pints of Tom Wood's Old Timber (ABV 4.5%), a pleasant beer with a good balanced flavour, I had some Wychwood Hobgoblin from the barrel. Despite feeling rather bloated I have to say that the black, liquoricey liquid slipped down a treat. This, truly, is a beer for autumnal evenings. As I walked home I remembered earlier in the day when we had driven past the Derby Turn, or should I say what is left of the Derby Turn. This large, run down town pub on a corner plot served poor quality beer from Marstons and I am not the least bit surprised or disappointed that all that remains of it is in pieces less than half a centimetre across. It has been totally demolished. At one time I may have been up in arms about a pub disappearing but tonight I just smiled and reflected upon the irony of the Wetmore Whistle being brought back to life by a landlady who knows the trade and what her customers want, and the Derby Turn's demise. Perhaps the big breweries will, one day, get the message. Don't hold your breath though!

Sunday October 8th.

Like all good Englishmen I like to think of myself as an animal lover, although I draw the line at blasted Jack Russell terriers. Yesterday this affection was put to the test as I was packed off with the male half-pint to the horse of the year show at the NEC. The lad has been banging on about going and delights in every aspect of equestrianism so being a decent sort of cove I booked tickets some weeks ago and thought no more about it. Mrs. Pint, however had different ideas. Unfortunately she would not be able to attend as she has an 'allergy' to horses and therefore, if affected, she would be unable to drive due to her streaming eyes! The alternative was for myself to accompany the youth. Hoys, as it is affectionately known, is a magnet for riders, farmers, and country types who drive 4x4s and are called Clifford and Hermione, not at all like ordinary people, still the lad was excited so off we went. The most notable thing about Hoys is the huge retail village they have set up, clearly expecting Cliff and Hermione to cough up some of their ample spare change. How about an Oakley Horse box wagon thingy at £80,000? It was the sort of thing that pop stars travel around in all aluminium and chrome and that was just the toilet. On a lesser scale one could purchase a pink rugby jersey for little Dorothy at a mere £40 or a bespoke riding helmet for £120. After walking around for what seemed an age the boy settled on a pair of jodhpurs for £16 so I got off lightly. In the arena there was a show jumping event featuring what appeared to five year olds all confidently galloping their miniature ponies round and leaping over fences. 'Oh well done Dorothy', shouted Clifford as his daughter cleared what was a couple of bars stretched out between to medieval towers surrounded by plastic pot plants. 'Yesss', murmured a knowledgeable sounding woman behind me to her partner, 'they put a lot of plants round a jump to make it look bigger.' They certainly looked huge to me! In the afternoon it was Clifford's turn to compete, there were some big names in the show-jumping pantheon present. John Whitaker, (you could buy a Whitaker Team Great Britain zip top for £100 in the retail village), Nick Skelton and William Funnell. I presume he styles himself William because Bill Funnell just wouldnt' have the right ring to it sounding more like a tired northern comic. The lad wandered off to watch the adults warming up and came back thrilled to have obtained Bill's autograph. As the afternoon wore on we watched a display by the Household Cavalry which was very stirring and as the commentator said, 'and theyre British', a parade of heavy horses and some French troupe whose act culminated in the rider galloping round the ring making his mount skip through a rope of fire. There were also the appalling 'pony club' games where a lot of spoiled brats compete to see who has the first pony to take a dump on the arena floor, 'Oh well done Dorothy'. As we made our way home, via the M45 due to some dreadful signposting, I couldnt help having a sneaking admiration for the riders and their immaculately turned out mounts even if they are a load of upper class toffs, and anyway the lad had a fantastic time so I guess it was worth the effort.

Later in the evening I strolled down my local and was shortly joined by the lady wife, to find Stevie on his own for a week. Never-the-less the Jennings Crag Rat was on fine form and despite the place being fairly empty there always seemed to be a queue for beer when I needed a refill. Stevie is getting the hang of customer relations for as we left his cheery voice rang out, 'thanks for coming'. Whatever next? Perhaps Stevie could arrange for a brass band to play Homeward Bound on our departure.

Sunday October 1st.

As you know my life is fairly hectic at times, so this week I decided to have a very relaxed weekend. On Friday I arrived home from work, changed and as the sun was out I decided to sit in the garden. This turned out to be a mistake. To start with there was the background noise of bees and birds and all natures creation, this was swiftly added to by some neighbour's lawnmower that, effectively, drowned the gentle sounds of the natural world and replaced them with what sounded like a jet taking off. I was just about to go indoors when I noticed that my grass was more than the regulation two inches long. Out came my lawnmower. I was just sweeping up when the lady wife told me to go and mow the out-laws lawns. So I packed the mower et al into the car and drove up the road. The grass there was in a far worse state and after constructing the equivalent of the great pyramid of Cheops in cuttings I eventually managed to leave. I got back home and sat on the settee and was just nodding off when the half pints began an argument about who had done what to who on Neighbours. I retired to the toilet. Later on Mrs. Pint and I walked down to our local. I can't say that even this was a relaxing experience as halfway there we had to negotiate three or four, loutishly behaved yobs who were having an argument. 'Whats your f!!!!!g problem?'. 'I aint got a problem.' 'Yeah you av gotta f!!!!!g problem.' 'No I aint.' 'Yea you av', ad infinitum. They were far too concerned with this intellectual and philosophical discussion to pay us much attention so we sped up and hurried on down to the Oak. Katie and Stevie were celebrating the end of their trial period, and in fact have signed up for 21 years so we were pleased for them and celebrated also by purchasing a pint of Cumberland Ale and a half of Bishops Finger, (or Trish's favourite as it is known.) At last peace and quiet.

On Saturday I resolved to take it easy but the male half-pint wanted to be taken to the stables to spend the day mucking out horses and grooming things etc. so we all had to get up and run him over calling back in picturesque Burton where the female half-pint decided she wanted a new top. This involved my hanging around Dorothy Perkins underwear area looking distinctly seedy whilst she and Mrs.Pint tried various flimsy garments on. To top it all, when I complained at the price I got a treble barrel of abuse from my daughter, my wife and also the shop assistant! Why can't women be more like blokes, If I need a top I go into Primark, pick up a T-shirt for £2.50 and that's it.

Back home I was just sitting down to read the newspaper when the lady wife suggested that I make some lunch. At length I managed to relax for a while before being despatched to fetch number one son. Later Bro and I went out for a jar or two. We called in at the SoM where they had the Salopian Brewery's Lemon Dream on. This was quite well served and at first tasted rather interesting as did have a slight citrus flavour. This had begun to become rather sickly by the time we were finishing our second pint though. I think there is a reason that the best beers are brewed with hops, malt and yeast as the only ingredients, namely that a balanced combination of these flavours produces a moreish, drinkable brew. Speaking of which, we ended up at the Oak downing a couple of the Jennings Cumberland Ale. I hope today I can relax a little although the omens are not good.

Saturday September 23rd.

Here we are, then, in late September, month of mellow ales and fruitiness and also of the Burton beer festival. As regular readers will know I am not particularly enamoured of the campaign for real ale as I think it has lost its way somewhat but I will readily admit that I look forward to a visit to Burton town hall and meeting friends and other beer enthusiasts. This year, Bro and I decided to quest for a truly drinkable, session, beer. Mrs. Pint agreed to drive us there so at seven-thirty beer glass in hand we began our search. The micro brewery, Quartz, caught my eye and being fairly local I purchased us a couple of halves. Bro considered it to have a home-brewed taste whilst I simply thought it was ordinary. We met up with Barney, Mick and the Woodbutcher who had already downed three halves and by the time we had all said hello to each other we were ready for another half. Sarah Hughes Pale Amber was next on our list but this also failed to impress us. Next up was Lakeland's golden bitter, but this proved too flowery for us. We were reaching a conclusion that some of the small breweries were trying too hard to be distinctive rather than setting out to produce a really well balanced, moreish product. Meanwhile the band were on stage doing a sound check, which consisted of each individual playing a lengthy, very loud solo interrupted by one of them shouting, 'tswo', into the microphone. This was irritating and, if I may say so, unprofessional. The soundcheck should be done well in advance of the event and as they did not have a mixing desk in the hall it was probably largely unnecessary. The purpose seemed to be an opportunity to show off as far as I could see. When they eventually began their set there was so much top on the sound that it was virtually impossible to tell what they were playing anyway. By this stage of the evening we had tried and rejected both Sharpes and Skinners of Cornwall in our quest and decided that Copper Dragon from Skipton was probably the best we were going to get although Bro was appalled on discovering that it was brewed using American hops! Of course the problem is that in drinking a lot of different beers ones tastebuds begin to get overloaded so that in the end one can no longer rely on them. At length the Woodbutcher's good lady picked us up and deposited us outside the Oak so we thought we would have a nightcap and in fact the Cocker Hoop was by far the best beer of the evening. I eventually could not swallow any more beer and set off, rather unsteadily, for home. I must say though that light, hoppy and golden beers do not produce a morning after feeling as I woke this morning feeling fresh as a daisy and, what is more, the bread I stupidly decided to make last night, without measuring the ingredients, turned out to be quite pleasant.

