Diary Archive '08

Sunday 31st August

Last Sunday saw the closing of the Olympic games and the handover to London for 2012. I guess that bumbling Boris Johnson is not the sort of chap who the Olympic committee really wants to be handing the flag over to. With his unbuttoned suit jacket flapping around in contrast with those about him he appeared unflustered as he marched out into the Olympic stadium. This was until he seemed about to jauntily thrust his hands into his jacket pockets when he remembered that this would be considered bad form, so he continued to the podium with his arms held out from his sides rather like Clint Eastwood anticipating a showdown. On receipt of the Olympic flag he then had an interesting couple of minutes figuring out how one worked the ungainly item. At last he got it waving and here in Blighty we all sniggered at his ineptitude and his casual attitude to protocol, after all isn't that what this great country is all about? The wonderful British eccentric is alive and well and dwelling in the mayoral mansion of London. A little later we had a taste of what was to come when a red bus drove out and transformed into a what appeared to be a green hedge. Before this we were treated to the sights of a typical British street. I thought that a few hoodies happy slapping a pensioner whilst a crowd of young ladies with their knickers round their ankles urinated on the pavement and disgorged a belly full of alcopops over a Big Issue seller, would be the order of the day, but it was not to be. A silvery haired Jimmy Page, (should our rock heroes really be doing this sort of thing?), played Whole Lotta Love accompanied by a thirty foot tall Leona Lewis and David Beckham kicked a cheap plastic football into the crowd. Here indeed is a country to be proud of, filled with ageing rockstars, well past their sell-by date, inane female wannabes and thick, overpaid footballers. I eagerly await 2012, not!Last weekend also saw Miss Pint attending the Leeds music festival, which she assures me was awesome despite the medieval conditions. With enough mud to satisfy an army of hippopotami, a toilet system that even the French would consider unhygienic and revellers chucking each others tents onto bonfires I suppose it was a rite of passage of sorts, she, never-the-less, generally enjoyed the experience. On Saturday Bro and I set foot in that palace of pubs, so beloved of beer drinkers, the Cooper's Tavern where we drank Falstaff's Kroll, (abv 4.2%). This is a difficult beer to describe but basically it is a tangy bitter with a fairly complex flavour; whatever, it drank well and both Bro and I thought it toothsome. I am slightly concerned that the house beer is now Castle Rock Harvest Pale, (not that this is a bad thing, it is a delightful ale), and the previous incumbent Thomas Salt's Bitter seems to have vanished completely. I shall have to do some research to find out the reason for this as Salt's is a real session beer and one I particularly enjoy. We dropped in at our local for a final pint of Jenning's Fish King, (which was reasonable) and chatted to Kate and Stevie about the forthcoming beer festival at the pub. I am especially keen for this event to take place as I happen to know that a couple of casks of Sharps Doom Bar are lined up, so I am looking forward to the last weekend in September.

 This evening, further proof that all is not right at the Queen's Head in Lichfield, Bro, I and our respective lady wives called in for a pint or two having been informed by Pinners that Doom Bar was available. Sadly this superb beer was not anywhere near its best, being too warm and tasting slightly green IMHO. According to Bro, who decided to opt for Tim Taylor's for his second pint, this too was below par. Pigswill, who works in the pub, suggested that there were problems with the coolers but I shall be keeping a close watch on this normally excellent city local as I have also noticed the steady creep of W&D products replacing those of smaller, independent breweries.

