DIARY ARCHIVE '07

Sunday 30th December

I thought you might be interested to know that according to the do it yourself quiz in this morning's Sunday Times, I am an alcoholic. This news may come as something of a surprise to those of you who thought that providing you stayed within government guidelines and didn't binge drink you were ok. Not according to the S.T.! The article asked a number of questions to which you were required to give a negative or affirmative answer. If you gave a thumbs up to any one of the inquiries the Times solemnly informed you that you were a potential alcoholic, answer yes to two questions and the chances were that you are an alcoholic and, heaven forbid, if you answered three or more with an affirmative you were an alcoholic! Naturally I decided to have a go. It started quite well, did I lose time from work due to drinking? No, I am retired. Does drinking make my home life unhappy? No, it makes it much more pleasant. Then it took a turn for the worse. Is drinking affecting your reputation? Mmmmm, I would hope that it is if anything enhancing it. Then came the crunch. Do you crave a drink at a particular time of day? I had to admit that at around 21 hundred hours I do get an urge to crack open a bottle. Have you ever had a loss of memory due to drinking? Oh dear, you can see the way this is going. By the time I had answered all the questions I had said yes to two and was rather ambiguous about another couple so I am in all probability an alky. However if I was setting the quiz It would have looked somewhat different. Do you have to go to the bottle bank on a daily basis? Do you ever consume more than a dozen whiskies in a session? Do you wake to find yourself in a phone box with a wet crotch? Do you throw up to make more room for alcohol? The serious point here is that, in general, beer drinkers become waterlogged before they can do themselves any lasting damage as beer is 97% water, whereas those indulge in spirits are drinking a much more concentrated form of alcohol. Therefore in terms of alcohol entering the blood stream, the diluted must be safer than the concentrated. Anyway it will not alter my habits which last night took Bro and myself to the Queens Head where we were treated to Sharp's Doom Bar (abv 4%). This session beer from Cornwall is rarely available in these parts and must be enjoyed while it is, so I stayed on it, while Bro had one and then switched to autopilot and Tim Taylor's. I was so impressed with the fruity bitterness that I purchased a Sharp's glass from the smiling barman, (Pigswill).

Now for my beers of the year, (from those I have sampled.)

Best pale beer.

This has to be the Brunswick's Triple Hop, an extremely bitter concoction that tastes like it has had a run in with an army of limes and several platoons of lemons, but it is run close by Thornbridge's Wild Swan.

Best quaffing bitter.

Two beers vie for this title but the winner is Thomas Salt's from the Tower brewery, close second is Blythe Brewery's Staffie. Both are fine examples of the brewer's craft.

Best best bitter.

I know that it is becoming boring but Tim Taylor's Landlord wins by a street and a half.

Best strong bitter.

Easy one this, Thornbridge's Jaipur IPA. A couple of these will come close to putting you on your back any more and you are being foolhardy.

Best dark beer.

Errrr.........................

Happy new year!

Sunday 23rd December

So, here it is, merry Christmas, everybody's having fun. Well almost everyone. In fact I am going to set down those I wish season's greetings to and those I do not and I shall start on a positive note by mentioning the excellent Titanic Brewery who keep producing good beer when all around them fail. For the past two evenings I have been drinking the delicious Iceberg (abv 4.1%), a very pale, bitter beer that demands that you sink three or four pints and then goes on to demand that you down an equal quantity of water when you get home as it seriously dries you out. Right-o, apart from the Titanic Brewery here are those who I like this year.

Bro, I know this is obvious but he has been a regular companion throughout the year and I admire his relentless optimism in the face of all evidence where Wolves are concerned.

Stevie and Katie, who have just received the prestigious certificate of excellence in cellar management, although I doubt the latest addition takes much looking after. I cannot see why anyone would wish to drink Marstons Smooth which is now on sale. Even Pedigree is a far superior product IMHO.

Rick Wakeman, the Yes keyboard player who now presents a Saturday morning show on Planet Rock. For those who have not yet tuned in to this, it is, at times, the funniest thing on radio and never fails to cheer.

Jeremy Clarkson who is an unreconstructed male chauvinist, polar bear hating, anti-vegetarian and very funny man.

Maximo Park for producing quality rock music in an anodyne years output.

Lastly, Pearl, who is an all-round good egg despite all the insults I have had to suffer and the threats to demolish my house. Our little Sunday evening chats over a pint or two remind me that getting older need not mean getting depressed or any less acerbic.

Now to those I wish no goodwill whatsoever.

Gordon Brown, overweight Scottish pension thief.

Alistair Darling, smarmy Scottish pederast with dyed eyebrows.

Jackie Smith, incompetent, silly cow who isnt fit to look after my bicycle keys let alone be in charge of the Home Office!

Harriet Harman, hatchet-faced, lying bitch who is now aiming to stamp out prostitution by making it illegal just because she is not getting any! When will it sink in that solving society's problems is not simply a matter of making new laws, guns are illegal but gun crime is still on the rise.

Ruth Kelly, failed at every job she has taken on and because she has a moustache and a penis.

Greene King Brewery, awful, simply awful purveyors of rancid filth to the masses.

Russell Brand, vomit-inducing, mincing, bouffant haired apology for a human being.

Bruce Forsyth, silly old tosspot who was never funny but still thinks he is.

Finally I have reserved the worst of my spleen for the remainder of the village's landlords who are spineless, unimaginative and wouldn't know a decent pint if it stood up, took its clothes off and danced naked on the bar in front of them.

Well there it is, I dont think anyone could possibly disagree with any of my choices, but should you find some of the above offends you...............................bollocks!

P.S. Have a good Christmas.

Sunday 16th. December

Last night Bro and I popped over to the nearby city of Lichfield and started off with a pleasant pint of Fuller's ESB (abv 5.5%), in the bar of the Garrick theatre. The exterior of this small provincial theatre is a complete mish-mash of styles and materials and looks as though it was designed as a project by a group of architecture students who had been on the piss all night and had each come up with a different idea.

 "I say Nigel, what about making use of corrugated tin for the window louvres",

"Oh yah, splendid idea Jeremy and we could use coconut matting for the roof."

Fortunately the interior is rather more conventional and is quite comfortable. Bro idly flicked through the glossy brochure of forthcoming events. Highlights included the Walsall Contemporary Dance Theatre staging their version of the 1959 cup final, the Burton Souzaphone Quintet playing selections from The King and I and a Herman's Hermits tribute band, not a particularly attractive programme one felt. We were halfway down our ESB when the pantomime that was being staged, starring somebody from the X Factor and Coronation Street's Albert Tatlock, reached the interval and the room went from completely empty to overflowing with children, we supped up and took our leave. In the Queen's Head we had a fairly difficult choice but eventually had a pint of Sharp's Nadelik Lowen (abv 4.8%) an interesting brew and one that is rarely available this far from Cornwall. The name quite eluded me unless it was the aforementioned girl from X Factor who was playing Buttons! Genitals was in the house and we fell into conversation. The poor chap has not been too well of late and it was good to see him downing a few jars. We decided to have some of the Lichfield Brewery's Stargazer (abv 4.3%), (the best beer of the night), and shouted up a couple and were served by the bulky figure of Pigswill, who now has a job as a barman. I am not too sure this is too sensible as it is like putting Pete Doherty in charge of Burton Hospital pharmacy, but he seemed to be revelling in his new role. As usual I got confused about whose round it was and whilst Bro and I were bickering, again as usual, Pigswill, who was getting impatient, demanded that one of us paid so that he could get on with drinking his everlasting half, oh, and serving other customers. We had a couple more Stargazers before we left and on the way out met Pinners who was on his way in after drinking Birmingham dry. We wished him seasonal greetings and made our way home.

Sunday 9th December

Ho, ho, ho, it's Christmas time again although some idiot somewhere has decreed that Santas are not allowed to use the usual 'ho ho ho' as it could be offensive to prostitutes, (as though they care), instead Santas must say 'ha ha ha'. This is just the tip of the iceberg as regards political correctness, in several of our metropolitan boroughs Christmas has been all but wiped out for fear of offending the ethnic minorities. No nativity plays, no decorations, no lights, no carols in case they should make those of other religious persuasions feel unwanted. I find this strange as most of the Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese and Thais that I know are only too thrilled at the sound of tills ringing up profit, phones ringing for taxis and restaurants full of revellers which would not be the case were it not for Christmas. Poor old Christians, the way things are going they will soon be the only ones not to have a celebration at this time of year, Hanukkah and Diwaili are already well established. (Mind you, curry for Christmas dinner sounds a winner. The problem is that most of us eat really well all year round so unlike the past, when a turkey meal was a real feast, these days it is nothing special.) Anyhow, come on, lets hear it for good old Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the rest of the retinue, even if it is just a myth. Talking of political correctness I read with interest this week an article that says that kissing gates are to be banned as they prevent the disabled taking to the countryside. Presumably stiles and five bar gates and roads that have rocks and stones in them will also be prohibited, in fact all mountains are to be bulldozed level to make them accessible. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the disabled and for them to be able to enjoy the countryside like anyone else but rather than destroying long standing features just whack in some that are wheelchair friendly. Part of the attraction of the great outdoors is the challenge it presents, if everywhere you go has flattened tarmacadem footpaths and street-lighting it will be duller than a trip to Morrisons. You want to climb Helvellyn? Well take the level, well-lit roadway to the base of the mountain and there you will find the air conditioned lift to take you up safely to a nice flat summit which is surrounded by metal fencing so you can't fall off. While you are at it, have a Thai curry in the rotating restaurant and view the other lake district peaks with their specially adapted mountain tops, cafeterias and shopping precincts, which are, of course, all multi-cultural and have no Christmas decorations. What is happening to our country? If I decided to go and dwell in Nyasaland I think it highly unlikely that the resident population would go to great lengths to ensure my religion, language and culture were all catered for to the exclusion of their own. Eventually all the world will be homogenous, you will go to Tierra del Fuego to find it has a branch of Carpet World staffed by a multi-ethnic mixture who have a Mid-winter festival sale on. What makes this planet interesting is its array of cultures and the differences between countries, that is why we travel, why we explore, to see for ourselves how others live. Stand up for diversity and down with political correctness I say. By the way beer this week was Jekylls' Gold on Friday. On Saturday I went to a concert, which was frankly, pretty poor, and I only had one pint of Blythe Brewerys Christmas offering which was quite a fine brew, ha,ha ,ha!.

Sunday December 2nd.

What a week! Anyone who tells you we have free speech in this once great country is a liar. At the Oxford Union there was debate about just this issue but because two of the guest speakers were controversial figures there was a small riot caused by protesting students who obviously believe, speciously, that free speech means you can say anything you want as long as they agree with it. I am fed up with the careful pussyfooting around the subject of Islam. A woman is sentenced to fifteen days imprisonment by a court in Sudan, for allowing a teddy bear to be called Mohammed and a bunch of raggedy idiots start waving their blunt meat cleavers around and calling for her execution for insulting the prophet. What is our government's response? Well, they dont want to harm our good relationship with Muslims so they'll ask them nicely to reconsider. What is going on? These people are primitives who live in a third world toilet and their idea of a bit of excitement is chopping the head off anybody who says anything they disagree with. You can't broker deals with morons, they should have immediately plonked the Sudanese ambassador in a rowing boat and pointed him southwards, recalled all the British who are stupid enough to want to live in that poxy hell-hole and withdraw all aid of any kind. This would either have the desired effect or it would save our economy a bob or two. I, and I suspect many other normal, law-abiding citizens, am sick of tinpot countries biting the hand that feeds them, sick of immigrants who come over here and wish to import what they laughingly call their culture, in its entirety, and sick particularly of appeasing these people. If they dont like the way we do things they shouldnt be here. I dont want to sound reactionary but........Last night was, to be brutally honest, a bit of a drinking disaster. We began the evening with me driving a short distance to the Waterfront, which you may remember is a new complex of several shops and a large pub on the outskirts of the village, situated by a large canal basin. Henceforth it will be known as the village docks. The pub was jam packed with people most of whom were busy stuffing food down themselves like starving Ethiopians. At the bar Bro and I split up to get a better chance of being served quickly, fat chance as the three pimply schoolboys who were behind it seemed to working full out but not actually getting anywhere. I stood next to a group of four people who after loudly making rude comments about the service, decided they would wait no longer and walked out. This was good as I moved up the queue. What was not so good was the obese woman next to me, who was occupying enough room for three normal sized people, was checking the stock of wine glasses to find the cleanest! Meanwhile Bro was waiting whilst some fussy bloke debated what sort of glass he would like his spritzer in. After what seemed like an eternity Bro jumped in and ordered a couple of pints of Burton Bridge XL Bitter (abv 3.9%). This was a golden, pleasant concoction and was relatively cheap. However we couldn't face queuing again and left. We walked over to my car admiring the fairy lights on some of the barges and got in. I had just inserted the keys when Bro produced the most appalling fart imaginable. Why he had not released it in the open air I cannot say, all I know is that I was forced to evacuate the vehicle for five minutes and open all the windows. Bro had eaten sprouts at lunchtime and was now producing the evidence of his gastronomic activity. Something happens when green veg meet Bro's stomach acids and the result is a miasma of nauseating gas. Even when I got back into the car and we set off, a faint stench remained, like a ghostly after-image of a traumatic event. In fact I suspect it will still be there this morning and will require a full valeting to exorcise it. Mrs. Pint joined us down at the Oak where disappointingly the Cocker Hoop had run out and we were left with a choice between Jennings Worlds Greatest Liar which was dark, thin and unpleasant, Banks Salute, which if it hadnt been for its 4.1% abv, you would have sworn was Banks Bitter, an insipid brew compared to ten years ago, and of course, Pedigree. I had one of each and felt that was enough.