Sunday September 17th

Yesterday evening Bro, Mick and I climbed in our taxi, (courtesy of Bros' lady wife), at seven fifteen as we were bound for Melbourne. No, not Australia, rather Leicestershire and after a spin along the A50 and a bit of Mick's navigatory skill we arrived at the Melbourne Hotel. The purpose of our visit was to celebrate a fiftieth birthday. Rowlands is a old pal of ours who used to play cricket with us and it was no surprise to find him already ensconced and halfway down a pint of Tim Taylors' Landlord. We were halfway down our drinks, (I shall not bore you by eulogising about the beer), when the rest of the invitees arrived. Pinners, Genitals, Pigswill and the rough and ready Blackers all came in and the noise level went up half a decibel causing one guest at the hotel to pointedly shut the door to the residents lounge. The lads were all staying the night and had booked in at their hotel only to find it doubled up as an Indian takeaway. Lord knows what state their bowels will be in this morning after a shed full of beer and a breakfast consisting of remaindered poppadums, lime pickle and chicken madras. As usual there had been some slip up with the accommodation that had resulted in Pigswill and Genitals having to share a double bed. I was reminded of the advert for Silentnight mattresseses, ..(and did those feet, in ancient times walk upon Englands mountains green), where a bed is occupied by a hippopotamus and a duck. There is similar discrepancy in size twixt Pigswill and Genitals, one can only hope that Pigswill does not break wind in the night or Genitals will be smeared over the wall of the bedroom. After some difficulty in getting synchronised on the beer front the group moved on to a pleasant boozer, the Bell. This is an outlet for the micro-brewery, Shardlow. However I am sad to report that this brewery did not find favour with the chaps. All the beers had a sort of home brewed flavour rather than a craft brewed taste. Rowlands and Pinners, who, are because they are small brewers, are usually enthusiastic about micros, both gave it the thumbs down. Bro, Mick and I started to drink the Golden Hop but after one or two sips it became obvious that something was badly amiss as it had a smell and taste not dissimilar to that of a chemical toilet. We pinned this down to the cleaning fluid that had somehow contaminated the beer and Bro went and got it changed and the handpump clip was immediately turned round. The replacement pint of Reverend Eaton's frankly was not much better and neither were the Loxleys bitter or the Narrowboat, so it was a relief when we made our way to the Roebuck. This pub is supposed to be a bit rough and maybe it is for Melbourne but to a bunch of blokes who have drunk in some of the worst pubs in Britain, including the dreadful Belle Vue in Mansfield, it was a doddle. Pinners suggested that Pigswill should do an impersonation of the nude organist in the intro to Monty Python, at the keyboard that occupied a large part of the lounge area, a most unsavoury thought! Anyway, here we got stuck into Lichfield Brewerys Old Goat especially named for, and possibly by, Rowlands. There were happy memories of cricket games and tours all retold for the umpteenth time until at last we had to bid our farewell. So happy fiftieth to Rowlands, who, no doubt, we shall meet again in the near future.

Sunday September 10th

An occupational health check, does this mean anything to you? As a practitioner I feel that all of us should have one of these as we approach closing time in our lives so that armed with the information we may, perhaps, get a lock in if you follow my analogy. This week I had an occupational health check and it began badly. I was just enjoying my lunch, a slice of cheese pie and beans when I remembered that I was due for examination in two minutes time. I stuffed the remains of my repast down my gullet and bolted to the other end of the building to arrive in the nick of time. This turned out to be a bad idea as the first thing they do is take your blood pressure! I had arrived sweating and anxious having eaten my meal in ten seconds so it was no great surprise when the readings went through the roof. 'I think you should go to your doctor', said the woman who was administering the check. I assured her that being a doctor I had no need to consult one but perhaps she should take my blood pressure again when both my lunch and my body had settled down. I had my height and weight taken, my cholesterol tested and was quizzed about my life style. 'Do you smoke? Do you exercise regularly? Do you drink? 'The first two were okay, the third had me deciding whether to be honest or to tell a fib. In the end I opted for honesty, but was economical with the truth. I confessed that I had a pint a day plus three on a Friday and plus four on a Saturday. Now you can get these to add up to twelve or fourteen pints per week, which translates to twenty-four or twenty-eight units but somehow my inquisitor worked it out at eight point five. I was beginning to warm to her! Anyway the result of all this is that I will have to make an appointment to see a fellow medical person and there is a large tub of fish oil capsules on the kitchen table. Having taken one of these revolting capsules I decided the best thing was to go for a drink. Bro, who was on taxi duty gave Mick and me a lift to the SoM in Lichfield where we had a couple of pints of Pinner's latest brew, Hop and Glory and it was indeed well-hopped with a lingering aftertaste. I was just ordering when I was hailed from further down the bar, it seems two chaps had mistaken me for somebody they had met in a local bookies. 'Spendin yer winnings are ya', they called out. This had me completely bemused and assured them I do not venture into such dens of inquity. 'Sorry pal, but I coulda sworn it were you', came the reply. They even passed us on their way out still commenting on my prowess as a gambler. The SoM has some tables outside but normally it would be a bit parky at eight-o-clock on a September evening, however they also have some large sunshades with patio heaters built in. It was glorious sitting out with the evening's chill all around yet basking in the heat. I presume this is the attraction of hot tubs like the Woodbutcher has installed. We then came back as Bro had to pick up his offspring from various points. Mick and I picked up Mrs. Pint and strolled down the Oak where we had a pleasant evening with Stevie and Kate. As the evening drew to a close after a couple of pints of Shepherd Neame Bishop's Finger, (or Trish's favourite, as we like to call it), Stevie whispered conspiratorially to me, 'do you like trout? Ive got some freshly caught in the freezer, only two-fifty.' It seemed a daring thing to do rather like buying a snort of cocaine, so the lady wife and I strolled home again carrying a large, very cold, rainbow trout. A good job the angling police were not about!

Friday September 1st.

This week a departure from my Sunday morning scribblings. I have been out and about and on my travels have visited two public houses worth mentioning. On Wednesday I persuaded the lady wife to take a trip to Hartington to purchase some cheesy comestibles from the excellent, aptly named Cheese Shop. Those familiar with the area will know that Hartington is a small village in the Derbyshire Dales and whilst en route we dropped off for lunch at the Bentley Brook Inn at Fenny Bentley. 'What a charming place', said the lady wife not realising I had an alternative motive for visiting this large hostelry. Once inside it became obvious why I had stopped there and it wasn't the price of the food which was rather expensive, I half expected my jacket potato to come on a silver salver and to be topped with caviare for almost a fiver, good as it was. No, the pub has its own brewery, Leatherbritches , so to accompany my overpriced murphy I purchased a pint of their Goldings bitter, (ABV 3.6%), which was wonderfully fruity with a dry hoppy finish. To use a young person's phrase, well refreshing. After lunch we braved the downpour to continue our journey into the depths of the Peak. The Cheese Shop is a small emporium built in the local grey stone. Before entering the premises I checked that there was nobody playing a bazouki. Hartington is famous for its stilton, so I asked, expecting the answer no, if they had got any. But this was not Mr.Wensleydale behind the counter and I was able to buy a large piece of stilton and also some truly delicious wensleydale with tart cherries. It had all gone by today when we popped out to nearby Derby on a shopping expedition. After an hour or so wandering around and the only purchase of note being from an old fashioned sweet stall where I was able to get some small brown sweets known as teacakes that I have not seen on sale for years, I hesitantly suggested lunch at the Alexandra. I was most pleased when the lady wife agreed and we set off to visit the former owner of my local, the absentee landlord. we were greeted with great enthusiasm on entry and were given the grand tour of the pub, including a visit behind the bar, whilst being regaled with tales of builders, football hooligans and the A L's own blood, sweat and tears. It was a moving experience, so much so that I had to order a pint of Castle Rock Hemlock, (ABV 4%), to calm myself down. It was in fine fettle and top condition, well served with a well-balanced flavour that leant towards hoppiness. Over a pub lunch the A L chatted away occasionally leaving to cope with the inconvenience of other customers. The pub is a busy pre-match venue for supporters of Derby County and on a match day the A L assured me that in four hours he did the equivalent of a whole week's trading. However he has installed doormen on such occasions as his first match-day experience was not to be repeated, as the whole pub got trashed. I decided to have another for old time's sake and bought a pint of Kelham Island bitter, (ABV 3.8%). The Sheffield microbrewery did not let me down, it was crisper, fruitier and more hoppy than even the Castle Rock. At long last I took my leave promising to pay a weekend visit and to stop over at the pub, (at preferential rates the A L promised me).

All in all a most satisfactory week.

Saturday 26th.August

The past week has been rather tiresome. The lady wife decided, some time ago, that we, (note the plural), were to have the bathroom refitted and tiled and consequently hired a man to do the job. Paul the plumber was to arrive on Monday morning which meant my having to rise from a peaceful slumber at seven-o-clock to enable him to start work at eight. I am a regular sort of chap and so are my bowel movements, so naturally I could not accommodate a different time. Eight-thirty came and went but no plumber. At length I was ready to perform and nipped up to the loo at eight forty. At eight forty-five Paul the plumber showed up. I was grateful that it had not been the previous day as that followed a curry and several pints of ale. Unpleasant! After the lady wife had filled every available saucepan with the stuff, Paul turned the water off. Talk about the spirit of the blitz, upstairs there was a racket that suggested Paul had decided to dynamite the old suite whilst I sat downstairs in the living room eking out the water supply. Strange isnt it? I can go for ages normally without a pee but knowing we had no loo available I now needed to urinate every twenty minutes. So it was a trek up the road to the out-laws bungalow where I could relieve myself. This blasted inconvenience lasted all week until yesterday when at last Paul finished installing the new suite, now all that remains to be done is the tiling, oh, and then redecoration which will no doubt involve more capital expenditure on shower curtains, bath mats decorated with sea shells, a toilet roll holder that will not work, toothbrush holders and a chromium bog brush container which yodels a Frank Ifield song on being opened!