Sunday 24th August

With Miss Pint away cavorting in the mud at Leeds festival and the lad occupied with equestrian business, the tail end of this week has been fairly quiet and restful for myself and Mrs. Pint. Well I say restful but what I really mean is uneventful. Thankfully the Olympics is almost over and we can get back to normal news in the mornings rather than watching men in tight clothing pedalling over rocks and doing irreparable damage to their piles or arse-kicking contests that end with the referee getting laid out. The fat controller was on this morning looking and sounding extremely smug and attempting to gain some reflected glory from our performance. The interview itself was hardly a John Humphrey's special though, being conducted by a brummie half-wit and some Scottish tart who I have never seen before. No wonder the FC looked so pleased with himself; he is out there on holiday enjoying a jolly whilst the rest of us have to deal with spiralling energy and food bills and a recession! Anyway to bring this piece back to my original point, as things have been fairly quiet I shall reflect on issues concerning draught beer this week. On Friday down at my local the guests were Wychwood Beesting or something of that ilk and Ringwood Seventy-eight or Eighty-seven, I think you can gather that I was none too impressed with either of them. One was a slightly sweetish liquid that became sicklier the further down the glass I drank and the other was a bland and uninspiring offering. Last night Bro and I visited the Queen's Head hoping for something decent. Bro had a pint of Archers' Sea Breeze, a mid-brown ale. If I tell you that he thought it resembled a Green King beer you will probably gather that he was not keen on it. It was weak, tasteless and a waste of money and in Bro's words, "more like Sea Water". I went for a pint of Slaters Honeycomb or such like, again I can't remember the name but I can remember that it was very similar to the Wychwood beer I had drunk on Friday, it was definitely not moreish and had a rather cloying flavour. As both these beers are brewed with honey I can only say that the sooner brewers get back to using basic ingredients, the better. More to the point though, these beers were on sale in what is probably the best pub for miles around. In fact as Bro pointed out, of six handpumps only one had anything worth drinking, and that was Tim Taylor's Landlord. So we downed a couple of pints of this excellent ale and reminisced with Ingsy and Pinners about cricket tours we had known. On arrival back at the Oak I was pleased to find that the Wychwood had disappeared and the reliable Jennings' Cocker Hoop was on. What struck me is that four of the beers mentioned above are not regular brews and are not in the GBG. It seems that brewers feel they have to produce a new and different beer every month rather than stick to one or two decent products. If they must experiment with their recipes they should trial them in a local pub before putting them out nationwide, or is it they simply don't care? Only the Landlord was worth drinking and it is interesting to note that Taylor's only brew five different beers and have done for some time, they are not constantly churning out new brews, they know when they have a winner and stick with it. It is also worth noting that the Ringwood and Wychwood beers are brewed by breweries owned by W&D. So my message this week is beware of one-off beers and anything that has been near bees. Find a decent pint of Castle Rock or similar and enjoy.