Sunday 25th November

There have been plenty of talking points this week and the obese Scotsman, Gordon Brown has been at the centre of most of them. In fact I am surprised that he was not landed with the blame for England's miserable performance on the football field. As it was the deeply dull and uninspiring Steve McClaren got the shove as a result of his team's display, and abject they were. With the possible exception of the freak of nature, Crouch, the players were abysmal. No plan, no tactics, no skill and no commitment. We were, in fact, totally outplayed by a mediocre Croatian side which was efficient but no more. What do these players want? They have a job most young blokes would kill for, are each paid a weekly salary that would sustain Bolivia for a year, and only work until they are thirty two when they retire and become T.V. pundits. They have no pride in playing for their country or it would seem, themselves, what a contrast to our rugby team! I hope nobody wants the job of manager and it is decided to abandon the England team completely, or, alternatively, let's put out a side comprised of championship, league one and league two players, at least they would put up a fight and the certainly would do no worse. Lets kick the overpaid, preening, pouting, spoilt nancy boys into touch and get some players in who have passion.

Now, what about data? I, like most people, was utterly flabbergasted when the facts emerged about the child benefit disks that had been sent via carrier pigeon and got lost. The police are, as I write, scouring offices, looking behind computers and into waste paper bins in a desperate attempt to find them. What is going on and why has nobody in government put their hands up and taken the service revolver? That slimy shit Alistair Darling wouldn't hand in his notice if he had been caught, trousers down with a couple of choirboys behind Westminster Abbey bike sheds. Through it all the fat controller, after making a half hearted apology, has sat at the dispatch box with an inane grin on his flabby face, flanked by Jack (the twat) Straw and the awful, dowdy Harriet Harman. If you showed somebody who had no knowledge of British politics, mug shots of the cabinet, I have no doubt that they would say they were all nazi war criminals. Last night we went to the Coops' and partook of pints of Langton Caudle bitter (abv 3.9%) and Thornbridge Blackthorn Ale (abv4.4%). The former started well with a fairly strong malt flavour but by the end of the pint I found it had a slightly watery taste. Thornbridge was what you would expect, a flowery, hoppy brew. On our return to the village Bro decided to have a rant about motorists who use their fog lamps in perfect visibility. This is a pet hate and he expends a great deal of vituperative energy on castigating them. After he had calmed down we decided to chance the SoM, as we periodically do, to see if there has been any improvement. Sadly it was all too predictable, a treacle-like brew which Bro said tasted like cough mixture, was on offer. Cottage GWR, I don't know the gravity but would guess it is around 4.8%, could be quite a pleasant brew in the right hands but this was the SoM so..........

Sunday 18th November

There are several people that really irk me. Among them are Thomas Schapperknacker, the ridiculously named and useless BBC weather man, Ruth Kelly and Jackie Smith, two of the most repulsively ugly and hapless women politicians of their generation, all illegal immigrants and the whole of the Welsh nation, but one group have so far escaped my attention and it is about time I put things to rights. This group like to portray themselves as downtrodden, social outcasts who nobody understands whereas in reality they are selfish, smelly, self harming idiots. I refer of course to smokers. At my local there are several offenders, Pearl being one of the worst. Now normally Pearl is a splendid fellow, full of witty conversation and bonhomie, he will chat to anyone and the world is generally a far better place when he is on form. Along with several others who are equally delightful company he has a blind spot when it comes to death sticks. Pearl does not understand why he and the rest have to go out to the makeshift lean-to to indulge in their habit. This is not about freedom of choice, although I could equally claim that I want the freedom to choose a healthy smoke-free environment in which to consume beer. Smokers have a perfect right to reduce their lungs to something resembling shrivelled and blackened flatfish and if they wish to have breath that smells like a bonfire of old leaves so be it, none of this concerns anyone but their lady wives. What I and many others object to is their seeming desire to inflict their habit on everybody else! Before he was rightly banished into the outer darkness, Pearl would ignite one ciggie after another creating a haze of tobacco smoke that reduced visibility in the area to three inches, made everyones clothes smell like kippers and increased the risk of lung cancer in non-smokers exponentially. If one pointed any of this out to him, Pearl would brush it aside good humouredly and from then on refer to you as a miserable killjoy. Sunday nights are now punctuated by mass exoduses from the bar every ten minutes or so 'to pop out for a fag' and as I am usually the only person left inside Pearl encourages me to join the leper colony to show solidarity. Up until now I have obliged him but I think the time has come to take a stand. Pearl makes a contribution to global warming that comes close second to China in the pollution stakes by breathing out poisonous fumes and the outdoor shelter's patio heaters are in fact warming the atmosphere as well as him and his chums. Pearl makes light of the fact that he has got to die of something eventually and swears he will outlive me but the fact of the matter is that statistically, Pearl will be a burden on the NHS preventing others from getting their haemorrhoids attended to. It also annoys the hell out of me that despite everything the government is quite prepared to keep taxing fags to prop up their coffers instead of imposing an outright ban. I wonder there will ever come a day when Pearl is priced out of the smoking market, fifty quid for ten ciggies, no I can't see it. Last night Bro and I nipped over to the Coopers where we sampled Malt and Hops Bursley Bitter (abv 4.0%), drinkable but nothing special, Spire's Land of Hop and Glory (abv 4.5%), a well balanced brew and Houston's Blonde Bombshell (abv 4.0%), that was nothing of the sort and was, in a fact, a brown, full flavoured ale.

Sunday 11th November

Good morning to you all. As I write the lady wife is still abed, sleeping off last nights birthday celebrations at the Oak. I have to say that it was a great success and thank you to everybody who came. The whole thing came as a complete surprise to Mrs. Pint who thought we were just popping out for a couple with the half- pints who had missed out on Friday's visit to an Italian restaurant. The secret nature of the party had nearly been blown by the male half-pint when he blurted out something about the do over dinner one evening last week. Fortunately my dear wife has a habit of filtering out his inconsequential chatter and so the secret was preserved! Her face was something of a picture when she entered the hallowed building to find a gathering of friends and acquaintances already in party mood. Of people mentioned on this site Bro, the Woodbutcher, Al and Akin, Squirrel, Pearl, Rog and dear old Mick were all present with lady wives and children where appropriate. I was particularly pleased to have Mick back with us after recent events and so was the lady wife, he looked extremely well and is making good progress. Stevie had ensured that Jennings Cocker Hoop was on and Katie had produced a feast of traditional pub grub into which the ravening hordes made little inroads. I hope everyone enjoyed themselves although Al was a bit downcast at being fleeced at cards by my nephew! The female half-pint was pleased to see a couple of good looking youths who are at university and was happily chatting away when the rest of the Pint family left at turned midnight. A good evening and again thanks to Stevie and Katie for their efforts.

Sunday 4th. November

This weekend has been a bit of washout as far as boozing is concerned, on Friday night I popped down the Oak to meet my old pal Wee Jock who I have not seen for a little while. Over a couple of pints of Jennings Cumberland Ale (abv 4.0%) we chatted away about a raft of topics ranging from rugby to motors. Wee Jock was in a jovial mood especially considering his country is considering the issue of independence from the motherland. Personally I am all for the sweaties having financial and political independence if it means all M.P.s who are of a Scottish persuasion are catapulted out of our government and have to take their chances fighting seats for the likes of Auchtermuchty, Boat of Garten and Pitlochry. Of course Scotland would economically implode if it is their government that has to pay for free university education and care for the elderly, rather than relying on England to prop them up. There will be no more postal orders for two shillings and sixpence making their way to Auld Reekie if Alex Salmond gets his way.

 Saturday mornings are quite pleasant at present. I am usually the first to stir in the Pint household and having picked my way downstairs, avoiding the obstacles that the half-pints have placed judiciously such as shoes etc. I make myself a nice cup of tea. Then I cycle to the newsagents and pick up our paper. There was an article in it this week about the latest medical evidence about food. Basically it is this, don't eat anything as it will inevitably harm you in some way. Red meat, gives you bowel cancer and increases the risk of heart attacks, white meat can give you salmonella. Salt causes high blood pressure and damages your stomach lining; fish contains high levels of mercury and dioxins. Dietary fibre is responsible for abdominal distension and you have to have so much of it to hit your daily target that you need buy porridge oats by the metric tonne. The effectiveness of munching your five portions of fruit and veg has been overestimated and drinking fruit juice has about as much nutritional value as a glass of water. Worst of all, horror of horrors, they have now decided that alcohol destroys your health, breaks up families, causes all sorts of cancer and bubonic plague! I read this aghast over my cancer sandwich, formerly bacon buttie. Of course its all a load of tosh. Yes, probably, if you can afford to eat fillet steak every day of the week, take bites out of recently deceased chickens, cover your food with a blanket of salt and partake of haddock caught off the coast of Cumbria your health will undoubtedly suffer no matter how many gallons of pink grapefruit juice you down or even if you swallow an orchard. As for alcohol and in particular beer, one can quite safely consume four or five pints a night a couple of days a week. It keeps your insides clean, gives the old kidneys the equivalent of a ten mile run and makes you a more sociable human being. The answer to the food conundrum is simply not to worry providing you do everything in moderation apart from eating sauerkraut and tripe. We all know something will get us eventually so don't worry about your food, just get on and enjoy it.

Until next week, so long.

Sunday 28th October

I must admit to feeling slightly below par this morning. I put this down to my having the beginnings of a cold and not at all to do with the pint of Wychwood Hobgoblin (abv 5.0%) that I consumed late last night. As usual on a Sunday morning my first task is to fetch the papers. To do this I have to take a wheelbarrow to the paper shop so that I can transport the Sunday times back home. The paper is enormous; anybody who tells you that they read it cover to cover is either lying or acknowledging that they have nothing better to do for a week than read about some obscure opera singer's personal life. Once I have fork-lifted the paper into the house I begin to throw it away, in fact I throw most of it away. From my table to the recycling bag go, sections on cars, jobs, holidays, business, Indonesia, property, money and opera singers. No wonder we are chopping down trees at such a rate, my copy of the paper must use up half of Epping forest! Then the leaflets; I am sick to death of these blasted things being inserted into the magazine section, dropping out and covering the kitchen floor with a sea of brightly coloured bits of useless paper. So into the bin with Jean Patrique's knife offer, real wooden cuckoo clocks from Austria, bulbs from Amsterdam, a catalogue of ludicrously priced furniture made in Burma and a sample of some perfume endorsed by the repulsive Ruth Kelly. By this time I need a brew so I make a cup of tea only to find that in the interim the lady wife has raised herself from snoring blissfully and is avidly reading the only bit of the paper that I really wanted, the sport section! During the week we have the Independent, mainly, I admit, for the crossword but at least it retains a fairly neutral stance on most issues although I disagree with some of its more liberal ideas like being nice to the Scottish. However I also have to take the in-laws a copy of the Daily Express. This appalling rag, that is not fit to wipe your backside with, has for the past six weeks, featured on its front page stories about the McCanns or princess Diana, seemingly unaware of any other world events. Despite forest fires in California the Express probably has a story about what sort of earrings Diana was wearing. How do they keep selling copies? Bro, last night, was singing the praises of the Daily Mail with its ultra-right wing bias. Now I am not the most liberal of people, for a start I would bring back flogging, capital punishment or compulsory repatriation for all foreign criminals convicted of gibbering in Slovakian, but the Daily Fascist is full of alarmist articles about Polish types taking over our blue cheese industry and muslim clerics who believe all women should be dressed like post boxes. Why does Bro read it? Financial advice! I would have thought that any newspaper that advocates demolishing mosques to widen the M6 should be read with caution, especially when giving advice on where to lodge your savings.