Last night Bro and I got a lift into Lichfield where we drank a pint of Jennings Bitter, which was dark, quite heavy and not at all as I remember it, in the Kings Head. We then proceeded to the Queens Head where we drank ,in order of appearance, Barnsley Acorn Gold, Lichfield Hop and Glory and that old favourite of mine, Tim Taylors, all of which were served in particularly good condition by a middle-aged but strangely attractive barmaid. We ended up back in our village at our local where I drank Mansfields Riding bitter, (ok but nothing special), and Bro opted for Marstons Blonde. In fact I have been quite active on the drinking front this week, on Thursday I met an old friend, Roge in the Oak where before I knew it I had sunk four pints of Cocker-Hoop and it was half past eleven, and on Friday Mrs.Pint and I nipped down for some more beer and I also purchased a bag of home-grown, sweet, flavoursome tomatoes from Col. I expect to be out tonight as it is a bank holiday tomorrow, sadly the plumber is still coming so I fear further disruption.

Saturday 19th.August

Yesterday the whole Pint family decamped to Al's house to celebrate his daughter's twenty-first birthday. (Al has three daughters and a lady wife so it is little wonder that he appears with great regularity in the local for a few pints.) Anyway in actuality they are a lovely mob so we duly arrived bearing a gift and card and in exchange there was the promise of food and drink. Al's lady wife had been hard at work producing a range of tasty snacks but the main event of the day was the barbeque. Barbeque, the word fills me with misgivings about horribly burned or horribly undercooked food. My scepticism was not assuaged as the venue for the party could be discerned from several streets away by the billowing clouds of smoke. We held our collective breaths and made it down Al's drive and into the safety of his living room wondering all the time at what point the local fire brigade would arrive. Al was already on cooking duty but struggling to tell his burgers from his sausages through the wreaths of smoke. I quickly ascertained the best place to stand and watched with a morbid fascination as Al's figure appeared and disappeared in the fumes. At last he got the blaze under control and began to cook and for a time all was well. Then the meat juices started to drip onto the coals and the barbeque quickly assumed the proportions of a small forest fire with fingers of flame licking at the main course. By the time Al had it sorted the burgers appeared to have been in the darkest depths of hell and the sausages had a shiny black coating reminiscent of boot polish. 'Anyone for a hot dog', Al asked. Eventually we all ate and said nice things about the fire damaged food. One problem was that Al kept leaving the food to incinerate while he fetched cans of beer for his guests and to check on the cricket score, (which was disastrous and of which I shall say no more.) I decided it was time to offer a hand but only succeeded in upending the cooking rack and distributing burgers to all parts of Al's garden. We managed to rescue one which didn't look too bad apart from a few scorched ants and I believe Akin unknowingly ate it. Later, in the evening a weary Al and wife, smelling of smoked bangers, popped in to the local for a beer or two. I didn't need to ask him whether he had a good day!

Sunday 20th August

A very old friend and his lovely wife who I have not seen for many years, although we occasionally email each other, paid us a visit last night. My friendship with Meech dates back to college days when he was famous for his budgerigar impressions. He used to enliven many a dull lecture with a series of whistles and chirps while the lecturer scanned the room for the rogue avian. He is now in his dotage but still manages to run his local rugby club doing everything from refereeing and arranging fixtures to running the bar and cleaning out the loos. Naturally, after a meal and some chit-chat, we gravitated to my local along with our lady wives where the ever cheerful Stevie still had Jenning's Cumberland Ale on offer. Meech has not been down our way for some considerable time so he decided to try Marston's Pedigree for his second pint, I warned him but he is an empiricist. He confirmed my diagnosis of this product, which you will already know, by shaking of his head, voicing concern for his stomach and switching back to the Jennings. We spent most of the evening reminiscing and were later joined by Bro, who was still a schoolboy when he first met Meech. Anyway Meech left me with an excellent present, bottles of Butcombe Gold and Bath Ales Gem. Cheers!

Wednesday August 16th.

A rare midweek entry but I feel it is important to report that my beloved local has a guest beer on that nobody seems to know anything about. The beer in question is Wrangham's Grand Old Duke, a pale, hoppy concoction that is very drinkable. My own researches have produced three possibilities, 1) There is a place in the Grampian region of Scotland called Wrangham and I suppose the ale could be produced there. 2) In the village of Malton in Yorkshire there is a pub called The Gate that used to be William Wrangham's wine and spirit vaults, so the beer could be brewed there. The name of the beer is certainly associated with York, so maybe? 3) Wolverhampton and Dudley have simply come up with a name for a new brew but this seems unlikely as the beer is actually quite good! Anyway Stevie said he was going to ring Marstons to find out. We await news with baited breath.

Sunday August 13th.

I am afraid that I have little to report on this week so I shall get down to business.

The Coopers Tavern is an excellent pub, situated, as it is, in a side street opposite that once great brewery that was Bass and is now Corrs. It used to be the brewery tap and at five-o-clock-ish in the afternoon you could wander in and find brewers, draymen, maltsters, even directors and the other denizens of Bass, supping a well- earned pint after a day's work. And what a pint it was, straight from the barrel, flat as a millpond, vaguely sulphurous and very moreish. It lurked in the glass ready to surprise the unwary with it's flavour and potency. I can vaguely remember a lunchtime spent in the Coopers downing pint after pint of deep amber liquid before walking out into a sunlit afternoon and nearly collapsing on the pavement, such was it's drinkability. To be fair the pub is still wonderful, unchanged in appearance from those days with just the addition of some new furniture. If you look carefully you will see the bell pushes that once brought the bar staff to your table to take your order, in the bar the barrels still sit in their jackets to keep their precious contents at the correct temperature and staff are able to mix with drinkers as there is no counter. In fact the only thing that has changed is the beer and the landlords. Bass, as regular readers will know, has become a bland beer, unrecognisable from what it used to be, and the pub has become a free house serving all manner of ales but Thomas Salt's Bitter from the tiny but excellent Tower brewery is a regular. At £1.90 it is wonderful value. Last night they had beers from the Newby brewery and Hopback Summer Lightning. Bro and I tried the Hopback and Salts and found them to be in perfect condition. The bar staff were obviously new as they had no idea about working the cash register or the prices of some of the drinks but who cares about these minor things when the ale is good? When we arrived back in the village at our local we found Jenning's Fish King, (a contender for silliest named beer), and Youngs Ramrod on tap. The latter was too strong at that time of night for us so we finished the evening with the Jenning's, which was again, excellent, in the company of Mick, the Leprechaun, and Al and his lady wife. At last I could drink no more and staggered home rather worse for wear but contented.

The picture this week is of the Grampus Inn sign in the pretty coastal village of Lee in North Devon as I did not take any photos last night.

Saturday August 5th

Hello again, the Pint family have returned from foreign parts having had an excellent two weeks. However I must admit to being a little disappointed with some of the beer that was on offer. If you look up Ilfracombe in the Good Beer Guide you will note that it has few entries in it's environs. One place I can recommend is the Hele Bay Inn, which apart from selling Speckled Hen, (of which I did not partake), has Courage Best Bitter and one guest ale on tap. The Courage was remarkably good for such a poor product and Fuller's London Pride and Hopback Summer Lightning were also in good condition although perhaps not quite cold enough at times. The landlord and his staff were pleasant and good humoured and the food of a high standard. We did visit some other hostelries but these can wait until another time. One thing I did get heated about was the parking on Ilfracombe's high street. It would appear that traffic wardens are an unknown species as vans, lorries, vans, cars and invalid carriages all park on double yellow lines with impunity, making navigating the highway a hazardous experience. What is the point of having laws if they are simply ignored? More than once vehicles were double parked on the blasted yellow lines and was any penalty handed out? No, was there a policeman anywhere in sight? No, just a traffic warden and his white stick. I personally think that any vehicle illegally parked should be incinerated along with it's keeper, that would at least act as a deterrent. The beaches were fine and there was plenty of surf, gnarly dude! The coast is, of course, very beautiful in North Devon and we visited all the tourist venues such as Lynmouth, Combe Martin and Lee, the latter having a splendid pub named the Grampus that served Dartmoor Bitter. Unfortunately my journey home was marred by the large number of caravans that were blocking the roads and in the wrong lane on motorways, I believe that all caravans should be crushed into matchwood and used in gardens as a covering to prevent weeds springing up, or as a mulch. At least they ought to be heavily taxed so as to make the whole business an unattractive prospect.

Saturday July 22nd.