Sunday 17th August

Well its back to what passes for normality this week after my holiday and last week's jaunt to Plymouth. All was normal down at my local on Friday night, Tim was earnestly reading the Burton Mail, Chris was quietly savouring his beer and the Cocker Hoop ran out after I'd had only a couple of pints with Jenning's Fish King taking over. This is typical of a beer brewed to satisfy the demands of a large tied estate and doesn't quite hit the spot whereas the Hoop, which is an established brew, has distinct flavour and character. Mrs Pint and I were joined by Bro and his lady wife who had returned from a few pleasant days in La Rochelle. Bro was in need of some proper beer after his exile in France and he had naturally turned to his local to supply his needs. The good news was that as part of the Oak's beer festival, due to take place on the last weekend of September, Kate and Stevie informed us, to our delight, that they had ordered two casks of Sharp's Doom Bar, a happy prospect. Kate asked me what had annoyed me this week and there can only be one answer, the Olympics. For a start the BBC's coverage has gone into overdrive with every available 'c' list celebrity they could find being flown out to Beijing for a jolly. Thus we had the inane and completely barking Matt Baker, (ex-Blue Peter), losing control of his voice register which regularly rose beyond the limits of human hearing whilst he was commentating on the gymnastics. This could have been caused by latent paedophilia brought on by watching little girls in tight leotards performing contortions, but a far more likely explanation is that he is simply a Geordie twat. One of the corporation's main problems is that as it no longer shows any real sport it goes completely over the top when it gets its grubby hands on something other than international frog tossing. Shooting, sailing, rowing and cycling all get the treated as if they were a rugby or cricket international. I'm sorry but I just cannot get excited about watching some bloke on a bike pedalling a hundred times round the velodrome, I know that it is a worthy exercise but it is also interminably dull. I'd rather have a tonsillectomy. Likewise swimming, it is fine to inform us that Britain has won gold in the ladies freestyle or such like, but watching half a dozen women thrashing around in the water is visual anaesthetic and usually results in me been shaken awake by an irate lady wife who cant hear the commentary for my snoring. Any way, the only sports we are any good at these days are the ones which only the rich and public school educated can afford to do such as dinghy racing, equestrianism, croquet and murdering animals. Perhaps at the London Olympics we could introduce fag flogging or crumpet toasting and so ensure a couple of golds for our ex-public school hoorays. Ho-hum, itll all be over in a few more days and we can go back to what we do well, politician baiting!On Saturday evening Bro and I nipped into the Coopers' for some refreshment and found plenty on offer. I drank Thornbridge's impossibly pale and tasty Wild Swan followed by a pint of Burton's Black Hole brewery's Andromeda (4.8%). This was certainly a muscular beer, dark brown with a strong malt component and big on flavour, probably a little too much for my liking but never-the-less a beer to be reckoned with. The Woods Shropshire Lass (4.1%) was disappointingly unsatisfying and relatively flavourless so for my final pint I played it safe and had Castle Rock Harvest Pale which was reassuringly toothsome. Tonight I popped out for a beer or two with my old mate Pearl only to find Gandhi and the Acid Queen in charge of my local while Stevie and Kate have a week off. After ribbing him about West Brom we downed a few Fish King whilst catching up on the weeks news. We were later joined by Bro who is on holiday next week and chatted amiably until about 11.30 at which point we decided it was time to leave.

Sunday 10th August

I write this piece having just arrived back from Plymouth where I have been sojourning with Bro and Mick. Of course the reason for our visit was the first day of the Championship and we went to Home Park to watch the game, which ended in a draw. As I had bought my ticket separately from Bro and Mick I was sat on my own, flanked on one side by a large, tanned, Mediterranean looking guy with black greasy hair drawn back into a ponytail who didn't utter a sound during the entire match and on the other by a youth with tourette's syndrome. This lad sat with his mate, intelligently discussing the game and politely applauding any good play. I was just thinking how refreshing it was to find a quietly spoken intellectual at a football match when suddenly he was on his feet hurling abuse and making rude gestures at the Plymouth supporters. After continuing for a minute he sat down again and returned to his thoughtful musings. A few minutes later he was at it again suggesting that the home supporters were onanists, yelling himself hoarse in an attempt to drown out the PA system. Luigi on my left just sat staring into the middle distance contemplating a contract killing. Needless to say I kept myself to myself. Earlier in the day we had taken lunch at a down-at-heel fish and chip shop. There was some confusion over paying when Bro seemed unable to contemplate that it was Mick who was owed a fiver and not him. In fact he believed Mick owed him seven quid. After a detailed explanation he eventually conceded. After the match we went back to our hotel in the pouring rain and prepared for the evening ahead. I looked out of my window, the view resembled Beirut as the building behind ours had been mostly demolished leaving piles of rubble and a large skip all standing in the pouring rain. Mick stated that it would clear up by nine and he knew this was correct as he had been watching the weather forecast. In a light drizzle we set forth to our first port of call, The Yardarm. It was obvious from the noise and the people sitting outside that some of the visiting support had been drinking there since about five-thirty. Anyway, we went in and staring us in the face was a blessed sight, a Doom Bar handpump. No sooner had we bought three pints than two things happened.Firstly one of the lads recognised us as fellow fans and started to regale us with his opinions on the game. This included an account of how his mate had lost his shoes between going into the ground and coming out again and how he had walked back to the pub barefooted. When Bro began to tell him what he thought of the match, he quickly got bored and returned to singing with his pals. The other thing was that the blonde barmaid was having trouble unscrewing the handpump clip. More alarmingly this meant no more Doom Bar! Fortunately one of the other beers was from Bay's Brewery, a small outfit operating out of the Torbay area so we had some of that. It was an amber colour and well hopped and if I remember correctly, quite sweetish and pleasant. Next we wandered down to the Barbican area but had to shelter from the pouring rain despite Mick's forecast that all would be well after nine. Eventually we fetched up in The Dolphin, an old fashioned pub little altered over the years and selling Bass direct from the cask. The Bass was far better than one might expect but it failed the acid test, that is, if a beer is worth its salt it should leave you wanting more. The Bass began quite well and had a slight honeyish sweetness but by the time one got down the pint it's true mediocrity became apparent. Bro though had spotted a sign that we had not noticed before, 'Tribute sold here'. So we had a couple of pints of the excellent St. Austell beer while the rain cleared. Next we decided as it was ten-fifteen we would leg it back to the Yardarm for some Skinner's Betty Stoggs bitter. Did I say the rain had cleared? It had not and we arrived back fairly wet to find that now there was a bloke playing a guitar in the bar and the travelling supporters were still knocking the alcohol back. We sank a couple of pints of Skinner's which I think was rather nice but can't be sure as I was fairly well oiled by this time. On our way out Bro decided he would have a chat with the guitarist, well meant but fairly pointless as the bloke couldn't understand a word of his beery congratulations. As we walked home Bro revealed he had got in a sneaky half, which, literally, came back to haunt him. As he couldn't sleep because his stomach was so full of ale he resorted to making himself sick. This morning, over sausage, egg, beans and bacon he did look a little peeky, as they say, although he manfully consumed the whole lot including the contents of the toast rack. Before we left Plymouth we sat out on the Hoe basking in the early morning sunshine that had been so noticeably absent the previous day. I don't know if Bro will be up for a pint at our local this evening but I will give him a bell.