 The beer in the Coopers' yesterday evening was most acceptable and we tried Chesterfield's Spire (abv 4.5) a pleasant drinkable brew, Thornbridge's Jaywick pale ale (abv 4.8%) a beer with an aroma like a flower press according to my brother and of course good old Thomas Salts which, after the Jaywick, tasted like it was brewed using shreddies, so malty was it. Right I'm off to read the Review section, see you next week.

Sunday 21st October

Well, the world cup dream is over but England leave France with honour and have re-established themselves as the premier northern hemisphere side. Congratulations to the boks and now one can start looking forward to the six nations. Last night Bro and I went to Thommo's stag evening accompanied by Barney McGrew who was making one of his rare appearances. We gathered at the Wetherspoon's outlet and were pleased to find that despite it's no music or television policy it had relented and the rugby was on two large screens. It is called customer power, in other words had they not shown it there would have been nobody there apart from some skimpily dressed, giggling teenage girls and a couple of old blokes who had forgotten it was on. Thommo, despite there being several guest beers on tap, stayed true to form and continued to drink lager of all things at least ensuring he didn't get pissed. We opted for a Burton Bridge offering which to my palate was rather uninteresting. We then moved on to Beartown's Bare Ass (abv 4.0% ) which despite its rather dark colour was a full flavoured brew full of malt and hops with a fairly dry finish. All was going swingingly until, 1) England lost, and 2) Thommo decided to go to the Hogshead pub next door. Not wishing to seem churlish we followed him only to find it was as Bro had told us, NDA, (no decent ale), so we bought Green King IPA (abv 3.6%) preparing to be disappointed and to be fair it didnt disappoint us; it was awful! Putting Green King and good beer in the same sentence is akin to using public toilet and fragrant in the same manner. We arrived back at the Oak for a pint to clear the taste of failure from our mouths, (both in metaphoric and tangible terms). I assume Thommo and company carried on into the small hours before disappearing into a curry house for a madras. A strange sort of evening really; it never got off the ground, probably due to the rugby, but it was a pleasant enough way to while away a Saturday night. The news on our friend Mick is not so good, he has been diagnosed with prostate cancer and is, as I write, undergoing intensive radiotherapy in hospital where he will stay for the next couple of weeks. Hopefully this treatment will work and he will be back in harness again, joining bro and myself for a few beers at weekends. Meanwhile we intend to visit him and also to pop into the Brunswick whilst there. I apologise for a lack of humorous content this week but I just haven't felt like it.

Sunday 14th October.

Bonjour mon amis, sava? Les Bleus copped it last night when the resurgent Rosbifs pulled off an unlikely victory and so for you, mon braves, the world cup is over. For England a final against the Springboks or the Argies awaits. If it were to be the South Africans it would gives us the chance to avenge that 36-0 defeat, on the other hand one has to feel that the Argies, although a very proficient side, might provide us with a slightly easier game. However, my main criticism of this World Cup is reserved for the rugby authorities who, for some reason beyond my comprehension, have decided to schedule games at 8.00 p.m. on Saturday nights. What on earth is wrong with 3.00 in the afternoon so that one is able to go out and celebrate properly? Last night I arrived at my local at 10.00, this is no time to begin drinking on a Saturday evening! The Everards Tiger was quite pleasant but three hurried pints is not really a satisfactory ending to the day. This week I note that research on primary school children has found that they are anxious, stressed, depressed and obsessed with celebrities, a little like most of us then. I, for one, have felt all of these this week in the build up to the game, but I have had that great healer, beer, to help me through. Perhaps the woman who was prosecuted for supplying cannabis to her kids has the right idea. Let us hope that the next labour budget includes a generous tax allowance for families purchasing draught ale to ease life's stresses. Incidentally whilst on the subject of politics, I rather enjoyed Gordon Brown's rather obvious irritation during prime minister's questions this week when DC waded into him. Gordon Brown is not a prudent, careful manager of the nation's economy. He has sold huge reserves of gold at the lowest possible price and presided over what can only be described as a 'smash and grab raid' on pension funds. He may wish to present himself as a big cuddly teddy bear but in fact he is nothing but a large, slimy turd that needs flushing away as soon as possible before he begins to stink the toilet out. Anyway enough of politics, let us celebrate the one thing we English are good at, stuffing the perfidious frogs, this alone will keep me smiling for the next few days!

Sunday 7th. October

Dear Chairperson of Wolverhampton and Dudley Brewery,

I feel I must write to you to congratulate you on the success of your policies regarding tied houses. Last night Bro and myself went into Burton-upon-Trent and paid a visit to a small freehouse called the Coopers' Tavern. To begin with it has never been refurbished and therefore we could not enjoy modern comforts such as wall to wall deep carpeting and a faux-nineteenth century bar. Instead we had to put up with a quarry tiled floor and no bar at all! Utterly disgraceful in this day and age! I know if you had this place you would pull the whole lot down and build a nice, comfortable, modern pub. (Sadly the local council has, in its wisdom, slapped a grade two listing on the building thus condemning the locals to continued misery in this old dilapidated alehouse.) We cannot understand why the place has no theme to it unlike so many modern public houses, if only it could be made into an American style bar with lots plastic fittings, spotlights and piped middle of the road music. The beer on sale is all from small breweries who clearly have no concept of what beer should be like. What on earth is wrong with sticking to one brewery who brew pints of medium strength ale that appeals to the modern palate and has no strong flavours. I must admit I was shocked by the tart astringency and the low gravity of a beer called Wild Swan (abv 3.5 %) brewed by somewhere called Thornbidge, oh for a pint of Pedigree with its bland tastelessness. We also tried a beer called Thomas Salt's Bitter which was only a poor 3.8 abv. and had strong flavours of malt and hops, give me a pint of Banks' Bitter any day so my taste buds can remain undisturbed. When we at length found a seat it was in a room full of people enjoying themselves. The noise and the laughter was most unedifying and an anathema to people like ourselves who are not used to pubs being busy places. At last, after four pints, we could stand it no longer and made our way back to a quiet Marston's house where it was very dull and only a few people were drinking lager on a Saturday night. There we had a pint of Cocker Hoop which, I am pleased to note, is gradually having the hoppy flavour removed from it by your excellent brewers and is being toned down so that it tastes exactly the same as all other beers in your stable.

Keep up the good work, you know it makes sense.

Yours ironically,

Dr. Pisspoor Pint

(Readers who appreciate a pint of W&D please feel free to use this letter and send it to the chairman of the board as well as copies to the head brewer and Camra.)

Sunday September 30th.

Since retiring I have found that I have more time to reflect on things that are going on in the village, country and the world in general; the only trouble is that there does not appear to a great deal of anything going on at present. Yes, I know that the Burmese people are getting a bit uppity but the military should soon put the plebs back in their place with a judicious show of fire power. Bloody monks, they should stick to meditating or whatever they do for a living instead of fomenting rebellion, we could do with a bit more repression in this country if you ask me. Take Ian Huntley, why won't they let the sickening pervert take his own life and do us all a favour? Why is it in this country that if you as much as look nastily at your children some smarmy do-gooder reports you to the authorities and you have the child protection militia turning up on your doorstep to take you away? Why don't the government use the army to round up all the snotty, spotty teenagers who hang around the shops, occasionally shooting each other and any unfortunate passer-by, and transport them to Dover and force them at gunpoint to jump into the channel and swim for France? How come weather forecasters like the ridiculous Thomas Schapperknacker are allowed to get away with doing such a bad job, he'd think twice about his showery outbreaks if he had a gun pointing at the back of his head! When will beer come down in price? This week I drove to do our weekly shop at the supermarket and I set out early to beat the traffic. Sadly this was all to no avail as everything ground to a standstill at the main traffic island. Why? Bloody road works, they have decided that to alleviate traffic congestion they will put a new road and a new traffic island in. This is to take 39 weeks, why don't they simply round up all the benefit scroungers and put them to work on the project? The trouble is in this country we are too soft on malingerers, criminals, hoodies, busy-bodies and weathermen. I am all for a military dictatorship and the sooner the better! Beer this weekend has been so-so, on Friday the Oak offered Jennings' Crag Rat and Brains' SA. On Saturday the SoM had Tim Taylor's on so I popped in for a pint hoping for a decent drink but surprise surprise it wasn't. The Oak had the same as Friday. On Sunday Pearl, Bro and I met up in the Oak and drank several pints of Brakspear's Organic Ale which was a light goldenish beer with a dry finish and was rather good I thought. As usual I ended up outside with the purveyors of noxious fumes as inside was almost completely empty. The area for smokers is quite pleasant but I wonder whether it will seem so welcoming when winter sets in; we shall see!

Sunday September 23rd

Fame at last for our small village community as on Friday the BBC came to our local school to put out a live broadcast of its long running programme Any Questions. Dutifully, Mrs. Pint, the female half-pint and I went along to witness the event. Senior staff at the school rushed about, looking important while we strolled, leisurely, to our seats. First of all a rather small, dapper gent who turned out to be one of the show's producers talked to us all about how things would proceed and had us practicing our applause. We had all been invited to hand in questions on arrival and so were excitedly looking forward to seeing which ones would be selected. I had considered asking a question on the beer orders but as none of the panel were as capable as I was of producing a coherent answer I decided to ask whether the poor old Lib-Dems ought to call it a day, particularly as Ming the merciless gave a conference speech that had the assurance of an English fast bowler facing an Indian batsman. Unfortunately, despite assurances that the questions were the only consideration, the first person to be called upon to quiz the panel was, in fact, the headmaster and as if that was not enough his wife was also chosen. In fact the questioners were as representative of the village as Jose Mourinho is of the human race! Anyway enough of such excitement; this weekend saw our annual pilgrimage to the Burton beer festival which, I have to report, was somewhat disappointing. To begin with, although we arrived at 1900 hours some of the more interesting brews had already completely sold out and presumably we were left with those beers that were not so good. So Tipple's Ginger and Green Jack Canary had gone but no matter there was always Marston's Sweet Chariot or Jenning's Snecklifter! Bro and I tried several beers of which only a couple were sufficiently interesting to merit a mention. Bro quite liked the Naylor's Pinnacle Bitter, (abv 3.9%) and Tower's Equinox, (abv 4.6%) which were well balanced and quite drinkable. For me only the Blythe brewery's Hamstall Hop stood out above the crowd. It is worth mentioning that we appeared to have a stalker last night who stood nearby for just long enough to produce a vile sulphurous fart and then disappear as the stench became obvious. Three or four times the 'Eggmeister's' presence was smelt and we had to move to escape the aroma. I am beginning to think the unthinkable and next year I may cross the festival off my calendar. However better news as Bro and I moved on to the Coopers' Tavern where the Thomas Salt's Bitter was streets ahead of anything we had sampled at the festival and had the added bonus of a couple of folk singers who belted out everything from 'My Old Mans a Dustman' to 'The Leaving of Liverpool' with a relish that was infectious, even Bro joined in the choruses. Back at the Oak we had a pint of Cocker Hoop which appears to have changed colour and is now a tawny shade rather than a yellowish tone which suggests W&D are beginning to alter it, making it blander, something I have been expecting for a while now, (see earlier posts).