Today is Bro's birthday but sadly I shall be unable to celebrate with him as the Pint family is off to Ilfracombe on our jolly holidays for a fortnight. However the lady wife and myself popped down to our local, yestereve, for a farewell beer. After such a hot week I really was hoping they would have a light golden bitter on but this was not to be so I had to settle for Mansfield Riding Bitter ABV 3.6%. This brewery is now owned by W&D and you can tell! It was a bitterish beer but it had no real character or depth of flavour. The handpump clip bore the legend, 'Voted Britain's best cask bitter'. Good Lord, by whom? I can think, offhand, of twenty different beers that could take that accolade but I shall not bore you, indeed I suspect the 'voting' was done by a very small sample of natives in Matabeleland many years ago who were paid two goats each not to vote for Watneys Red Barrel.

When I walked in to the bar I was hailed from the lounge by an ex-landlord of my local Cookie and his wife Jean. He was visiting from foreign parts, Burton, to be precise, to see what the old place was like. Nothing much had changed, he opined, gazing at the grubby, greasy, lounge carpet which he, himself, had put down in the eighties. It was in fact quite an occasion as no less than three landlords of the pub, two former and one present, were in the same room together, Cookie, Gandhi and Stevie. Various people came in Al, Mick, Bro and the Woodbutcher, (twice) and the Leprechaun, to get some liquid refreshment. At last we decamped to the car park, where there are a couple of tables, to sit out where it was somewhat cooler. Eventually Mrs. Pint persuaded me to leave and we wandered home tired but refreshed for, what I hoped would be a good night's sleep and in fact was.

This morning we awoke to rumblings of thunder and grey skies. Ah, yes, the Pint's holiday is starting. Still it may be a little cooler for the drive down. I shall report back in two weeks with news of beers and pubs from Devon, till then, toodle pip!

Sunday July16th.

While Bro was queueing up to get into the Fairford air show I was having a leisurely breakfast and preparing myself mentally for a day's test cricket. By the time Bro was on his way home I was exhausted after watching a very mediocre bowling attack toil away for six hours. Clearly I required some refreshment so I agreed to take Bro over to nearby Lichfield where he was due to celebrate Doog's birthday with him. The King's Head used to be a great pub but has now turned itself into a music venue and naturally the quality of the beer has declined. However I settled for a pint of Marston's Burton Bitter, (ABV 3.8%), which was just about acceptable. I fell to talking with Pigswill and we were recalling amusing moments from our walking days. Pigswill had been on a barge using a deep lock when he felt the urge to expel a large amount of gas into his rubberised trousers. Having temporarily inflated the aforementioned trousers he declared loudly, 'there's nothing like a really good fart to provide central heating on a day like this, lads', only to find, as his head came level with the top of the lock, a party of elderly ladies staring disapprovingly at him. 'Fair cop', he said sheepishly. I recalled being one the summit of Scafell on a filthy day and needing to relieve myself. I had seen nobody on the ascent and I was tackling a difficult scree at the time, so I whipped out the old fella and added to the liquid already pouring down. To my horror, around a large boulder walked two old ladies and a poodle. Of course, there is nothing one can do but finish off, give it a shake and walk away with as much dignity as one can manage. Arriving back in our village we met Mick and decided to try a pint at the Three Horseshoes, formerly Gandhi's place. They had Bee-Zone on , (I am sure that this a clever play on words but I can't work it out), brewed by the Highgate brewery and pretty poor it was too. Also pretty poor was the drawing on the chalkboard of what I assume is supposed to be a chef's face. All I can say is if it was drawn from life then the owner must be vastly more hideous than the elephant man. We moved on to the SOM where we had Hobgoblin which was reasonable and finally to the Starwars Bar for the only really decent pint of the evening, Jenning's Fish King. Pearl was there and had much amusement, at Mick and Bro's expense, from the fact that their team was beaten

1-0 by our local non-league outfit.

Sunday July 9th.

Yesterday the Pint family went to a medieval market set around a local cathedral. The sun was shining and all was well with the world. The stalls were, of course, mostly tat dressed up as medieval goodies but there was a real atmosphere, men in suits of armour on horseback, women in conical hats selling jewellery, others doing archery and even a display of hunting with hawks. The smells of fresh coffee, strawberries, beer, lavender, drifted through the........hold on a second, did I just mention a four letter word beginning with 'b'. Yes, indeed, there was beer. My old friends Pinners and Roly had set up a stall promoting their beers so naturally I felt obliged to go and try some. The bar was in a gloomy old stone built barn and I was impressed that they had employed a medieval barman, a strange, wizened little gnome of a man served me, good Lord, it was none other than Ray Genitals who was dispensing pints. Roly reliably informed me later it was a condition of the license that he had to be kept at a safe distance from the public. Anyway I purchased a pint and a half of Market Daze ABV 4.3% and a couple of soft drinks for the half pints. We stood refreshing ourselves and chatting to Pinners and Roly who had just bought some medieval burgers. How wonderful to have a bar without lager or cissy drinks. Last year they sold over 1200 pints and had queues stretching back as far as the eye could see, in fact you had to start queueing half an hour before you wanted a drink! Roly eyed me mischievously, "One guy who queued got to the bar only to find we didn't sell lager, he was well pissed off". Pinners related the tale of my dear brother who arrived at the bar late in the day anticipating a well earned pint only to be told they had sold out. Anger welled up inside him, "bloody incompetent imbeciles", he ranted, "why couldn't you have enough beer on to satisfy demand". Roly had thought for a moment and replied, "We've got a till full of cash and had a shed full of beer, so who's the imbecile?"

Later in the evening Bro and I joined Pinners and Roly for a beer or four at the Queens'. We tried the Beowulf Gold but found it to be disappointingly flavourless so we fell back on that most reliable of ales Tim Taylor's Landlord. Later on we called in at our local for a nightcap of Jennings Fish King, an unusally named beer, as Bro pointed out, but very acceptable.

Sunday July 2nd.

As Bro and myself sat together over pints of Hopback Summer lightning and Thos. Salts Bitter we found ourselves in an position that would have been unthinkable just three weeks ago. After preliminary small talk about his visit to the Severn Valley

Railway's Forties Day, where he cut an elegant but somewhat hot and sweaty figure in his Pilot Officer's outfit, we got down to dicussing England's abject failure to progress further in the World Cup. Apart from a great deal of verbal abuse, mostly directed at that cheating piece of filth Ronaldo, we fell to asking ourselves who we should support now. Obviously Portugal was a non-starter as they, effectivley, have cheated their way through the tournament. IMHO they should be all be brought to stand trial for their disgraceful behaviour and then, when found guilty, be shot. Italy are little better. They may have produced the greatest flowering of the arts during the renaissance but their footballers have surpassed this with magnificent displays of theatrical diving and the feigning of terrible injuries. They are in short cowardly, cheating, thespian, pansies who are not fit lick the boots of England's football boot cleaners. The French are just onion-selling, halitosis-ridden, horse and mollusc eaters and as such are beyond redemption, besides which Zidane is actually Algerian. Also Bro has a theory that instead of kicking their opponents the French obtain the same result by the simple expedient of breathing on them, leaving them writhing in agony on the ground. No, under no circumstances can I lend my suport to the vile French, unless they are playing Wales at rugby.This leaves only the Germans. Bro and myself tried to think of reasons for not supporting them but could not come up with any. After all they generally do not dive, they have played some attractive football and are now our best friends in Europe. In fact, we decided, if we had joined them in the second world war we would now rule the world. Of course Hitler was a mad buffoon who we would have quickly replaced but think of the repercussions! We wouldn't be kow-towing to America, in fact we would have probably annexed the states, the Japanese would have been on our side, the problems in the middle east would not have arisen and Boris Becker would be prime minister. So come you sausage-eaters!! Later Mrs. Pint joined us for a a couple of litres of wine while Bro, Mick and I tucked into Jennings' Tom Fool. The mood in our local was sombre but Stevie as always tried hard to remain perky and at least we shall see the removal of bunting, flags etc. Oh, by the way, we shall not mention one day cricket until we have some success, which could be some time.

Sunday June 25th.

Popped out last night to my local to watch the second half of the Argentina game and whilst there noticed a bloke wearing a Hydes brewery t-shirt, who seemed to be on his own, standing at the bar, sipping away on a beer. Bro thoughtfully engaged him in conversation and it turned out he was a real ale affectionado as are we. He was on a flying visit from his home on Merseyside to sample the beer, (which was Cocker-Hoop). We had a most agreeable conversation about ale and breweries before he left to walk back to his lodgings. It only struck me this morning that I didn't find out his name or offer my own, so if he happens to be reading this, my apologies, I''ll buy you a beer next time you are down this way!

 Saturday June 24th.