Sunday 3rd August

Whilst I was away on my holiday I visited the Cornish town of Redruth. While Mrs. Pint took the male half-pint to see some shire horses, Miss Pint and I decided to see what all the fuss was about. This small, provincial place, that owes its existence to the practice of tin mining in earlier times, is the first to have a curfew applied to its younger citizens. Apparently they are so loutish and obnoxious that it is felt necessary to ensure they are all tucked up in bed by nine-thirty. If, like me, you have a picture in your mind of a sleepy rural backwater with quaint old buildings and lots of shops offering clotted cream and scones be prepared for a shock. Redruth is sadly nothing like this. It is, without doubt, the second most revolting place in Britain after Stoke-on-Trent. After managing to find somewhere to park, (expensively), we strolled into the centre to purchase a newspaper and to have a cup of coffee. We really should have taken crampons and ropes as the one main street is stuck on a precipitous slope and although one can imagine teenage hoodlums enjoying riding their grubby skateboards down it whilst skittling shoppers, the absence of a ski-lift to take them back to the top would be rather off-putting. At length we found a newsagents and joined the queue of pensioners, fat women and chavs to purchase our paper. "Who's next", screeched the woman on the till as though she was working in an aircraft factory. One by one the pensioners collected their lottery winnings and bought twenty quid's worth of scratchcards, the fat women bought Pick Me Up magazines and Cadbury's Buttons for their bawling offspring and the chavs got the latest copy of Hot Rod Weekly. It seemed to me that here was the populace in microcosm. Next, to find a cafe. There was the Statio Buffetn, well thats what the sign said. I peered through the grease smeared window to see a sparsely furnished interior devoid of atmosphere and customers, perhaps not. Eventually we opted for the market cafe which was like a breath of fresh air in a sewage farm but try as we might we could not make our coffee last for longer than half an hour and it was outside again into the small market that appeared to be nothing more than a church jumble sale. We wandered around the charity and pound shops trying to imagine what it would be like to live there. Relief came when Mrs. Pint phoned asking us to collect her. I can't say I am surprised that Redruth has such execrable behaviour that it needs to lock up its teenagers but I would imagine lying at home in bed is just about the most interesting thing its troubled youth can do. Apart from Redruth we had an excellent holiday with baking hot weather and I managed to visit several excellent pubs. In Fowey the Pint family stopped at lunchtime for a coffee at the rather upmarket Galleon Inn. Of course there was a Doom Bar handpump and my weak will got the better of me, much to Mrs. Pint's disgust. The highlight for me was the Sharp's brewery on the quaintly named Pityme Business Park. My family were not so enthusiastic as I wandered round the shop examining the bottled beers and souvenirs. In the evenings we went to several inns but by far and away the best was the Tredea Inn which did excellent food and sold Sharps Doom Bar, St. Austell Tribute and Skinners Betty Stoggs Bitter, all in tip top condition. There was also a fabulous view of Portcothan Bay from the pub garden. I have given a fuller description in the 'pubs' section of this site. The Swan at Wadebridge was also very good.