Sunday 16th September

Saturday evening, the female half-pint has gone off to act as a waitress at a do that a nearby village's drama group puts on annually. She is usually well-rewarded for this sort of thing as all the worthies who attend are nouveau riche and tip handsomely. Typical of the type is the father of her friend who picked her up in his large BMW wearing aviator shades and Bluetooth earpiece. Meanwhile the male half-pint has somehow managed to get himself invited, by our next door neighbours, on a visit to a theatre in Stoke on Trent to see a production of Horrible Histrionics performed by a cast of effete men. So what better time to take the lady wife out for a drink or two somewhere special? Our beloved village has recently become the Venice of the A38 with the opening of the Waterfront complex, so we decided to go there and see what the fuss was all about. I was staggered as we drove up a road that was a field a few weeks ago, past a spectacular water feature and on into a huge car park. From outside the pub is pretty impressive standing two stories high and overlooking the large canal basin that has been formed from local gravel pits. There is also a row of other buildings that will become shops and are soon to open, making the whole area resemble the docksides in Gloucester or Liverpool. All of this has gone up in our small Staffordshire village and with air travel being strictly non-pc the owners must anticipate a boom in canal barge holidays. We entered the place and decided to sit outside as the evening was quite pleasant. The beers were not particularly inspiring as they had Stone's Bitter (which is owned by Everard's but brewed by Coors, that alone starts alarm bells ringing), and the inevitable Pedigree, but they did have Burton Bridge Gold Medal on, so I plumped for that. After a bit of a delay in getting my pint it was not too bad, pale and quite well hopped but a little lacking in body, however quite drinkable. Anyway there we sat, looking out as the crystal clear, blue waters of the marina lapped gently on the sea walls and the sun went down in a fiery glow to the west, over the village. Well, not quite, the waters are grey and muddy and fairly still and the sunset is hidden by the building but it certainly was something different. We were just chatting quietly when we were joined by Bro and his good lady. It was their first visit too and Bro seemed quite impressed with the quality of the building and the place itself. All that it lacked was a lighthouse! Certainly there are quite a few residents on barges. Stupidly I forgot to take a picture and will redress this next time I am there. Later on we took a gamble on the SoM and found that they had York Brewery's Centurion's Ghost, (ABV 5.4%), on. Neither of us are particularly keen on dark, liquoricey beers but this was pretty good and I can recommend it to those of you who are partial to this kind of tipple. After that it was on to the Oak for a couple of pints of Jenning's Crag Rat and Brakspear's Gold which, while not being exceptional, were in good shape. I am concerned about our good friend Mick, who is still not well and whom we have not seen for a couple of weeks. I shall report on his health in future epistles.

Sunday 9th September

Did you know that food additives particularly food colourings can make your children hyperactive? Well, yes, as a matter of fact! If we feed the male half-pint Dr. Pepper, (a revolting fizzy concoction not unlike Greene King Abbot), or blue coloured sweets he is on the ceiling for a couple of hours. Of course we all know this, just like we know that teenagers who take drugs, and drink excessively are much more likely to beat you up for your mobile phone. What is ridiculous is that these stunning conclusions are from the results of studies, done this past week, by overpaid academics with nothing better to do. These superannuated idiots then spout their conclusions as though they have uncovered something earth-shattering. 'Our survey clearly shows a link between lack of intelligence and poor school performance', 'studies show that the amount of cash paid to researchers is in inverse proportion to the usefulness of the information obtained'. It makes me mad, I would like to see these people forced to eat their words, literally. Sit them down and force feed their inane surveys to them, it could be a public day out to watch as they struggle to swallow 500 pages of hard copy. However, here are some results from my own limited but, I feel, useful researches.

1) The effects of eating five portions of green vegetables each day is disastrous for the environment due to the amount of methane released into the atmosphere, (my cricketing friend Stretch being a good example of this).

2 )Two pints of beer result in a headache, make sure you have only one, or five.

3) Marstons Pedigree tastes like marmoset piss.

4) The landlord of the SoM is a useless tosser who couldn't keep a decent pint if his life depended on it.

There, I am sure those are worth 5000 quid each but you can have them for free.

Last night Bro and I managed to get a lift into town and we downed three pints in the Coopers' before returning to our beloved village for a couple at our local. Blythe Staffie, ( ABV 4.4%), and Downtons German Pale Ale, (ABV 4.3%) were both decent beers served direct form the cask but the excellent Thomas Salt's Bitter, (ABV 3.8%), from the Tower brewery was by far the best drink we had all night including the Oak's Adnams' Regatta and Brain's SA. In fact I would go as far as to say it has become a firm favourite of mine. Conversation revolved around the day's sport, our cricketers have actually won a one day series, and rather convincingly I think, the mighty USA could not stand in England's way of retaining the rugby World Cup and those overpaid, injury prone, nancy boys, our footballers, actually recorded a victory. With the French losing to Argentina and if the Welsh lose to Canada today it will be as near perfect as a sporting weekend gets. I think I shall celebrate with a couple of pints!

Sunday 2nd September

I find, sadly, these days, that my eyesight is not quite as perfect as it used to be when I could spot a threepenny piece on the pavement from thirty yards away. These days it takes me ten minutes to refocus after close work, like typing this article for instance, and then going to watch the telly. The lady wife is forever telling me I should go for an eye test and I am forever telling her that I do not want or require one. My vision is perfectly adequate for most circumstances and it is only when changing from near to far that my optical instruments take a little longer than they used to, to refocus. It is with this in mind that I read with interest this week that opticians are, to the last man Jack of them, completely unreliable. For those of you who have not heard, Which magazine, sent out its agents to test the eye testers. The results show, unsurprisingly in my humble opinion, that these so-called professionals, are no more than a bunch of charlatans, quacks and snake oil salesmen. Going to an optician for an eye test is like taking your hard-earned wad and giving it all to a big issue seller. They take your money, give you a spurious checkup and then have the nerve to pack you off with a prescription that will, in all probability, cost you somewhere in the region of the gross national product of the Belgian economy. I for one, will have nothing to do with these corrupt medics and would suggest that you do likewise. On Friday my dear friend Jock wandered down the Oak with me for a couple of beers, indeed I have not seen the small Scottish one for some time so we had a bit of catching up to do. Naturally he is full of optimism for the coming rugby world cup after all Scotland have only to beat Portugal, Romania, Italy and New Zealand. Of course I am of the opinion that of these only the wretched Portuguese will succumb to the haggis eaters. However I will concede that England look pretty hapless at present and will only secure a quarter final place if they show considerable improvement, although I shall be content as long as we do better then the vile Welsh. Never-the-less I am happy for Jock to live in his fantasy world for the time being. The beer, it has to be said, was nothing special, Jennings' Cumberland Ale and Caledonian XPA which were both somewhat below par by the Oak's standards and that we only sank three pints in an hour and a half will tell you what we thought of it. On Saturday Mrs. Pint and I spend a happy half an hour at lunchtime in the Coopers' drinking the marvellous Thomas Salts Bitter and chomping our way through an excellent cheese roll. Saturday evening was enlivened by a firework festival which Colin and I watched from the bar over several pints of XPA, the actual pyrotechnics were at nearby Catton Hall but we still had a good view of the spectacular aerial display. Sunday rolled round and by nine-thirty I was feeling in need of refreshment so I popped down my local again to meet Pearl who was in maudlin mood contemplating the shortness of his existence. I pointed out to him that it would be considerably lengthened if he gave up the fifteen fags a day he smokes. Pearl's only reply was to tell me that I am a miserable bugger and I would probably die at the same time as he did. He has planned all the songs he wants at his funeral however and suggested that I should hurry up and sort mine out, but all this can wait for another week.

Monday 27th August

I have had a rather odd weekend by my standards, my alcohol consumption has been cut back to subsistence level and I fear I shall have to do some catching up during this week. On Thursday the female half-pint got her GCSE results which rather splendidly comprised a pile of 'A ' stars and a couple of 'A 's. Despite the obvious dumbing down that has gone on during the past few years in order for Mr. Blair to be able to claim that his education policy is working, the girl has worked hard and thoroughly deserves her success. However knowing that her Chemistry had dipped from a predicted 'A ' grade to a 'C'' due to a totally inept teacher we expected the worst and, I would wager, so did a good few other parents, therefore it came as a pleasant surprise to find she gained an 'A 'in stinks. Mrs. Pint and I have a suspicion that the school's Chemistry grades have been massaged upwards as the woman who taught, (I use the term loosely), it, was one of the most gormless idiots I have had the misfortune to meet. Somehow she managed to gain a doctorate at university and would get upset if she was not addressed as doctor. Being a medical man myself I feel this sort of thing does our profession no good at all and I would have her struck off. I think she was forced into teaching as she couldn't get a job in industry! Thank God she has left. Anyhow, the aforementioned half-pint celebrated by going to her washing up job at a nearby gastro-pub. On Friday we all went out for a celebratory drink at the Oak. I was just hitting my stride after a couple of pints of Adnams' Regatta when Mrs. Pint decided to go home. After walking her and the kids back I couldn't be bothered to return. On Saturday, with both Bro and Mick on their respective holidays, I had no playmates so I stayed in all night! I had never realised that television was so dire on a Saturday evening, obviously they don't bother putting anything half decent on as they must know most right thinking gentlefolk are down the boozer living it large. Sunday evening and I took Mrs. Pint down for a couple and met my redoubtable mate Pearl, whom I often see on a Sunday night. At about half-ten the lady wife again wished to leave, again after I had only had two pints of Cocker Hoop. This time I was having none of it and lobbed her the car keys. After she had gone I continued until half-eleven to try to redress the imbalance in my system. Six pints over a weekend! I cant wait to get back to normality.

Sunday 19th. August

Oh dear! I found myself in hot water with my redoubtable wife last night, or should it be hot tea. I had had a pleasant evening out with Bro and had enjoyed the delights of the George and Dragon, a traditional pub in many ways that has dark interior woodwork, a cosy lounge and a collection of civil war artefacts that relate to Lichfield's part in those unhappy times. This reminds me of the story of a roundhead military commander who awoke one morning, sauntered out to view the cathedral, which they had under siege, and was assessing the prospects for the day's play when one of the royalist defenders decided to take a pot shot at him for fun. Amazingly the musketball hit him smack between the eyes and killed him where he stood. Considering the unreliability of the weapon and the distance at which it was fired it is hard to know which of them was more surprised, although I doubt the recipient had much time to contemplate his rather bad luck! Anyway, to get back to the George and Dragon, Bro and I had a pint of Adnams' Regatta ABV 4.3% which has a goldenish look about it and more bitterness than the ordinary stuff. It was not unpleasant but the Queen's Head was calling so we strolled through the park to this most excellent of pubs. Bro had Tim Taylor's of course whereas I, being a little more adventurous went for the locally brewed Beowulf Chiller ABV 4.5%. which, I can report, is a pale concoction with a strong bitter flavour and just the hint of malty sweetness, all in all extremely drinkable. Just as we were finishing our second pints Pinners and Pigswill rolled up the latter wearing a tee-shirt that had a picture of a wild boar on the front, rather appropriate I thought given his soubriquet. Well, we arrived back at the Oak for a couple of pints of Caledonian XPA, an extremely refreshing beer with a pleasant tangy flavour. The problems began on my arrival at home. I decided to take myself to bed leaving the lady wife downstairs watching the TV. I settled down with my mug of tea and then woke up with a warm sensation of wetness around the crotch area. At first I thought I had done the unmentionable, in fact in retrospect it might have been preferable, but on further examination I realised that my mug of tea was now empty and the quilt was rather heavy. When will I learn? Of course Mrs. Pint was not best pleased at having to change all the sheets, quilt etc. at midnight when she was expecting to turn in. Unfortuntely the spare quilt turned out to be single so she had that and I had a rather cold night's sleep in my dressing gown, particularly as the bedroom window was had been suspiciously opened. However this seems to have been adequate punishment as this morning things are back to normal. Let this be a lesson to the drinking public though.

If you have been out on a spree never retire with a mug of tea.

For if you do it will end in farce and you'll spend all night with a chilly arse.