This week I am reporting a day early as last night Bro, Al and I persuaded Mrs. Pint to give us a lift over to Pinners 50th bitrhday event, which centered around what was basically drinking. In fact the momentous occasion was held at the Lichfield Jazz and BeerFestival which was taking place at the local rugby club so we took the opportunity to have a couple of early pints of Tim Taylors at the Horse and Jockey. Naturally it was excellent and slipped down all too easily. We were able to lend our support to the footballers of Togo who we watched playing France on TV. I heartily dislike the French and everything they stand for, which isn't much, in fact the only time I can bring myself to get behind them is when they play the Welsh at rugby! However it was not to be Togo's day as we found out later at the beer festival. The rugby club had quite a few ales on tap and the whole thing appeared to be run by the local branch of Camra. I sampled, in sequence, Titanic Iceberg, light pale and quite malty, Lichfield's Steeplechase which is brewed by the birthday boy, and Hanby Brewery's Golden Honey, a sweet and pleasant ale which apparantly contains Australian honey presumably made by convict bees. Bro spent quite a while socialising with various people while Al and I got gradually worse for wear. I made the error of walking into the ladies loo but fortunately for me it was empty at the time. Earlier this week I attempted to play cricket in a friendly 20 over thrash against who else but my local. We fielded first and poor old Lawrie who is a stalwart of our team could not avoid the ball following him around and slipping through his hands, however we did quite well in restricting them to 125 runs of which 30 were extras! They soon got into us although the sunlight gleaming off Reevo's bald pate was in our batsmen's eyes. Sqirrel was bowled by a Scotsman in cycling gear who had to be shown how to bowl by the umpire and I ran out my nephew. Still I like to think of it as a family thing, Bro and I were forever involved in mix-ups when batting and now I have passed it on to the next generation. We ended up losing by about 30 runs which coincidentally is the number of extras we handed the opposition. It was good to see Pearl, who played for us and he joined some of the team for burgers and beer apres cricket. Stevie and Katie did a fine job on the catering and served a reasonable pint of Courage Directors Bitter. This is no mean feat given that the stuff can be almost undrinkable. If this is indeed the Directors' choice then God help the workers! Back in the late seventies it was quite a pleasant brew but as with so many beers from big breweries, it has been allowed to decline.

Sunday June 18th.

The countryside at this time of year is quite beautiful, poppies adorn the grass verges, trees are in full leaf and everywhere greenery is pushing upwards to get as much sun as is possible. Evenings stretch out till late with swifts skimming the buildings and owls hunting, one sees mother nature at her best. Sadly all of this natural beauty has passed me by this weekend. No, I have not been rushed off my feet with surgeries and house calls, I have wasted the days of early summer in front of the pernicious television watching all manner of sporting contests. Worst of all, in most of them my beloved country has been arsed. In Rugby Union we were trounced in both games by the vile convicts and our cricketers have been beaten in all forms of the game by a team of short, skinny Sri Lankans. In particular that hideously ugly, bulgy-eyed, sickeningly self- satisfied, smug, short -arsed, little piece of cheating vileness Muralitheran, who was at it again yesterday although he was not as successful as normal mainly due to the incompetence of our batsmen who got themselves out before he came on to bowl. Well, at least our footballers are doing us proud, blazing a glorious trail across Germany as they head towards a magnificent world cup win. Who could not be stirred by the sight of Ashley Cole giving the ball away or, that long strak of piss, Peter Crouch fouling his way to a superb goal. Who could not be heartened by Michael Owen falling over, or by the words of Saint Sven of Sveden. Thank God for Steven Gerrard! Last night we nipped into the Coopers Tavern for a couple including Thos. Salts Bitter and the excellent Hop Back Summer Lightening. On our return to the village we found our local had Wadworths 6X on. This once great, malty beer is now a washed out, thin version of its former self and as such should be avoided at all costs. It was so uninteresting that Bro and I resorted to drinking Pedigree.

P.S. This morning, I had forgotten, isFather's Day. The half pints have kindly purchased me some inflatable hands in England colours. At least they will keep me entertained during the Sweden game.

Sunday June 11th.

The Horse and Jockey is an out of town pub that has, unfortunately, had to become an eatery to survive in these difficult times. When Bro and I visited for an early pint of Tim Taylors Landlord the restaurant was pretty busy with customers who had been unable to drag themselves away from the world cup grabbing a quick meal befroe the next game. However, in all fairness, the pub side of the business is pretty much separate from the eating area and last night was more or less empty. Of course their was the inevitable TV showing Argentina versus the Ivory Coast but that apart it was very pleasant. In the morning I had, unwisely, gone with Mrs.Pint and the half-pints into town. Good God, you would think the world was coming to an end ! The supermarkets were packed with people stocking up on food and squabbling over the last four-pack of Foster's 4X. Barbeque brickettes were selling like hot cakes, (or should it be hot coals), and butcher's shops had run out of every item that could be burned to a crisp on an open fire apart from tripe. Other shops were equally busy with queues for tills stretching endlessly into the far distance. Every man woman and child, and also some of their dogs, were wearing patriotic shirts to show their support for our highly skilled, world cup winning team. Even my daughter had her face painted with the cross of St. George. I fear the worst in a couple of weeks time when we are knocked out of the tournament and all this patriotism evaporates. Arriving home from town I sat down to watch the match. England started brightly but after an excellent headed goal from a Beckham free kick, unfortunately by one of their defenders, there was little to get excited over. Yes, Lampard had a couple of reasonable efforts but plucky lil' Paraguay stood firm. In fact the two halves were as different as the two sides of the Paraguayan flag, and England ended up hanging precariously on to their one goal lead. I tell you this, if that lanky streak Crouch is the best centre forward we have got then I don't hold out much hope for anything better than the quarter-finals. After Bro and I got back to the village we repaired to our local, where we met Mick and sat outside till quite late drinking JenningsTom Fool and their Cumberland Ale.

Sunday June 4th.

At last summer appears to have arrived here in our village. one can sit out and listen to the drone of the bees gathering pollen and the endless buzz of neighbours' hover mowers. This blissful peace is only shattered by the occasional banging of my next door neighbour breaking up his three piece suite on the drive, the clatter of skateboarding kids and a roar as another motorbike passes by. Added to this there is the constant shrieking of the Sri Lankans as they launch yet another appeal and one of the half-pints bouncing a basketball against the wall. Yesterday I was unfortunate enough to watch the football which England won 6-0 against a team of that appeared to be selected from the Boris Johnson academy. What they hope to take from this I really don't know. I suppose a 6-0 thrashing of Jamaica, who are so laid back that one could reasonably assume they had all been smoking ganga for the previous week, is a morale booster. Sadly we were treated to the sight of Mr. Crouch appearing as if a mindless robot, then we had his goal celebrations. no all England can take from this match is that Gerrard can only play for Liverpool and that it is unwise to sub off all one's penalty takers. By the end of the match I was relieved to turn back to the Sri Lankan cricketers and their tiresome appealing. Later on Mrs. Pint and I wandered down our local for a pint of Cocker-Hoop and a glass of wine, (I shall leave it to you to decide who had what). At 8.30p.m. the place was deserted so we sat in companionable silence until Bro and mick arrived. They had been on a jaunt to the Horse & Jockey where, I was assured, they serve a particularly good pint of Timothy Taylors. I shall report from there in future weeks. Anyway the evening ended pleasantly enough. Walking home it was refreshing to hear nothing, the night was still and quiet, the only sound to break the silence being my gentle farting. What could be more calming.

Sunday May 28th.

I think one of the greatest pleasures known to mankind is drinking on a bank holiday weekend knowing that work is not going to interfere with one's hangover or recovery from it. So tonight Bro and I will venture out secure in the knowledge we can safely have a 'few'. Last night we dropped in at the SoM in Lichfield only to be disappointed that the guest beers were limited to Adnam's Bitter and Lichfield Brewery's Spring Barley ABV 3.9%. Yes I know it sounds churlish to complain but when one has set ones heart on a decent pint of Landlord it comes as a let-down to find the famous handpump clip turned away from the punters. The Spring Barley was pleasant enough but had no real balance or body. After picking up Mrs. Pint on our return to the village the beer police called in at the SoM prepared to pull the plug on the place as metioned last week. However to our surprise the landlord had a guest beer on! In fact to our greater surprise the handpump clip was none other than Tim Taylor's Landlord! This was most acceptable and it was chugged back with some ease despite being a little 'green'. While we were there we saw an old friend ,Filthy, who moved 'oop north' some years ago. When he was down here he was a cricketing colleague famous for his 'back injury' when bowling to a young Marcus Trescothick who plundered our side for the odd hundred runs or so. whilst on this subject I might say that the England opener was dropped off Bro's bowling when he was on two by a certain player who shall remain nameless, (Chuckup Chas Bates). Any way Filthy was as ever accompanied by his incredibly dull posse, who used to be known as the SVs, and as normal they started rambling on about something totally uninteresting to the rest of the world and went a sat in a huddle in a corner with gobbets of spittle dribbling from their lips. Whilst I am on the subject of cricket I feel I must mention the frog-eyed Sri Lankan chucker Muralitharan. What a piece of vileness, he may be a very nice gentleman but the fact that the laws of cricket had to changed to accomodate his throwing action makes me sick. Do you ask me to believe that if an English bowler had a suspect action the powers that be would get together and concoct a half-baked law to allow him to bowl? No , the ruling was purely political and now we have an unenforceable law that basically allows any bowler to throw the ball rather than bowl it. Also last night present was another ex-cricketer, Ken Hom (and his hot wok), who is probably the dullest person still alive in Britain so I tactically left Bro to converse with him whilst I concentrated very hard on the Taylors. Later in the evening we became the Provos again and were discussing which breweries we should blow up first. Top of the hit list was of course Wolverhampton & Dudley closely followed by Marstons, Boddingtons and the now dire Wadworths. I retired to bed a happy man dreaming of seeing the mash tuns and brewing coppers and Muttiah Muralitharan cartwheeling through the Wiltshire skies.

Sunday May 21st.