Last night Bro, Mick and I popped into the Queen's Head where Townhouse Flowerdew (4%) was on offer, this is a marvellously pale yellow beer that is well hopped and has citrus flavours. We met Pinfield who had been to the test match but nearly got himself ejected when tired of waiting to be allowed in he informed the steward that he had not paid fifty-five quid to look at his arse all day. Adding the fact that the train had been delayed by balloons in the overhead cables, all in all it had not been a good day. I am pleased to say that nothing has changed at my local, walking in there is like pulling on an old jumper, a bit of gossip from Katie and the pouring of a fine pint of Titanic Iceberg by Stevie and it was as if I had never been away.

Sunday July 19th.

What a wonderful morning! The sun is blazing down, the wind of the previous two days has dropped and the Pint family are off on their jolly holidays tomorrow. Consequently this will only be a short piece; I have been issued with all manner of tasks by she who must be obeyed. I have to go to the supermarket, tidy the house, pack the tent, camping stove, airbeds, sleeping bags, chairs, table, gas, lantern, buckets, spades, hairdryer, radio, camera, binoculars and hair straighteners. This last item is typical of the kind of things my children insist on taking with them. When I was a young man, camping meant a few days in the wild with a tent and a Swiss army knife. Today's campers refuse to leave home without their MP3 players and chargers, their DS game station and an array of equipment that would not be out of place in a hairdressing salon. I take three t-shirts, a pair of shorts and a change of underwear, my daughter assembles a collection of clothing that would shame Trinny and Susannah. "I can't fit all that in", I say, staring at enough outfits to fill Primark twice over. The belligerent Miss Pint stares balefully back and eventually deigns to remove a pair of socks, "I can't do with any less", she says firmly. I always thought that camping was about making do with a minimum hence I take the Swiss army knife and a torch. My son staggers down stairs with a bag crammed full of every electrical device known to man, "what are you planning to do when we get there", I ask incredulously, "open an outdoor branch of Currys?" Master Pint also gives me a derisory stare and tramps back to his room to fetch his other bag. The days of cooking over a fire made from old birds nests and eating from a tin can are also long past. "When I were a lad", I tell my family, "I used to get my water from a stream and accompany my baked beans with wild berries". They regard me with the kind of pitying looks that are normally reserved for the terminally sad. Mrs. Pint plonks down, what appears to be, the entire contents of our kitchen, "pack these please", she says, primly. I can confirm though one thing that hasn't changed over the years. When Master Pint and I require a comfort break in the middle of the night, the local hedgerow gets a good soaking!