Sunday 12th August

Welcome dear readers. I have just arrived home from holiday where I experienced both the delights and the horrors of camping, good beer, mediocre beer and some wonderful music. The camping bit first then. Mrs. Pint, myself and the two half pints began by loading up the car. This was not an easy task as I soon found out stuffing various pillows, buckets and spades, sleeping bags, a gas cooker, body boards and the contents of Barretts shoe shop into the roof box. Eventually I succeeded in closing the boot, shutting the roof box and getting all aboard. Off we went to Widemouth bay in dear old Cornwall for a few days. The campsite was at first promising having all mod cons but we soon realised that the place was full of the worst sort of people you could imagine. Fat, balding men wearing football shirts with their unattractive, dumpy wives and revolting brats complete with baseball caps and bicycles. In the communal washroom they displayed their hairy shoulders and ostentatious tattoos whilst scrubbing their groins, left the sinks full of hair, suds and the remains of their beards and also stank the toilets out. The men were even worse! Their kids were either hanging around the toilet block or attempting road-kill with their BMX's. However, on the plus side, we had good weather, good waves and in the Bay View Inn, good beer. The Bay View Sunset ABV 3.8% is brewed by Skinners and is a light refreshing beer and needless to say I went back there three times to confirm this. After five days we packed up again and set off for the Sidmouth Folk Festival. The new campsite at Salcombe Regis was completely different to Widemouth. It was neatly laid out in acres of grassland, had well appointed facilities and genteel fellow campers that made us feel quite at home there. No more stinking lavatories or X Factor type talent shows, they even ordered us a newspaper each day. We paid several visits to Sidmouth as every year this little Devon seaside town puts on a tremendous festival of all things folkie. Naturally there are your typical types, pot bellied, middle aged men with large beards and sandals wearing T-shirts bearing the legend, Falkirk folk festival 1994, and with a platinum pass on a lanyard round their necks. However there were also a large number of young people both visiting and performing. A stroll down the seafront revealed morris dancers, Romanian dancers, Appalachian dancers and a bunch of lads from Newcastle who were rapper, sword dancers. There were pipes, guitars, bhodrans, melodians, concertinas, accordions, banjos and some instruments that have not yet got names. There were limbo dancers, jugglers and escapologists. We managed to go to a couple of concerts to see Brass Monkey, Last Orders, The Devils Interval and Uiscedwr, (pronounced uskadoor). They were all fabulous and I hope to back there next year. Whilst visiting nearby Lyme Regis I came across what must be one of the most unusual performers, a stone balancer! This guy takes large, interestingly shaped rocks and balances them in artistic fashion. I wondered how he discovered this talent, did he begin with bits of gravel and move on to pebbles before tackling rocks? If you are remotely interested you can even visit his website stonebalancing.com. Now on to important matters, beer. There are three breweries in the area, one such is Otter who brew Otter bitter ABV 3.6% , a tangy, tasty and very bitter brew, and Otter Ale a more rounded fuller flavoured drink. Both were excellent when I tried them. Teignworthy is another small brewery whose Springtide ale ABV 3.9% is a lovely balanced beer. Last but by no means least is Branscombe Vale whose beers I drank regularly, some at their brewery tap, The Fountain Head in Branscombe itself. The village enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame this year when the container ship, the Napoli, was wrecked on the rocks there. Call it salvage or looting but plenty of locals had their own version of Whisky Galore. In honour of this Branscombe Vale produced a beer called On The Rocks ABV. 4.1% which is a delightful best bitter and highly drinkable as are all their beers. Well now I am back home and happily, when I went out for a drink last night the SoM had Tim Taylor's Landlord on, so it was a happy homecoming.

Sunday 29th July

Good morning / afternoon / evening. Please delete where applicable. Yestereve Bro and I nipped over to Lichfield for a pint in the Garrick Theatre bar where on Friday we had had an excellent drink of Everard's Sunchaser ABV 4.0%, a light refreshing, lemony beer. It was, in fact, an aperitif prior to an Indian meal to celebrate my retirement. We were due to dine at eight-o-clock so we hurriedly squeezed in a second pint of the wonderful liquid. The Shaad restaurant was very pleasant and the food exceptional, I thought the waterfall in the entrance gave the impression that it was pissing down outside, but apart from this minor carp we had a lovely evening. I, rather stupidly, tried to eat a green chilli that was intended merely to act as garnish and had to consume a fair amount of the deeply unpleasant Cobra lager to prevent the local fire brigade being called out. Anyhow, to get back to the beginning of this piece, we walked to the Garrick in high spirits only to find it was closed for a private function! This was a considerable annoyance and we stood outside, hopelessly tugging on the door handle, thinking of all that Sunchaser inside that instead of lining our stomachs, was going to waste. At length we realised we were not going to get in and left for the local JD Wetherspoon's cursing and grumbling about the Garrick being able to turn away customers. The bar was surprisingly quiet and we ordered without having to queue for thirty minutes. The AcornFirst Gold was passable though not outstanding and we stood people watching for a while. The thing that struck both of us was the large number of hideously obese females that passed through. There were far more huge women than men, and for some unexplained reason most thought it a good idea to put a large area of flaccid flesh on public display. Opposite us were a couple of girls playing a quiz machine, the one, who was seated on a bar stool, wore one of those tops that is far to short and trousers that hang far too low thus revealing not only the cleavage of her arse but also a mass of sagging flesh that draped itself over her hips. A more unappetising sight you could not imagine and to add to the effect she had a rose tattooed in the small of her back. A party of women dressed as schoolgirls waltzed in, one of whom needed to preceded by a man with a megaphone warning drinkers that a wide load was passing. It was a good job the pub had double doors at the entrance to allow the she-elephant to get through. After drinking up we moved on to the Drum where we were meeting Doog for a fifty-first birthday celebration. The usual people were in attendance, Pigswill and Pinners although no Genitals who for some reason gave the pathetic excuse that he had felt unwell after last Saturday. Those assembled put it down to his insisting on having a pint of Jaipur IPA. Pinners had advised against it at the time but as he had been drinking a pint of the deadly stuff nobody took much notice. The Cocker Hoop was pleasant enough but Pigswill, who was buying the next round, reported that it had gone and there was no replacement guest ale. Everyone moaned but accepted it gracefully until Pigswill appeared with a pint of the Jennings ale. "I got the last one", he said sheepishly. At the King's Head the beers on offer were Pedigree, (no thank you), Marston's Burton bitter, (how depressing), and Castle Eden ale, (arghhh!) Bro and I made the fatal judgement to sample the latter which resulted in my leaving a good third of a pint. Pinners had the Burton bitter which was equally unpleasant. Bro bravely struggled down his and we made for the Queen's Head where thankfully pints of Landlord were ordered and calm was restored. Why breweries like Banks, who brew Castle Eden, think the beer is suitable for sale to the general public, quite escapes me. I wouldn't give it to farm animals. It is rather like Dr. Samuel Johnsons description of a cucumber , "it should be well sliced, dressed with pepper and vinegar, then thrown out as good for nothing". I have a hunch that we two doctors would have got along famously.

Sunday July 22nd.

I must admit to feeling rather happy this week as I have at last retired from my profession so that I can dedicate my remaining years to rubbishing those breweries that produce poor products and extolling the virtues of those that produce excellent beer. So Banks' and Greene King beware, Thornbridge and Tower, take a bow. Camra too will be on the receiving end of my acerbic writing if they do not adopt a more critical approach than at present. On Friday night we gathered together at the Oak for a farewell drink, although there was only one person there who I shall not be seeing regularly. However that person is an interesting character. Rod 'Knee 'as he has been known throughout his career, (because of his incessant complaints about that part of his anatomy when playing cricket), is a Cumbrian. Stories about him are rife and some have passed into folklore. He had a most unusual run up when bowling. It appeared to the batsman that Rod had had a few shots of whisky before starting play. Before starting he would take a few steps sideways one direction and a few the other before setting off on a mazy run that ended at the bowling crease. Despite his unorthodox approach when he at last released the ball it really did swing an amazing amount. Batsmen fell about laughing as Rod weaved his way to the crease and consequently were unable to play any shot. Those that were able to withstand the compulsion to guffaw were undone by the prodigious swing. Touring with any side that had Rod in it provided a constant stream of amusement, particularly at bedtime when his shouts of," oar gnaw", could be heard echoing on hotel landings as Bro invaded his room and produced large quantities of foul smelling gas. Once, at the end of a game, as the players walked off spectators were treated to the undignified spectacle of Rod being wrestled to the ground by Wesley and being subjected to a fierce volley of nauseating anal odour. Rod still is not keen on farts.

On Saturday Bro and I met Pinners, Genitals, Doog and Snapper in the Coopers'. What wonderful evening we had downing pints of Thomas Salt's bitter and Thornbridge's Jaipur IPA. We had a lengthy conversation about Genitals wardrobe which for the past 28 years has occupied a large part of his living room. The reason being that it is 'too big' to move upstairs. Genitals was thinking of breaking it up but Bro said that it was now the subject of a preservation order and would be better used as a TV cabinet. Again there is a fund of stories about Genitals including one Christmas morning when the neighbours' little boy looking out of his window said, "look mummy, theres a man sleeping on his garden path". Pinners insisted on me calling a taxi for them at 10.15. "It'll be here at 10.30", he confidently pronounced despite my telling him that the company we use is extremely prompt. The result of this was some very hurried downing of beers as the taxi arrived at 10.17 to whisk them back to Lichfield.

Sunday July 15th

As everyone knows, last night was the finale of the Lichfield festival so Bro and I went across to experience the delights of a party in the park. The park in question being Beacon park which is an expanse of grass and trees interspersed with swings, slides, ponds, streams and scout huts. Mushrooming in this area were an assortment of marquees, tents and shelters, purveying foodstuffs, music and most importantly, ale. The first person we came across, sitting in a camping chair and gorging himself on a tray of baked potato and something, was Pigswill. "Ill see you", chomp chomp, "a bit", chomp, "later", he semi-articulated. We, of course, naturally made for the beer tent where a variety of local brews were on offer. We bought a couple of pints of Blythe Bitter and joined Ray Genitals and Pinners who had started without us. While the crowds frolicked outside in the late evening sun we stood under canvas chatting and imbibing. Pinners' latest brew was available so we availed ourselves of some Hoppy Daze which was a hoppy, pale coloured ale with a very dry finish. At last we thought we ought to at least go and see what music was being performed so we wandered outside and made for the acoustic tent where a blonde lady accompanied by chubby bloke on guitar was singing Sleeping Satellite. After a couple of minutes our interest waned and we meandered to the other marquee where a woman from the north east was singing solo. Unfortunately she chose this moment to perform Je Ne Regrette Rien. We were regretting that our beer had run out so sadly we left and hot footed it back to the beer tent where Pinners had also returned. By this time Pigswill was behind the bar, serving thirsty customers so we had another Hoppy Daze and resumed our conversation. Ray Genitalia was eyeing the ladies and mentally calculating if he had the stamina to do anything about it when his doppelganger turned up, a gentleman called Brian Pretty. It was all getting a bit complicated so we decided to have another pint. Pinners regaled with a tale of times past in Lichfield when he and one or two others had been dining out. Apparently there had been a heated discussion between himself and Genitals as to the number of the bus went to Walsall. All of a sudden Ray stood up and shouted, "Pinfield youre a f?????g w????r and you always have been a f?????g w????r. At this point you could have heard a pin drop in the Indian restaurant. Almost immediately a waiter came up with the bill and asked them if they would like to pay up and leave. After we had stopped laughing Pinners mused, "At least you now know how to get the bill in one of these places." We strolled away to the Queens Head where we had another beer before heading home to the Oak for a pint of Banks boring Brightside bitter (ABV 3.9%).

Sunday 8th July

Yesterday evening Bro and I were joined by Mick and Mick's brother who lives and works in Spain. After last week's exploration of living abroad I was interested to hear that he has also experienced poor weather so even the 'sunny climate' argument fails to hold water so to speak. Anyway, while he is over we decided to visit the Coopers' to sample its wares. This meant extricating myself from the village cocktail set who were attending a barbeque to which the lady wife and I had been invited. Why oh why do people hold these things on Saturday nights? If I were in government I would bring forward a bill that kept Saturday evenings clear of all activities so as to enable punters to visit their local hostelry should they wish to do so. The punishment for organising an alternative activity would be confiscation of property or in the case of those organising barbeques, they would themselves be roasted over hot coals (on a different evening obviously). To get back to last night I presented myself at the barbie and chit-chatted for about an hour but then sneaked out and jumped into Mick's car which sped us away to the Coopers'. All was going well as we tucked into some Thornbridge Wild Swan and Hopback Beerdecia. Unfortunately I then made a tactical error and had a pint of Jaipur IPA. This of course doubled the drunkenness factor. On the way back I got Mick to drop me at the barbeque and reappeared as if nothing had happened. Fortunately Mrs. Pint was about to leave and, seeing that I was a potential embarrassment expedited the event. Of course I couldnt go without saying goodbye and thanking mine hosts for a lovely evening, after which I was hustled out and taken down the Royal Oak where the others were consuming pints of Cocker Hoop. I managed one and decided it was time to go home to my bed.