Last night I was mostly drinking very pale ale. The Coopers' Tavern provided the first pint in the shape of Castle Rock Mayfly ABV 3.7%, a gorgeous, yellowish drink that was fruity yet had a smack of malt to it. Next up was a rarity, a real lager produced by a brewery called Thur- something, any way at ABV 5.2% it seems a bit strong for my conservative tastes but I chanced my arm and found it to be light, hoppy and very refreshing. Again it was a delicate pale yellow in colour hence my clear head this morning. I wish more breweries would take up the challenge of brewing 'real' lagers, after all Johnny Foreigner makes them! sadly we then had to leave and head back into the village. The beer police again raided the SoM to check for guest ale and once again found none present. This is clearly a disgraceful state of affairs. On a Saturday night it should not be beyond the landlord to get a barrel of the stuff ready for the evening's drinkers. Anyway it will not be tolerated for much longer. On the 'three strikes and out' principle if he fails next week he and his pub will be off limits to all lovers of guest beer and will receive no mention on this website until things are put to rights! Thankfully our local had two 'guest' beers on tap Marstons Merrie Monk and Jennings Cocker Hoop ABV 4.6%. I use the term 'guest' advisedly as in fact, both are, in the strict meaning of the term, not actually genuine guests as the breweries are owned by the perfidious W&D brewery. In fact I don't know why W&D don't abandon brewing Marstons and stick with the Jennings. Again this was a really drinkable pale beer that could lead to a serious session ale if allowed. The evening ended with us playing the quiz machine but to be frank I cannot really remember a great deal.

Sunday May 14th.

My dear friend Mick picked up bro and I and drove into the nearby town of Burton upon Trent. last night. We travelled to the Old Cottage because the local branch of Camra was holding a meeting in the Coopers, presumably congratulating themselves on the quality of beer that we have in these parts. "Rubbish", I say, they need only look round the corner to find pubs selling third rate products form Bass, (Coors) and Marstons, (Wolverhampton & Dudley). They should be all for a boycott of such garbage. In fact, keep it under your hat though, Bro and I are planning to form a 'provisional' branch of Camra. This would consist of a few battle-hardened troops, sworn to secrecy on pain of having to drink Heineken for a year, who would carry out acts of beer terrorism. Picture, if you will, a busy bar in town purveying the usual ice cold lager from oversized dispensers, (Mrs.Pint would talk about penis substitutes at this point), when in walk a bunch of likely blokes. They order six pints of Stella and then just as the final pint comes gushing from the tap they all bugger off laughing loudly. The provos have stuck again. We could go in armed with a packet of stink bombs and scatter them over the floor, We could even fly a microlite into the Coor's tower except for the shortage of volunteers. But I digress, all this is is just a pipe dream at present. Now where was I? Oh yes, the Old Cottage. This is an excellent establishment serving a range of draught beer although I must say that last night all but one were over 4.7ABV. In fact the Rugby brewery's Cement was 6.8%, bloody ridiculous if you ask me! We settled for their own brew Oak bitter at 4% ABV . To my palate this was rather too malty and did not have that balance that really good beers have. Next up I went for their own Stout 4.7% ABV which I must say was rather good if a little heavy, it tasted like a pint of real Guinness but better. On arrival back in the quaint village where I reside, I dashed from the car to report on the SoM. NGA was the message Bro and Mick received. No, not North Yorkshire Golden Ale, No Guest Ale, not even BBB, Bob's Bland Bitter! The provisional provos ended up at my local where We got stuck into Jenning's Tom Fool 4.3% ABV. The brewery are running a promotion whereby for each pint you purchase you get a card stamped and, when you have five stamps you can enter a competition to win a night at Muncaster Castle. First though you have to answer a question! Who is the ghost at Muncaster Castle? Bro and Mick puzzled over this, who could it be? Stevie tried to be helpful by suggesting they looked at the poster advertising the promotion. No, still it eluded them. Would you like to know the answer? Tom Skelton, who was the origin of the phrase 'tomfoolery'.

Sunday May 7th.

How splendid to feel the summer returning after so long, the sun on one's back as one plants out pansies and lobelia ready for a colourful display. The heat of midday as one toils over the lawnmower trying to get the blasted machine to work. The necessity of packing it all up and lying in the sunshine. The urgent need at about eight in the evening to toddle off down one's local for a beer! Of course three of the above events did not take place this weekend as the skies clouded over and precipitation began, however this did not affect the fourth and as usual I made the pilgrimage to the Oak on Friday for a beer of two. Brains Reverend James ABV 4.5% or Black Sheep bitter ABV 3.8% which to choose? Easy really, nothing of any worth comes out of Wales except a victorious English rugby side so Black Sheep it was. This beer is quite refreshing and has an unusually strong flavour but is lacking a little in balance there being no real malty element, at least that is Bro's opinion. I tend to be more tolerant than the Chief Commissioner of the Beer Police.

I must admit though to tiring of it after three pints. On Saturday Mrs. Pint accompanied Bro and myself to the SoM at Lichfield where we had some of Pinner's latast Lichfield Brewery's so called Chill Out ABV 4.2%. Pleasant but unremarkable. I do wish that he would settle on a regular ale though, this was the third 'new' beer in as many weeks. Bro puts it down to the 'guest beer' system, punters are always looking for something new rather than finding a pint they like and sticking with it. I suppose we too have fallen victim to this mode of thinking. Fortunately for Mrs. Pint none of this affects her as she serenely sips her white vin ordinaire. Back at the SoM in the village they had Oldershaw's Isaac's Gold ABV 4.5% on. This was highly drinkable. The pub was fairly empty except for foodies and we were discussing this when who should appear than our good friend Al who had been wining and dining with his lady wife. He lurched towards us, grasping his glass of white and slurring greetings. Naturally Bro took him to task over his choice of drink, the Beer Police get everywhere! Mick turned up having got back from Blackpool wher he had been to watch football for some reason, and we all had a jolly nice time. I told Al my email address assuming he would instantly forget it but in fact when I logged on this morning there was a message from the man himself, it read, "if this is right, its' a miracle" . Anyone who can survive a couple of pints of Isaac's Gold, a large meal and a couple of bottles of white wine deserves to be congratulated, if they can also remember an email address it is, indeed, something wonderous.

Saturday April 29th.

I don't know about you but I listen to Radio Four at night when I turn in for there is no doubt the programmes at 11.00 p.m. are the most mind- numbingly tedious and sleep inducing I could wish for. Monday's Home Truths has little of interest now that the saintly John Peel has passed on and in any case it is a repeat of Saturday morning's edition. Tuesday's offering is so dull I can't remember what it is. Wednesday brings the, so called, comedy, Nebulus, which gives me acute indigestion and wind. On Thursday the deeply unfunny and, frankly, pathetic John Shuttleworth has half an hour to fill with his own peculiar brand of garbage and on Friday it is Great Minds, a programme so incredibly boring that people have been known to spontaneously combust on listening to it. At present on Saturday the Reith Lectures take the slot; good at ten in the morning but totally out of place when one's biorhythms are in the minus column. On Sunday the Beeb seem to think that religious shows are just the thing to entertain after the weekend is done so they stick on the truly dreadful Something Understood. It is worse than a dose of clap. No wonder, then that I fall soundly asleep after two minutes twenty three seconds. Or could that be the beer? I have been waiting all week to sample the ale in my local now that the new incumbents, Stevie and Kate have settled in. I must admit to some apprehension as Mrs. Pint and I strolled down there last night. The Woodbutcher had warned me that on Monday, when he had popped out for a swift one, several, of what he considers, the village lager louts had been in residence. I happen to know the youths in question and regard them as unwashed, foul mouthed, drug dealing scum, but you will already know my views tend to be rather right of centre! However I must admit to being pleasantly surprised. All the regulars were in attendance and we received a warm welcome from Stevie, who I have known for many years. Now to serious matters, the beer. Marstons as we all know is just Marstons but Stevie also had on Jenning's Cocker Hoop, which has been mentioned oft times before, and also Mansfield Riding Bitter ABV 3.6%. I opted for the latter of these and have to say it was very good. Crisp fruity and refreshing with a dry malty finish, in fact everything a good beer should be. After a couple of these I tried the Jenning's which was also excellent. So what is one to think? Perhaps I have been too hasty in my initial judgement.For the present young Stevie, despite having little experience of pubs from the owner's side of the bar, must be congratulated on keeping some fine ales, long may it continue. Let us see if standards are still high this time next month, if so I think the future of the Oak is in safe hands.

Sunday 30th April

After a morning spent gardening and an afternoon lazing around in the sun I was ready for some more ale last night so Bro persuaded his lady wife to drive us to nearby Lichfield where we headed for the JD Wetherspoon pub. unbelievably the queue at the bar was four deep so, cheap beer or no, we swiftly moved on to the King's Head where we drank a pint of Marston's Burton Bitter ABV 3.8%. It was pleasant without being anything special although this fact alone is rather surprising. In the Queen's Head we settled for Timothy Taylors Landlord followed by some Barnsley Gold ABV from the Acorn brewery. A top pint we thought. Back in the village we called in the Oak for a nightcap of Riding Bitter. It is still in fine fettle.

Sunday April 23rd.