Last night Mick and I celebrated Bros forthcoming birthday with a trip to the Coopers'. I was delighted to find Black Hole Stargazer (4%) available. This is a local microbrewery and I was keen to see what sort of product they are producing. I can tell you now that if Stargazer is typical of their output the answer is, 'very good indeed'. Mid-brown and very bitter it drinks quite beautifully and is a perfect session ale. Bro opted to first try the Thornbridge Kipling (5.4%), as this is also highly drinkable it makes it rather a dangerous beer to down. We were joined by Doog, who is seriously cranky, his son, The Yoof, who is barking mad but has occasionally lucid moments, and Roly. As the evening wore on The Yoof became more talkative and conversation turned to his pet subject of buses, and in particular, vintage models. I believe he actually owns one such which he drives around in a pall of exhaust smoke. While he and his old man conversed about sprockets and cotter pins I tried the Downton's Olympic Flame (4.1%) but found it unsatisfying by comparison to the Stargazer so at the earliest opportunity I returned to the bar for fresh supplies of the Black Hole beer. The Yoof had just returned from having a spaghetti thin roll-up outside, with a broad grin on his face. He gleefully pointed out of the window at the sign in the abominable Coors' brewery compound opposite. It read 'Fire Assembly Point', nothing funny about that I thought, and then he pointed to what stood just at the rear, a huge tank of liquid oxygen! I tried to take a picture but it was too distant to get any detail, however Doog produced from his copious pockets a digital camera with which he had been photographing railway sidings and sleepers and took a shot for posterity. Several pints of Black Hole later we sadly made our way home but with the lingering flavour of Stargazer in our mouths.

I shall be on holiday for the next week or so and will be back reporting on the beers I came across on Sunday August 3rd. Bye for now.

Sunday 13th July

Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness or so they say, but do you ever find yourself talking on the phone to what you know is a recorded message? No, well perhaps its just me then, but there are times when I become extremely irritated and lose all pretence of rationality. For example, there is the woman who, in a clipped accent, tells me that all operatives are busy at present but my call is important to them and will be answered as soon as possible. After suffering thirty seconds of a tinny Mozart horn concerto number seven, she repeats herself. "You silly cow", I scream at the phone, "you just told me that, do you think Im bloody deaf or something". Meanwhile Mozart's horn concerto has just completed another couple of bars and she's back again. "Sod off you stupid tart", is my response, "I'm sorry sir, could you repeat that", a voice at the other end of the line replies. Feeling acutely embarrassed I quickly put the phone down having wasted my call It is just the same with that soothing female voice that asks me to choose one of several options, "press one if you wish to get an account balance, press two if", "I just want to speak to someone you frigging bitch",I bark, but there isn't an option for that. Of course, my spleen is completely wasted. I also find myself getting annoyed with all kinds of inanimate objects. While emptying the dishwasher I catch my finger on a knife. "Right you bastard", I yell at the cutlery basket whilst emptying the whole lot out with a clatter into the drawer, "not so hard now are you"? The cutlery lies in a confused heap, but it seems to be smugly grinning to itself as if to say, "now look what you've done, you'll have to sort me all out again". The vacuum cleaner also takes a lot of flack, "come on you stupid machine, you only have one purpose in life so just get on with it"! The vacuum, which is a Henry, looks back at me with those big eyes and an inane grin as I try to pull it by the hose past the bedpost. "Come on, you useless piece of shit", I bellow. Henry as if in defiance, slowly falls over and then separates into two so that the dust bag comes out and its contents slowly cover the room. "You bastard", I roar at the top of my voice, but it does no good, I just have to go over, put it together and start cleaning up the mess. Sometimes I think they are out to get me. Am I paranoid? I wonder. In order to get away from all of this I nipped out on Saturday to pick up Mick and go for a pint or two as Bro is again absent without leave in Bristol. The Shoes, in our dear little village, was offering Ringwood Boondoggle (4.3%,) a beer with such a ludicrous monicker that I refused to ask for it by name and simply pointed. The brewery was bought by Marstons' in 2007 and the tell-tale signs of interference are already showing. It lacked a clean taste and had rather a chewy flavour. Basically though it was bland.The Shoes incidentally, since the departure of Gandhi, is becoming more and more like the Star Wars bar with its increasingly odd population. We rolled down to the good old Oak and found Cocker Hoop on which was, as usual, dry and fruity. Stevie and Katie seemed rushed off their feet keeping a fortieth birthday party, supplied with alcohol. Still I doubt they're complaining given the current economic situation. For the middle of July the evening seemed quite chilly and guests of the party, which was in a marquee at the back of the pub, gradually started to fill up the bar leaving only the hard core ravers to dance the night away to Neil Diamond.