Sunday July 1st

July accompanied by leaden skies, floods, constant rain and little prospect of improvement; is it any wonder that people's thoughts turn to property abroad? Indeed I, myself, have considered such a move perhaps to Spain or Portugal. These places have their attractions, for a start there is the climate. You can maintain a healthy suntan all year round, eat al fresco, and never again have to watch Thomas Schapperknaker on the BBC giving a warning of foul weather for the next few days. But there is more, property is still relatively cheap abroad, I could sell my modest dwelling here and buy a four bedroom mansion with a swimming pool, double garage and two live in au pairs on the continent. The cost of living is far cheaper over there, Mick, who holidays regularly in Portugal reckons a good restaurant meal costs about 10p. a head. Relations of my lady wife who live in Spain say weekly expenditure is half of what they used to spend when they lived here. One could argue that the place is full of foreigners, swarthy, dark-skinned, women chasers, but in actual fact in this country we are overrun with Albanians, Poles, Romanians, Scots and just about any other nationality you can think of so that argument doesn't carry any weight. Yas; health, wealth and sunshine, a heady mix is enough to tempt us overtaxed, overworked and sodden Brits. Ah but there has to be a 'but' I hear you murmur, and here it is. The reason I could never up sticks and move to foreign climes is quite simple, Manuel does not know how to brew or keep decent beer. All they drink overseas is cheapo plonk and the vile San Miguel lager, extra cold. I would be longing for a pint of Robinson's Dizzy Blonde, ABV 3.8% long before the plane even landed. If I ever got there I would be homesick for the good old British public house. The Portuguese prefer to drink their ice cold lager in whitewashed bars whilst eating tapas. There is nowhere dingy and smelling of beer like the Coopers' so it was there Bro and I went last night and the Dizzy Blonde was a typical Robinsons brew, thin but tasty and drinkable. Oakham JHB also ABV 3.8% was in excellent condition and had a robust dry finish to it. Star of the show though was a beer called Hop Monster from Sadler's brewery, a little stronger at ABV 4.3% but a great advert for the smaller brewery, once again knocking the big brewers' products into a cocked hat. We arrived back in time for a pint at the Oak where the Hooky Gold was in good shape. Of course at six this morning the smoking ban came into force and not before time in my humble opinion. Smokers should go and live abroad where they can indulge in their disgusting habit to their hearts' content leaving our pubs smoke free, drinking shops.

 Today the family has been invited to Al's for, of all things, a barbeque. Still it should be good fun watching Al struggling with unhelpful conditions whilst trying not to burn his beefburgers.

Sunday 24th June

I am feeling particularly pleased with myself this week as I played cricket in our local village competition and managed a three wicket haul off just two overs! Of my performance with the willow I shall not detain you, suffice it say I was not out at the end of our innings. Anyway we won, which is the main thing and now go into the next round. Apres cricket was initially at the local sports facility where they boast a pint of Fuller's London Pride. I should have heeded the warning signs when my good friend Pearl, who had been umpiring our game, was at the bar, guzzling down a pint of Guinness, but no, I went ahead and ordered a pint of Pride which was almost undrinkable and was certainly unrecognisable as it is usually to be relied on. I left a good third of it decorating a table and drove down, accompanied by several team members, to my local where the excellent St. Austell Tribute was on. Pearl rolled up and was taken to task for an appalling run out decision and for calling over after five and sometimes seven balls. Apart from an inability to count, the team was rather cross that Pearl had given our 110 metre international hurdler out for not having made his ground. This is of course ridiculous as the lad was at least level with the wicket when it was broken but Pearl would not be moved. He stood there, cigarette held aloft, his decision made. Questions were asked about his eyesight and his state of inebriation but all to no avail, he stood by his verdict. This weekend I again trooped over to the Duke of Wellington in Lichfield to meet up with Bro who had been cricketing with the redoubtable Nomads. I arrived at precisely the right moment as he was at the bar buying a round. Pinners suggested that I have sixth sense about such things. The Beowolf Chasewater Bitter ABV 4.4% was delightfully fruity and golden. Another tiny brewery producing decent ale, why can't some of the bigger boys do the same? I followed this with a pint of Goff's Jouster ABV 4.0% which again was in superb condition although a bit too malty for my personal taste. Apparently Bro had been successful and had taken a couple of wickets while bowling in his usual niggardly style. Nomads had however lost but seemingly the scorer was to blame as he had Bro down for eight overs when Bro was convinced he had only bowled six and as he was bowling very tidily indeed a moral victory was declared. We moved on to the Queen's Head where the Tim Taylors was not at its best but was still ok. Whilst there, who should walk in but Pearl and his lovely wife thus demolishing Pearls argument that the pub was place for real ale weirdos and beardy pullover types, he had gone there of his own volition so unless he too is fully paid up member of the steam traction, real beer, cardigan wearing brigade his pronouncement is a shedload of bollo. At length bro and I strolled into the Oak for a last pint of Cocker Hoop before going home. A pleasant evening.

Sunday 17th June

I have, on occasions, played, (if that is the right word), cricket for several teams in the area. Some quite good, some not so good, some who played league cricket, some who played friendlies and some who participated in twenty over thrashes, but by far the most entertaining of these sides was Lichfield Nomads, or gonads as they are sometimes known. Last night Bro and I went to the Nomads' twenty fifth anniversary celebrations and met up with players old and new. Pinners is the mainstay of this ramshackle collection of misfits, indeed it was he and one or two others who started up the side back in 1982. They began life as a wandering group of players who could hardly find their way on to a cricket field let alone take part in a game but over the years they have become a fairly decent outfit and can compete with most club sides. Bro and I were among those who played in the inaugural game. I somehow got a huge top edge for 6 to score the winning runs and since then the Nomads have gone from strength to strength, from one end of the country to the other and from bar to bar usually consuming more pints of beer than they have scored runs. Stories are too numerous to relate but I shall attempt to give you a flavour of a typical Nomads game. Once, a game in Liverpool witnessed the most tedious batting ever seen, Pigswill and Doug Adam were the culprits. They kept on playing back ball after ball and over after over, Boycott and Tavare were not in the same class. They swept past fiftydot balls and went on to set a record for the most balls faced without scoring a run. The rest of the team slept in the sun or had their picnics, the scorer, I think it was Judith Evans, had to keep resharpening her pencil just to stay awake. It was without doubt a most infamous day in nomadic cricket. On another occasion on a wicket dubbed death field, the top score was 6 and this was not helped by me running out my brother. Defending a meagre total of 34 we must have bowled well as the opposition only just won by two wickets. Drinking together again last night was a real pleasure and the beer was pretty good too. The Duke of Wellington keeps a fine pint and I had the Weetwood Cheshire Cat ABV 4.0% and Fuller's ESB to sustain me through the evening. Both were excellent. It was a pity that the match arranged for the day was washed out.

Sunday 10th June

This weekend I have been abandoned and left to my own devices by my so called friends. Whilst Bro, Mick, Akin and Al have being sunning themselves at Old Trafford I have had to make do with my own company. This has been most noticeable in the evenings although on Friday I did persuade Mrs. Pint out for a drink or two. Steve and Katie are taking a well deserved break from the day to day running of my local and in their place, who else but Gandhi and his lovely wife. It was just like old times as Gandhi used to be the landlord of the Oak, (and almost every other pub in the village at one time or another). I had a pint of Cocker Hoop which was, I felt, rather disappointing. Maybe Banks' are beginning to have a malign influence over their subsidiary Jennings. Earlier in the day I had popped in to the SoM as they had Tim Taylor's on. If ever there was a beer that one can rely on it is Landlord, but despite this the pathetic imbecile who runs the SoM had managed to produce a pint that was actually unpleasant! So back to the Oak and for my second drink of the evening I opted for Wadworth's, (or Wadsworth as the chalkboard had it), Summersault ABV 4.0%. This seasonal beer was okay and was light in colour but lacked any real flavour. On Saturday evening I was a lost soul and pathetically I sat in the Oak with Mrs.Pint and one of the half-pints while I drank St. Austell Tribute. It was so quiet I decided to go home and watch Iron Maiden in concert. I hope to be reporting a better weekend next week.

Sunday 3rd June

After last weeks unpleasant business this has been a much more restful weekend apart from England's fifth string being beaten by a much vaunted South Africa. I look forward to giving them a good thrashing in the world cup, when we have a full squad at our disposal who have not contracted some vile illness that only a third world toilet could cause. It is a shame that our beloved prime minister has not gone down with some revolting stomach bug whilst in Africa, although it would be hard to tell if he had as he constantly spouts a load of s??t in the normal course of things. On Friday night Mrs. Pint and I watched the football on the Oak's telly but even after a couple of Crop Circles I couldn't see anything to shout about. Okay, Beckham's cross and Terry's header were out of the top drawer but if one is honest that was the only bright spot in a display that simply papered over the cracks. England displayed all the inventiveness and creativity of a piece of carpet and in the end came unstuck. As Bro pointed out, that most effete of commentators, the sickening Mark Lawrenson was wrong when he simpered, "no chance", in reference to Robinson's pathetic attempt to stop the equaliser. Any goalkeeper worth his salt would have kept that weak header out, but I felt justice was done the Brazilians looked streets ahead of us despite protestations that the premiership is the best league in the world and therefore England are among the best teams in the world. I would imagine Estonia are quaking in their boots at the prospect of facing such a mighty team....not. Last night we again popped into the magnificent Coopers'where we drank the wonderful Titanic Iceberg and I tried a pint of Thornbridges Wild Swan ABV 3.5%. It is so pale that I felt I had to take a photograph of it. It was also quite delicious! Thats about it for this week, see you next week.

Sunday May 27th.

Deep in the bowels of the Royal Oak, (an interesting turn of phrase), on Friday night, a heinous crime was committed and for once, all the major suspects were on hand. I had strolled down for a pint or two to relax after a trying week. Sadly the only beer worth drinking was Adnams Explorer ABV 4.2%, this is not an unpleasant brew but neither is it a particularly interesting drink however it does have the virtue of being vaguely fruity and is quite quaffable. Akin and Al were in and we fell to discussing the cricket, (that, weather permitting, should be over today with the West Indies in disarray.) A little later we were joined by the Woodbutcher and an old friend of mine Steve who I occasionally bump into in local hostelries. Mick turned up and finally, Bro. The conversation had turned to maps and Akin had brought in a road atlas to get Mick's opinion on the best route to Frome in Somerset. Steve said that the best way was simply to go down the M5 to Bristol and then follow the road signs. This seemed quite reasonable but of course this is far too simple a solution for Mick. He pored over the map humming and haa-ing about the B4122 or the A520 whilst everybody else extracted the Michael, (appropriately enough). It was at this point that the crime was committed. Steve was the first to notice it. "Bloody hell, who's done that", he barked, turning a delicate shade of green. Then we all noticed or should I say smelled the hideous aroma that clung to the air around us. It was worste than the stench from a welsh abattoir and the foetid gas hung heavy in the atmosphere. We all moved away from the bar coughing, spluttering and cursing the perpetrator of this horrid event. As the disgusting miasma dissipated the investigations and recriminations began. Bro reported that shortly before the fart had become apparent the Woodbutcher, who had been talking to him, had sddenly left in mid sentence with an odd look on his face, (although how Bro could tell the difference from his normal mien was not explained). Had he followed through? The Woodbutcher when confronted said he had not, and furthermore he would have been proud to have owned up if it were him. This did not entirely satisfy the jury but short of an expedition to the toilet and an examination of the pub dustbin to see if there were any discarded underpants in it, it would have to suffice. Suspicion then fell on Steve who had been the first to raise the alarm, on the basis of the old adage, 'he who smelt it dealt it', but no further progress could be made in this direction. Bro, who has a reputation for this kind of atrocity, denied it vehemently, and Akin, Al, Mick and myself were all judged to be too far from the epicentre to be implicated. Ground zero appeared to be at the opening from the bar into the lounge and on further examination it was noticed that Ivan was standing very close to the spot. Ivan is well known for 'opening his lunch' and that lunch usually consists of a mountain of green beans and other vegetable matter from his garden, add this to several pints of Pedigree and you have a recipe for ddisaster. Clearly it had been building up all night and, unable to hold it any longer, he had manoeuvred his rear end into the doorway and released a mammoth amount of nauseating methane onto unsuspecting drinkers. He had then moved back into the lounge thus avoiding falling under suspicion. By the time we had established the facts of the case nobody seemed bothered about hauling him in for questioning. It seemed sufficient that we had the most likely suspect. Chatting to Bro last night in the Coopers' over pints Wood's Parish bitter and Kelham Island Pale Rider, I discovered that he still regards the Woodbutcher as the prime candidate but I suspect that we shall never really know who really produced 'the fart of the century'!