Happy Saint George's Day to you all, although I doubt there will be celebrations in my locals as there were for Saint Patrick. In fact there certainly won't be one in the Oak for today is Attila's last stand . Henceforth he will be no more in this region for he is going back to Sheffield and he can take his outsized lager pumps, flowery curtains and air conditioning with him! I would like to say we shall miss him but in all honesty that would be a lie. He will go unmourned. Last night, started with a frustrating visit to the SoM where the landlord had not bothered to put a guest beer on. Having ascertained this fact Bro and I immediately left and went for a couple of beers in Gandhi's old place. Then we moved on to the Oak. I could distinctly hear the Woodbutcher's dulcet tones well before I entered. He was in the midst of presenting Attila with some glassware that some of the locals had contributed to. I suspect it is because they are pleased to see the back of him. The Smiles' April Fuel ABV 4.8%, (note the silly name), was no better than it had been at Gandhi's so I had the difficult task of choosing Guinness or Marston's Pedigree. Reluctantly I opted for the latter. Needless to say that it was uninteresting but drinkable. Bro and Mick heroically swallowed one more April Fuel before they to switched to Pedigree. Anyway, back to the saga of the Oak. It seems our new hosts will be the diminutive Stevie and his wife, a couple long known to us regular drinkers. Quite how they come to have the necessary qualifications for running an alehouse eludes me for the present but I am supposed to be reassured by the rumour that the new landlady has been on a two week course. Stevie himself is an aimiable bloke who will do his best but for now the long term future of the pub is still up in the air. My last act of the evening was to remove a couple of lager posters from the walls which made me feel a whole lot better. I am thinking of forming a 'provos' branch of Camra. Sunday saw a brief visit to the SoM in Lichfield where my old friend Pinners' beer was on tap, Lichfield Brewery's Binge ABV 4%, and delightfully hoppy it was too.

Earlier in the week the Pint family paid a visit to Suffolk, a bit of a beer desert, and while there went to Colchester, the museum of which I would heartily recommend. The pubs were more of a mixed bag. We ate in two places, one had an excellent pint of Adnams Bitter but the stronger Broadside was awful. The other served Green King and I have to say it is the worst pint I have had this year, possibly last year as well. How the brewery can churn out such muck and how landlords can serve it to the public is a mystery. One would have thought either might have a shred of pride left.

Sunday April 16th.

Happy Easter to you, today you can once again go about consuming whatever you gave up for lent. One of the half pints has given up eating chocolate and is today planning to gorge herself on a glut of easter eggs thus undoing all the good work! I considered giving up something and sthought about Marston's Pedigrre, but you really can only give up something you like so I took the easy option and did nothing.

Last night Mrs. Pint kindly volunteered to drive Bro, Mick and myself into Burton where we alighted at the Cooper's Tavern. As usual the beer was excellent both the Thomas Salt's bitter (ABV 3.8%) and the Hopback Summer Lightening (ABV 5%). Why can't all breweries produce decent stuff like this I asked rhetorically, but Bro suggested that that most breweries simply don't give a toss what their beer tastes like providing they can shift it. We sat companionably in the small bar as it gradually filled with customers only one of whom, a pimply youth, opted for lager. One might consider the Cooper's to be an anachronism, an old fashioned pub in a modern world but the customers it gets would suggest this is not the case. Last night there were older men, like myself, young women, middle aged couples, youths with spiky bleached hair, and blokes covered in tattoos. All using the place for what it was intended, drinking, and keeping good company. Bro got chatting to one poor soul who like him was a season ticket holder at the Wolves and they spent a few moments consoling each other. At last we summoned a taxi and headed back to the SoM to see if the previous week's barmaid was again dispensing pints as Bro had missed out. Sadly this was not his lucky night for she was nowhere to be seen. Happily though the Shepherd Neame Spitfire (ABV 4.5%) ran out as it was being poured to be replaced with the somewhat stronger Theakstons Old Peculier (ABV 5.7%). This meant the landlord having to relinquish his seat at the bar and trail down the cellar to change barrels. The latter of these beers was quite good having a strong almost choclatey bitterness although I should not like to consume more than the odd pint. I spotted Wee Jock and we spent a few minutes catching up on the gossip, he looked quite tanned and it emerged that he had been off skiing for a week. Skiing is one activity, (I shall not dignify it by calling it a sport), I am afraid I just don't get. Hurtling down a steep mountain slope on two planks of wood with no brakes seems a pointless and somewhat dangerous pastime. The sooner global warming puts an end to it the better.

Sunday April 9th.

On Friday night, some good news, or so I thought. We were taking a pint or two in our local with Al, Mick, Bro, the Woodbutcher, Gandhi and the Acid queen when Mick leaned over and whispered gently in my shell like, "he's leaving you know".

"Who's leaving I blurted out", almost spilling my pint of Pheasantly Plucked Bitter ABV 4.3%, which was quite an acceptable brew for a beer with such a silly name. Mick shushed me and continued," He's behind you", I looked over my shoulder and noticed Atilla nearby. " He's going in three weeks", Mick confided, "trouble with the brewery". I almost choked, Atilla has only been the landlord for a couple of months but apparently Wolverhampton and Dudley brewery have insisted he sign a 21 year lease, an offer he could refuse it seems. On the surface this is excellent news, no longer will he ravish the pub I love and have grown old in, no more flowery curtains, no more oversize lager taps, no more St. Patrick's night dos. however I have a sneaking suspicion that the brewery are looking to close the old place down. It is probably worth more to them as a saleable property than a going concern. Why else insist on terms that no sane person would agree to? I am seriously concerned. Last night I met Mick in the SoM where they had Brewster's Hop a Doodle Do (ABV 4.3%) on. Surprisingly it was very nice, usually beers with ridiculous names are fairly uninteresting and have to be given a daft nomeclature to sell them, witness What the Foxes Hat from Church End, a mediocre affair as I remember. Anyway this beer was crisp, fruity and, oddly for the SoM, quite moreish. Bro was unfortunately detained at a 50th birthday party that his wife had been invited to and consequently himself. Needless to say he was not overjoyed at the prospect of spending an evening listening to the host tootling on his flute, as was promised. Bro was missing out though.The SoM had a new recruit working behind the bar who made buying a pint a stimulating experience. Had I not been happily married I might have considered a dalliance, as she was superficially attractive in an Elizabeth Taylor sort of way and had a fairly curvaceous figure, she was, I would say, in her mid thirties and in fact just the type that Bro likes so we bombarded the poor bloke with text messages that gave clues to what the SoM had in store. We did stroll down the road to Gandhi's place only to find that the new landlord had a Marston's beer on as a guest, (Dragon'sTale if you must know), and pretty dismal it was too. No flavour of any kind. A pint later and we were back in the SoM where we finished the evening.

Monday April 3rd

Saturday

7.30a.m. Bro arrives to pick me up for the long journey to Plymouth where we will be entertained by Wolverhamton's finest. Bit early though!

7.35 a.m. Pick up Mick who squeezes his bulk into the rear seat of the batmobile.

8.00 a.m. Pick up Nick who is a friend of Micks.

12.00 noon. Arrive Plymouth, sun shining, sea glittering.

3.00p.m. Game kicks off, all in high spirits!

4.45p.m. Disconsulate and miserable we traipse back to the hotel muttering curses.

7.30p.m. Set off over a small swing bridge, past aquarium to visit the Thistle Park Brewery now in a better frame of mind.

7.44p.m. Beer, Sutton's Plymouth Pride ABV 3.8%. A samll brewer doing a good job. The beer is dark for such a light gravity but is well balanced and moreish. Bro has the Eddystone bitter which is stronger, 4.8%, but equally tasty.

8.59p.m. Nick requires something to eat and suggests a pub which does hot beef cobs, back past aquarium and over swingbridge and into the Fisherman's Arms.

9.01p.m. St. Austell Tribute ordered and everyone is happy apart from Nick who has discovered that there are no hot beef cobs, or for that matter, no food at all!

9.45 p.m. Round the corner and into the cosy clutches of the Commercial Inn where we find the ale is Flower's Bitter 3.8%. This is a rare drink to find , in fact I thought it long discontinued. The omens are not good however, Hall and Woodhouse of Dorset have bought up the name and are churning it out as though nothing has happened despite the fact it used to be brewed near Stratford.

9.46p.m. Amazing, it is actually quite good and, what is more it is served straight from the barrel! Sadly no food though. Nick looks forlorn.

10.40 p.m. Leave pub and scour the streets for somewhere to eat. Rain is pouring down and at last we find somewhere called the Himalayan Spice. All dive inside to get out of the torrential downpour.

11.30p.m. After a filling but uninteresting Chicken Madras bro and still feel under-refreshed so we down a pint of filthy nitrokeg. As it happens our taste buds have been destroyed by the curry ,so no harm done.

11.58 p.m. Stagger home to hotel room and sleep.

Sunday

8.00a.m. Waken, wash, dress and pop out for newspaper.

8.30a.m. Full English breakfast plus cornflakes, fruit juice and coffee.

8.59a.m. Pay yet another visit to the hotel's toilet. Proprietors canhnot cope with demand for bog roll. Good job I had the foresight to pack some as I run out in the midst of a profound bowel movement.

9.20 a.m. Back into bro's car for journey home. Dreadful news, his electric windows do not work leaving us at the mercy of his contributions to global warming.

11.40a.m. Praise be to God, The windows are working again and not a moment too soon. If you were on the M5 and noticed a car with three blokes hanging out of the windows, gasping for fresh air.......it was us.