Sunday 20th May

This week has been fairly uneventful and consequently I have little to muse on, however with my retirement from the medical profession looming my thoughts are turning to nine weeks time when I shall bid farewell to my stethoscope, lock up my surgery and move on to the next stage in my life. People have been most helpful in suggesting what I might do with my new found leisure. Yesterday whilst out shopping with Mrs. Pint the weather turned nasty forcing us to take shelter in JD Wetherspoon's, for a cup of coffee not, unfortunately, a pint. Sitting at a table near the window was my old friend Jim, who retired from the probation service some years ago, with his lady wife. Whilst Mrs. Pint engaged Karen in conversation Jim was full of ideas about retirement. They have both turned sixty so with their bus passes clenched in their hands they pop here and there, take in matinee theatre performances, have long lunches and generally live life to the full. "The hardest thing is learning to slow down", said Jim sagely, "take your time, enjoy things. We're off to our caravan next week for a few days". I have a mental picture of a caravan I once stopped in, a green and brown contraption with no running water, a toilet block half a mile away and a roof that leaked copiously. When my friend JCR finally tried to move it, a wheel fell off so he simply abandoned it in a Swiss field that is forever part of England. I would imagine the site owner is still chasing him for rent! Jim's though, is a far grander affair, it is, in fact, a house in all but name sleeping six with a power shower, cable TV, a garden and probably an Aga in the kitchen for all I know. The only problem is that it is sited in north Wales, a beautiful area but full of welsh people who sound as if they have a mouth full of phlegm every time they speak and six fingers on each hand. They are about as friendly as rabid badgers and you get the sort of reception that would normally be reserved for Osama Bin Laden paying a visit to the White House. They are, as a group, remarkably rude, reverting to their primitive language upon hearing so much as a 'good morning'. The local shops remove all English newspapers when they scent a foreigner approaching and pretend they dont understand a simple request for toilet paper. In essence they are a pretty vile lot. Anyway Jim and Karen appear to enjoy the place so who am I to carp. Yestereve, after an appalling day's cricket, where the bowlers, with the honourable exception of Monty Panesar, would not have looked out of place in our village team Bro and I made our usual trek to the Coopers followed by a visit to the Oak. As I have written before about the beers we sampled I shall not go into detail.

Sunday 13th May

Friday night and it has been a hard week for myself and for Mrs. Pint. After getting soaked cycling home I suggested that we might venture out for a pint. It took all of ten seconds to get an affirmative reply. So at nine-thirty we set off for my local and once there, met Rog and his lady wife. Unfortunately the choice of beer seemed unappetising so I asked for a sample of Banks' Amber Ale expecting it to be bland and insipid. I was not to be disappointed, it was, despite its yellowish appearance, a very uninteresting and flavourless concoction. That being out of the way I was left with a choice of Pedigree or Adnam's Explorer. No choice really and the Explorer, ABV 4.3%, was surprisingly fruity and refreshing. I read in my GBG that it is brewed with American hops so it is even more of a pleasure to find that it is a good quality beer. For Rog it was something of an adventure too as he has had almost twenty bleak years drinking products from the Southwold brewery and does not hold them in high regard, in fact he was keen to move back here so he could get Pedigree! However I cajoled him into trying a pint and he concurred that it was a spiffing brew. While Mrs. Pint sipped at her glass of rose Rog's good lady opted for a half of extra-cold lager, which I refused to actually order, fortunately for her, Katie heard her and poured a glass of the vile liquid. When I next went back to the bar the Explorer had gone, I was about to have a temper tantrum when I was reassured that the next beer was Hop Back Crop Circle ABV 4.2%. This was excellent being, again, light and fruity with a long dry aftertaste. Rog sipped his pint in quiet appreciation and offered his lager swilling spouse a taste. To my surprise she actually liked it and after this Damascene moment she went on to have a whole half pint, another soul on the road to conversion. Last night Bro and I went to our new 'local' the Coopers' Tavern where a retired military looking gent was banging out music on the out of tune Joanna with absolutely no sense of rhythm or timing. Thankfully he stopped after about ten minutes with a rendering of The Irish Boy that was indistinguishable from Men of Harlech. When we came back to our real local, they had a karaoke evening on so we had a couple of jars of Crop Circle before wandering home.

Sunday May 6th

Last night as we sat enjoying our pints of Everard's Tiger and Thomas Salts' in the Coopers', Bro and I strayed into dangerous territory as the conversation turned to religion. It is no secret that I have as much time for religions as I have for lager, and Bro is pretty much of the same mind. Bro had read an article in that marvellous organ of the press, the Daily Fascist, that said that Muslims were taking over our country by stealth. It based this allegation on the fact that Muslims on average have eighteen kids while we Europeans restrict our breeding to one point five children. By reproducing like rabbits on speed they were overwhelming Europe. Bro's main concern seemed to be that should Britain become an Islamic republic all pubs would have to close and there would be no more beer. I would have thought that this is the least of the problems that would arise. For a start all blokes would be obliged to grow large bushes on their faces and wear skirts, women would have to be subservient to men and wear clothing that made them look like black post boxes. We would all be obliged to say prayers every two minutes whilst bowing down to face east, clearly a recipe for chaos. However all the Muslims I come across are pleasant, modest and family oriented so I dont think a takeover is imminent. The real point at issue here is the value of religion. Fundamentalist Christians are every bit as whacky as fundamentalist Muslims, and I dare say that fundamentalist Zoroastrians have a bit of a weird take on the world. The problem with religion is that while it exists there will always be extremists, mostly wishing to blast the rest of us to hell or whatever they believe in. The world would be a much happier place if we all grew up and became atheists. Rather than continue this discussion I heartily recommend Richard Dawkins' book, The God Delusion, which expounds the argument a million times better than I can. Meanwhile we tucked into a pint of Kelham Island's Pale Rider ABV 5.2%. This Sheffield brew is a straw coloured, sweetish brew with a pronounced hop flavour. The Coopers' served it completely flat where I would prefer a little bit of life in it. I was buying a couple of halves while waiting for our lift to arrive and browsing through a box of pump clips that the Coops' sells off for charity when I found one for the Tower Brewery's Gone for a Burton. It sort of sums up the decline of the brewing industry in the town whilst offering hope for the future, so I bought it and reproduce it here for your perusal.

Sunday April 29th.

Call me a curmudgeon if you must but I really am getting global warming fatigue. Every time I turn on the television, open a newspaper or even tune in the wireless to the light programme for The Archers, there is some item about the imminent disaster that is to cause the world to have a hot flush. Yesterday morning was a prime example. The normally sober Independent on Saturday appeared to have had a few beers too many as it shrieked out, '40 degrees' in large red type. 'Is this the year when temperatures rise to 40 degrees in Britain? ', it asked. Clearly there was no other pressing news so it resorted to an alarming headline that in fact posed a purely hypothetical question. The jury out on the issue of global warming, in fact it has gone on awol and I do not intend to rehearse the arguments here, but let us suppose that the Indy's headline comes true. For a start it means my summer holiday will be free from the drizzle that books the two same two weeks as I do, and maybe the south east of England will face a water shortage and become an arid desert. This will simply mean that Chelsea, Arsenal and Fulham et al will no longer exist, for far too long London has had too much attention as well as hosting all the major sporting events. Edgbaston will become the new Lords and get two test matches as the Oval will also be deserted patch of baked soil. The population will have to move out and I would suggest they go to Belgium! This useless, backwater has given nothing to the world apart from the painters JanVan Eyck and Rene Magritte. Think of the kudos it will suddenly attain by getting Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst, the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Radio One. Of course there will be a downside as they will also get the Metropolitan police and the royal family but this is a small price to pay. Naturally there would be some whinging by the current Flemish population but martial law could be enforced and any complainers would be driven out into Germany which is plenty big enough to accommodate them. Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, what annoys me about the doom merchants is that on one hand they are issuing dire warnings and on the other they are encouraging just the sort of behaviour that will bring these about. The Independent yesterday having told us that we are all going to fry announced in its colour supplement, 'The 50 best travel websites', most of which enabled the reader to book flights to pacific rim, which will probably be the first area to be swamped by rising sea levels. Talk about double standards! Just in case we do get a long, hot, dry summer Bro and I decided to get in some drinking practice by visiting Lichfield. One of Pinners' beers was on at the SoM , a concoction called Spring Barley that was light and refreshing and tasted quite similar to Tim Taylor's Landlord of which we had several at the Queens Head. On our way there I spotted Pigswill lazily ambling in that direction. We raced into the bar to get served before he turned up but within seconds he appeared having put in a quick sprint, clearly he has a sixth sense about these things although he claimed he had heard Bro's wallet opening. At length we returned to our local for a couple of pints of Jennings Golden Host before staggering homeward.

Sunday 22nd April

As my local has an entertainer on, (I use word as loosely as a whore's knicker elastic), Bro myself and Mick opt to spend the evening at the ever-reliable Coopers' Tavern. This small, unassuming, back street drinking shop in Burton has a beer festival on tonight and what a joy it is. Admittedly there are a couple of folk singers belting out Dirty Old Town and various sea shanties but they add to the jovial atmosphere without playing so loudly that you can't hear yourself speak. In fact they occupy the so-called lounge, the majority of drinking being done in side passage that runs the length of the pub. Every small space has been made use of and is full of patrons. Even the passage off to the ladies loo has been opened up so that beer can be purchased from the cellars and real ciders and greasy burgers from the back door of the building. All of this is taking place in the shadow of what used to be Bass brewery. Bro and I stand with our pints of Jaipur IPA, (Bro) and Downton's Apple Blossom (ABV 4.3 %), and survey the huge steel fermenters that are used to brew their odious lager, and reflect on past glories. Once upon a time there would have been no need for a beer festival, one could sit happily, in the Coopers' bar, over half a dozen pints of draught Bass before staggering homeward for an afternoon nap. These days the Belgian Goliath pumping out gallons of fake continental lager glowers down on to the Coopers David. I wonder, will the result of the clash turn out the same way as the biblical episode? There is no doubt in our minds as we order more beer from the crowded bar. I go for the Quartz Brewerys Arcelle ABV 4.2%, a darkish but pleasantly flavoured concoction with a mellow finish. The giant brewery across the street can't even be bothered to brew its own flagship bitter, Corrs' have palmed this job off on Marstons', who currently brew a tasteless, insipid imitation of the once great Draught Bass. Here at the Coops' every beer on offer comes from independent brewers. The largest of these is Holden's but all of the sixteen others are from small plants turning out a handful of craft brewed beer each week. I decide to try the Castle Rock Tree Sparrow ABV3.9%, this is a mid brown beer with a full flavour despite its low gravity. The boys are drinking Blythe Brewery's Staffie ABV 4.4%, I try a sip and immediately decide that we shall be staying for at least one more pint. Conversation flows and Mick keeps checking the cricket score on his mobile / palmtop. England look like they are going to lose to the West Indies even though there is nothing riding on the game as both have been knocked out of the World Cup. The Staffie is a fantastic brew, from the first mouthful you can tell that here is a gem, light, slightly fruity and a glorious hoppy finish with just enough malt to balance it. If there were a world cup of brewing this one would definitely be a player. Sadly we must take our leave of the Coopers and head home to the Oak where X-Factors Errol Cole is still performing pale imitations of hits from the past, (rather like Coors', Marstons' and the English cricketers!) Fortunately this is taking place in the lounge and we are in the bar. Katie pulls us three pints of Redbrick's Double Barrel which is okay.....ish but disappointing after the Blythe. England have won, but as usual it is too late to bring much joy. Bro and I walk home together looking forward to Wolves versus Birmingham tomorrow. What an evening it has been, if only all were this good.

Sunday April 15th.

The summer is here. Its official. I have donned my shorts and prepared my patch for planting. The car is resplendent with new roof bars and in my garage is a roof box, bought on ebay, that is awaiting the camping trip I am planning in August. Actually when I got the roof box home, (all the way from Kidderminster), I found that it was lacking one of the fastening nuts. I immediately went online to find out where I could buy a replacement, this turned out to be as useless as a roof box without all the fittings, even the company's own web site gave no clues to where I could purchase one of these small nuts. So yesterday morning I popped into town to Halfords, apparently the place for these type of things. I was confronted by a spotty adolescent youth whose knowledge about all things cars was the same as my knowledge about Iranian toilets. 'Ill have to look it up' the pimply teenager said. After ten minutes on the computer and several questions about the make, model and year of my car I realised that this was going to be unproductive. 'Never mind, I said, you go off and play with yourself, if you can find your willie' I went across the road to Motor Mania. Here they were much more helpful but predictably the outcome was the same. After what seemed like an age hunting through various boxes the inevitable, 'sorry mate we ain't got any'. I eventually ascertained that to get a replacement would cost me in the region of £15, but for that I would receive a whole new bag of fittings. Bollocks to that! At length I went into a camping store, the youth there was most helpful, 'nah, we dont stock them but stick a wing nut on, it'll be just as good.' At which point he produced the aforesaid wing nut and refused to take any remuneration. The whole business had taken the best part of two hours and I was none too pleased. Later on I drove Bro into The Coopers' where I had a pint of Newby Wyke's Sidewinder ABV 3.8% and most pleasant it was. On our return I cycled to the Oak to find they had Jennings' Golden host on offer. This was most acceptable. Mick later joined us and we had a pleasant chat before I cycled home at about 11.30ish.

Answers to last week's teaser. Everard (I am an EVER ARDent ), Bass (dumB ASS), Lees (aLE ESpecially as), Hopback (sHOP BACK they).

Sunday April 8th

Happy Easter to my readers and today by way of a treat I have hidden some beers, (rather than easter eggs) in my scribblings for you to find, (eg. If anything MARS TONight's drinking it will be this). This weekend has been one of unsatisfactory purchases, and it began with my buying some solar powered lights. As some of you will know I am an ever ardent gardener despite having a patch that I can't even erect my tent on, let alone put up an illuminated display, but I do try. So I positioned the spotlights, adjusted the solar panels and sat in the sunshine waiting for darkness. When it came, surprise surprise, one of the lights had failed in its only given purpose in life. After giving it a good thrashing and a dressing down by calling it names like 'dumb ass' and 'useless piece of Malaysian junk' I decided it would have to go back, so I retrieved the plastic bag I bought it in but could I find the receipt? No, of course not, one never can, however I did hit upon a scheme to get it replaced. I went into town and bought yet another light and then put the festering heap of plastic that calls itself a spotlight, back into the box along with the new receipt which I shall take back today. On Friday the bathroom light switch went tits up so I purchased a replacement and spent an uncomfortable half an hour fitting it. This was made more difficult by the fact that I refused to turn the electricity off. However it was eventually ready and I went out for the evening happy in the knowledge of a job well done. Bro picked me up and much to my surprise we also gathered Mick who is back on the circuit again. We decided to visit the Great Northern, a pub on the outskirts of Burton which now belongs to the Burton Bridge Brewery. I was anxious to try their ordinary ale, especially as the last time I had sampled it I was greatly underwhelmed. Sadly it was not much better this time and the pub itself was disappointing. One large room, one beer on handpull and a clientele who would not have looked out of place in Twycross Zoo. Then my mobile phone went off. It was a text message from the lady wife. The bathroom light switch had failed! Another item to be returned to whence it had come from. We wandered up the road to the Burton Bridge Brewery itself to see if the beer was any better there. Bro said it had more about it but I opted for the weaker Golden Delicious which was okayish. We arrived back in our small but perfectly formed village to find that the fat, lazy incompetent who runs the SoM had no guest beer on tap and consequently we were forced to venture into Ye Olde Star Wars Bar. The place was heaving with assorted misfits and freaks so I anticipated something decent but I was to be again, disappointed. Even the presence of Gandhi behind the bar did not make up for the lack of a decent beer and we had to settle for Marston's Pedigree. Bro charitably said that if there was any such thing as a decent pint of Pedi the beer here would be it. I pinched my nose and downed it as quickly as possible. On to our local where Kate and Stevie had Titanic Anchor (ABV 4.1%) on but also had a karoke evening in full flow. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers. This morning as the good lady wife was putting the washing on the new airer we had bought, it, like the spotlight and the switch, fell apart. Now what do you think the common factor in this apalling business was? Wilkos! All of the malfunctioning appliances had been purchased from that shop. Back they all will go and hopefully be replaced with ones that actually work.

Sunday April 1st

I made an early start to All Fools' Day when I went to bed at about quarter past midnight and promptly fell asleep only to be rudely awakened by Mrs. Pint about ten minutes later. She was none too pleased that the mug of tea I had taken to bed with me was now mostly spread over the duvet. Earlier in the evening Bro and I had made our regular pilgrimage to that shrine of decent ale, the Coopers' where two of the Thornbridge stable of beers were on offer. Bro tried the stronger Kipling ABV 5.2% and I drank the weaker Wild Swan ABV 3.5% both were excellent and as a bonus were served by gravity straight from the barrel. The Wild Swan was amazingly pale, almost colourless, had a pleasant flavour and would make a superb session beer. The Kipling had more body and a stronger flavour but was also very pale, (as is the Jaipur IPA). Thornbridge's small ten barrel plant is producing high quality beers that shame the half hearted efforts of some of the larger breweries, it is just a pity that more drinkers dont get the chance to try them. Having said that the Coopers was very busy and we had to queue for five minutes to get served. On my return to the village I picked up Mrs. Pint and we wandered down to our regular where Exmoor Gold ABV 4.5% and Springhead's Oliver's Army ABV 4.4% were the guests. Bro and I spotted a notice above the bar that read Karaoke here on Saturday April 7th , and hatched a plan to stick one extra word on it that would make our feelings clear, that extra word being 'WARNING''. Katie produced a quiz sheet for drinkers with the promise of a free pint for the first correct answers. 'How long was the Hundred Years War?'This provided Bro with the chance to show off his knowledge of British history, 'errr, when was Edward Longshanks on the throne, or was it Edward the second?' At the rate we were going it was going to take a not dissimilar length of time to complete the sheet. Fortunately Mrs.Pint came to the rescue by seizing the pencil and writing down 130 while Bro was still calculating whether King John was in power. The second question seemed easy enough, What is a camel hair brush made from? the obvious answer seemed to be wood but after another debate we settled for squirrel hair, which proved correct. Anyway, we filled in our sheet and to our surprise we got six of the ten questions right. Our second attempt saw it rise to eight. Bro wondered if the battle of Crecy was in the 13th century while Mrs. Pint kept writing numbers down until we reached the correct answer, (which was 116). The final question was, what colour is the purple finch? We tried all the major colours plus more obscure ones such as lilac and burnt sienna but at last hit upon crimson which earned us an extra pint of Exmoor Gold! Bro was still immersed in the quagmire of the middle ages as the beer was poured.

Monday March 26th

On Saturday evening Bro and I paid a brief visit to the Coopers' where I made the mistake of having a pint of Thornbridge Brewery's Jaipur IPA. An error because of it weighs in at a hefty 5.9% and for the rest of the evening I had to drink more innocuous, though very pleasant, beers like Salts and Elgoods Old Wagg. The latter was the guest at the Oak where unfortunately a three piece group were churning out versions of sixties classics. Now I know this sounds churlish but I rather wish groups like these wouldnt spoil my memories of the period. They can play their own stuff or more modern numbers but to try to do early Rolling Stones songs, well enough said. But they were all there, The Last Time, Little Red Rooster, Off The Hook all interspersed with other songs like T -Rex's Get It On and the Kinks' Tired Of Waiting. If I am truthful the drummer was quite good and the bassist proficient but the vocals were poor and quite frankly not up to the job and let the whole enterprise down. I know why Kate and Stevie get bands on, (to fill the place), but I would rather have a quiet pint and a chat. On Sunday Mrs. Pint and I popped down and were greeted by the most irritating laugh it is possible to have. Having bought a glass of Rose and a pint of Hyde's Bitter we quickly repaired to the lounge to escape from the fearful racket. Sadly the woman who owned the laugh was so loud that all parts of the pub were subjected to her high pitched cackling. Why did the bloke she was with keep telling her funny stories? Every few seconds an ear-piercing chortle ripped through the old place lasting for ten or fifteen seconds. Anyone who has such a repulsive laugh would, I''d have thought, keep it under wraps rather than announce it to the whole world. She was still screeching with mirth as we took our leave. I do hope that she is not destined to become a regular, give me a crappy sixties group any day.

Sunday March 18th

Last night I drank; 1 pint of Thos.Salt's Bitter, 2 pints of Oakham brewery's Bishop's Farewell ABV 4.6% (in the Coopers') and several pints of Deuchar's IPA (in the Oak), and very good they all were too! Now that is out of the way let me pontificate on the weekend's sport beginning with cricket. Let us face it, England are at present a shambles. The batting line up looks fragile and without the truly wonderful Nixon they couldnt be relied on to score a hundred between them. The fielding is at best patchy with missed stops, dropped catches and overthrows. The bowling attack is, with the exception of Panesar, as threatening as a dead slug. Today I hear that our magnificent trio of Lewis, Anderson and Plunkett have been out clubbing when they should have been tucked up in bed having nightmares about their abysmal performance. Anderson, who, needs extremely favourable conditions to serve up even a half decent delivery should be sent home to ply his trade in the Lancashire under 12 league where he might manage an economy rate of four per over, and the same applies to the other two to a lesser extent. How Stuart Broad can't make it into this outfit is beyond my wit.

 Rugby. The inevitable has happened, we have had to suffer the dreadful embarrassment of losing to the worst team in the six nations, Wales. However despite the gloom and doom merchants I still believe we have the makings of a decent team but you can't give players old heads, they have to learn, and to learn they have to play and make mistakes. Flood, Tait, Geraghty and Strettle will, I believe in two or three years time, win us the world cup. The pack, once it has Matt Stevens and Andrew Sheridan back in harness, will improve immeasurably on yesterdays timid outing. So while I was disappointed with the result, England still came third, beat the ultimate winners and have hope for the future, on the other hand Wales, along with Scotland look destined to remain at the bottom of the heap for many years to come. Football pundits who say the Premiership is the best league in the world are obviously not interested in competition. Contrast the sterility of the top tier of English soccer with the excitement of the Championship and there is no comparison. There are still eleven teams battling it out and any one of five or six could earn automatic promotion. Give me genuine competitiveness any day over the dullness of watching Manchester United, Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal taking turns to win the Premiership.

Well thats got that lot off my chest, see you next weekend.

Sunday March 11th.

Hopefully this time next week I shall be back on line with my smart new computer. Sadly at present my modem appears to have joined the ranks of the idle by refusing to work, I have threatened to cut it's benefits but to no avail. I phoned my service provider, AOL, and a nice chap from Bangladesh or India said he would send me a new modem by Wednesday so that I can connect with the outside world again. Meanwhile I have been re-installing some of the programs that I had on the old machine. Most have gone on smoothly but my accounts program is being difficult. It installed okay but when I tried to use my backup file it demands a password before it will open the bloody thing. Why? I have never used a password with this program so how can it possibly need one now? I have sat for an hour desperately trying to recall all my passwords but it has proved useless so I have had to input all my information again and start from scratch. Yesterday evening Bro called round for me and we nipped over to the Coopers' again where I had a gorgeous pint of Hopback Spring Zing ABV 4.2%, again an example of one of the smaller breweries producing a product that people want to drink. Light and hoppy with a snap at the end this beer a fine demonstration of what can be done with a little imagination. The Coopers' was bustling, and although I had to wait for five minutes to get served I didnt mind, the pubs owners deserve to be successful for their choice of beers and their care in serving it. We arrived back at the Oak and drank Brakspear's Bitter which at ABV 3.4% is fine for a session, although it does lack a good finish. Bro and I agreed that we were getting seriously worried about dear old Mick, whom we have not seen for six or seven weeks now. It seems he still has stomach problems and a pint of Stevie's bitter would not be helpful. Right, I shall now settle down to a day of sport with the Black Country derby on the steam wireless and then the rugby international where we shall see just what England are made of.

Monday March 5th.

This has been a particularly difficult weekend as at around midday on Saturday my computer stopped working and would not switch back on. I have been like a lost soul ever since, forever wandering around, cut off from cyberspace. I hadnt realised how dependent I have become on the bloody thing until now. Every few minutes I have walked out and stared sadly at its grey metal casing and wondered what I was missing in the world of the Internet. I have cajoled, pleaded with and kicked the damned box but to no avail so I am reduced to typing this on my ancient laptop and then uploading it at work. I am also waiting for a visit from the computer repairman who assured me he would be round at three-o-clock today but as I type he has, typically, not put in an appearance. In fact the only time I have forgotten about being cut adrift from HMS Internet was on Saturday evening when I popped out for a visit to the Coopers' Tavern where I had a rather pleasant pint of Thornbridge's Brother Rabbit, ABV 3.8%. Bro on the other hand supped away at a tasty pint of their Jaipur IPA. We arrived back at our beloved Royal Oak for several pints of Jennings' Cumberland Ale which was exceptionally