Sunday 26 March

Last night Mrs.Pint and I set out to meet up with my old friend Pearl and his lady wife. What can I say about Pearl? He is, indeed, a very old friend though he remains sprightly and despite his eighty years and lives the life of a twenty year old. How did he come by his soubriquet? This is a delicate matter and I would not wish to offend readers so I shall merely state that it refers to a practice of a sexual nature that he wishes he could perform as often as it features in his fevered imaginings. Pearl is a veteran sportsman involved in cricket, rugby and soccer all now sadly on the touchline or more likely, in the bar. He has played at the highest level and sunk to the lowest depths, après sport. He is a keen student of pornography and again, despite his advancing years, still maintains an active interest in all manner of perversions. So we were looking forward to a jolly evening and that is what we got. We arrived at Gandhi's place and I purchased a pint of Jennings Golden Host which was pleasant but lacked a finish. Gandhi retires this week so it is sad to see him bowing out with such a beer, after all he has given the best years of his life to serving his faithful customers good ale and remaining chirpy despite his good lady's attempts to sour his mood. I wished him well and gave him the customary insult about his beloved West Brom. The pub was particularly busy but we found a seat away from the bar. However it was almost impossible to hold a conversation due to a group of old men who seemed to have forgotten their hearing aids and had to talk at a volume that would cause Motorhead to contemplate a quiet retirement. Then just as things couldn't get any worse a couple came and sat in the seats directly opposite us. To compound matters they then began to talk to us. The husband was partially deaf and so any polite reply we made had to repeated at a level that was loud enough for the whole pub to hear as well as causing structural damage to several surrounding buildings. They were then joined by another old chap who refused our offer of a seat and fussed around getting a stool which he then took ten minutes to seat himself on. They were just saying how everybody was so friendly and so talkative when Pearl and his gorgeous lady arrived, needless to say we abandoned ship and joined them. Pearl brought with him news that the SoM had Tim Taylors Landlord on so I was anxious to get up there and try it. Pearl meanwhile was regaling me with stories of his trip to Amsterdam, (I leave it to your imagination, but sex, drugs, and rocknroll just about cover it). The Tim Taylors was indeed on in a deserted SoM, (everybody was at some party at the village sports club), and it was very good as Taylors always is. Pearl dodged in and out as the lounge is non-smoking and the thought of going without a fag for half an hour is, to Pearl, quite unthinkable. Bro turned up and was pleasantly surprised at the guest beer, it made up for a difficult day spent in Bristol with his outlaws rather than at the football especially as his wife did not accompany him on his trek. The evening passed pleasantly although Bro and Pearl were not amused when the guest beer suddenly ran out and I managed to wangle the final pint.

I must say seeing Pearl cheered me considerably and it will not be too long before we meet up again.

Sunday 19th March.

Entropy, in time everything goes downhill no matter what. Your cup of tea gets colder, you age and grow old, your car becomes increasingly unreliable and turns into a pile of rust, the sun eventually dies, the earth and planets are consumed and galaxies drift into a long, bleak darkness until time itself ends. Not an appealing prospect you will concede. As if to remind me of entropy's effects, last night started excellently with a jaunt to the Coopers for a pint of the excellent Thomas Salt's Bitter ABV 3.8%. Bro and I sat in comfortable companionship savouring this marvellous drink that is brewed locally by the Tower Brewery. "Why can't all breweries produce something this good?", I mused, "Why don't Marstons, Bass and the like, take a leaf out of their tiny competitor's book and produce a beer worthy of their once illustrious names?"

My sibling stared at his pint for a moment and then said, "Because they don't care."

There, in that simple sentence, is the nub of the matter, what upsets my digestion on an almost weekly basis. Because the breweries don't care the poor old customer ends up with an inferior product, because landlords don't care it is too often served with no thought. What large and medium sized breweries do care about is their profits and their shareholders and providing we keep drinking the rubbish they churn out, they will keep on churning it out. Thank heaven, then, for the small guys, who despite odds stacked against them, concoct wonderful beers like Thos. Salt's which leads me nicely on to the SoM where I alighted later to be greeted by that most depressing of handpump clips, Ruddles County. I shall not dignify this garbage with a description but simply say it was awful. Whether this was due to the otiose landlord or to the brewery, I don't know or care. Fortunately it only lasted for the one pint and then ran out to be replaced by Oldershaw Brewery's Newton's Drop ABV 4.1%. Normally this brewery is one of the better guests on the Marston's list but sadly, not last night. It was O.K. Thats about it, not undrinkable. Damning with faint praise I hear you murmuring. In this case the chief suspect is the landlord who last night was attired like the green goddess for the Saint Patricks Day do, (albeit one night late) which seemed to consist mainly of people wearing silly hats and some old sot lugubriously singing Irish songs. Now, I have no particular objection to celebrating some long dead saint but on the condition that we do the same for all the other saints in the pantheon. I await April the twenty third with interest. On to that last refuge of a decent pint, Gandhi's. He still had Adnams Explorer on and it was served well and at least had some flavour which was more than could be said for the Oldershaws. My evening was complete and, to come back to what I started out blathering on about, it displayed most of the hallmarks of entropy. Started well, went downhill rapidly with perhaps just a glimmer of hope at the end. Are we witnessing the death of decent beer on the altar of profit. Well, if one proceeds in a northerly direction about twelve or fifteen miles one arrives in Derbyshire where small breweries are alive and kicking. Long may they continue.

Sunday March 12th.

Bloody hell! Calling in for a late pint last night in my local, the Oak, I discovered to my horror that things had gone to pot in the space of a week. You will recall my reservations about curtains that would grace your granny's lounge and a ventilation unit that has been installed with all the charm of a very large and ripe pimple on the tip of Scarlett Johanssen's nose, these are as nothing compared to the latest additions to my beloved local. Not one, but two, extra cold lager taps have been placed on the bar. Not content with this aberration, they are highly visible and quite out of place. It is the equivalent of placing a mobile telephone mast in the middle of Stonehenge or displaying Tracy Emin's, so called, artwork, in an exhibition of Italian renaissance paintings. It is like a very loud and smelly fart at a funeral, totally unwelcome. As if to try and justify their unnatural appearance the whole pub has been festooned with advertising for the revolting stuff. It is enough to make one throw up, which is probably what the vile filth would do should you accidentally swallow some. What is more there was no guest ale, on a Saturday night, and the next beer up was a lousy Marstons brew. To add insult to injury, the landlord, who shall henceforth be known as Attila, due to his ability to rape and pillage our drinking tradition, was absent from the scene of his crime. As you can tell I was not impressed. All of this is a great shame, and no good will come of it. In the meantime I shall not be plying my trade in the place too often. Earlier we had enjoyed several pints of Adnams Explorer ABV 4.3, at Gandhi's. This brew is quite a decent drink and Adnams are to be congratulated given that the rest of their portfolio is mediocre in the extreme. I would be considering making Gandhi's place my local from now on except that he too is going, (taking retirement), in a couple of weeks and there is no assurance about what will happen to the pub then.

Sunday March 5th

In my Sunday paper this morning there is a free book. 'Instant Italian'. With this book and the accompanying CD you can learn to speak fluent Italian in just six weeks. So I have decided to have crack at it. There are several reasons why I should do this, for a start it will be useful for ordering things if I ever go to Italy, imagine being in a bar in Florence and not being able to ask for a pint of Batham's bitter! Also it will be useful for insulting Italians in their own lingo and for insulting some of the local landlords in a language they do not know. I shall be able to stroll into the SoM and having sampled the beer, pronounce that it resembles the nocturnal emissions of an incontinent flying mammal whilst having the distinct flavour of earwax, all in Italian. The Shepherd Neame Spitfire ABV 3.9% was not quite that bad last night, but never-the-less was not a beer one hankered for more of. Indeed Mrs.Pint, bro, Mick and I departed and made for Gandhi's where the guest was Jenning's Golden Host ABV 4.3%. This is a fairly recent ale with a light refreshing taste and distinct hopiness. While we were there we met Al who had wandered in off the street, and we decided, rather randomly, to exchange mobile numbers. Al sent me a message and I sent one to him but neither of us were able to add these to our phonebooks, much to the disgust from the technically savvy all around. Anyway I have written his number down and will add it manually. Gandhi's fire makes for interesting comparison with the Inferno at the Oak, so I took the picture alongside this article so that you can decide. In order to compare fires we ended the evening by calling in at our local where Tony and his lovely wife have installed curtains to make the place seem more homely. I can't say I was particularly impressed with them, with their floral pattern they would be more at home in a tart's boudoir. Also the bar seemed rather brighter than is normal and Mrs. Pint pointed out to me, (for women notice these things), that the fluorescent lights had been cleaned. I don't know about you but I think bars should be fairly dimly lit and have that 'olde worlde' atmosphere rather than look like the interior of a hospital corridor. That said the beer was reasonable, Jennings Snecklifter ABV 5.3%. I have commented before on this ale so I shall just say that a couple of these is probably sufficient at the end of a session. At the moment Tony seems to have the idea that a strong beer encourages drinkers, of course regular patients know it does the opposite. In the week I called in at the Cooper's and had a first class pint of Thomas Salt's Bitter ABV 3.7% and could have stayed all afternoon su