Sunday 6th July

I suppose some vegetarian do-gooders would accuse me of being an Islamophobe as I occasionally venture my opinions on the idiotic extremists who we appear to have difficulty removing from this country. The fact that these lunatic fanatics are far removed from normal moderate muslims will carry no weight with the likes of the Archbishop Eyebrows or the hideous Harriet Harman, (who is herself a man-hater). This week the Lord Chief Justice suggested that Sharia Law could have some standing in England and Wales and went on to qualify this by reassuring us all that such punishments as decapitation and flogging would not be acceptable. Well, that's all right then. Why not allow a medieval system of justice to permeate our twenty-first century society? Is the man mad? Any sane person might be forgiven for thinking that a form of law that punishes female infidelity by hurling boulders at the miscreant or deals with petty theft by the simple expedient of amputating hands should not seriously be contemplated as compatible with the British legal system. When Sharia comes up with a suitable punishment for inflammatory speakers like Abu Hamza or those responsible for the London bombings I might have more time for it. In the meantime if you want Sharia Law, go and live in Afghanistan.

Earlier mention of the vile Ms. Harman reminds me of her latest wheeze, that is, that ethnic minorities and women must be given preference when applying for a job. Thus, if you are a white male you might as well apply for a jobseekers allowance now as it is you who will be discriminated against! What is it with the awful Harriet? Will she not be satisfied until all us blokes have been purged from the workplace? If you ask me her partner is to blame, he must be the most downtrodden man in the world and at this very moment is busy in his pinafore doing the ironing whilst madam thinks up another scheme to stitch men up. I say let's all club together and persuade Rafa Nadal to go round and give her a good seeing-to. I warn you though, it will be expensive.

Finally this week I had the misfortune to watch some of Glastonbury on the telly and I must say that most of the acts I saw sounded like they were playing in their garages. However some were far worse. The sickeningly ubiquitous and untalented Mark Ronson strutted about waving his guitar and glad-handing the crowd completely oblivious to the fact that he made zero contribution to the overall sound. Neil Diamond's whole set appeared to be variations on Sweet Caroline and, given that he no longer has the vocal range required he could have spent his time more profitably collecting litter from the site. Jay Z struck me as simply a bloke barking out what passed for lyrics at the audience whilst trying to ingratiate himself by using samples of other artists' work hoping some of their talent would stick to him by association. Give me Amy Winehouse any time for although she tottered around like demented stick insect wearing a bearskin, at least she has a voice to die for, which in all probability she will. This week Bro, Mick and I popped over to the QH for a few jars and were delighted to find Blythe Staffie (4.4%) on. This fruity, pale ale is a real thirst quencher and very moreish. In one corner of the pub were Pinners, Roly and Genitals who had had a busy day at the city's mediaeval market where they had been selling refreshment in the form of beer and cider. What had looked as though it was going to be a wash out had, in fact, been very lucrative due to a break in the weather. Apparently one Friar Tuck had drunk eighteen pints of the stuff and had gone around recommending it! Pinners was rather concerned that he might be labelled as gay because the previous evening he and Roly had been shopping together. I thought the cashier might have been more interested in what they were planning to do with 60 large bottles of R.Whites Lemonade and Coca-Cola. I leave it to you, dear reader, to use your imagination.

P.S If you happen to be the persons who nicked the Oak's sit-on mower this week, it would be greatly appreciated if you could return it as Stevie keeps getting lost in the garden due to the height of the grass.

Sunday June 29th.

Ah, there you are dear readers. This week there was an awful kerfuffle over the incident in the one day cricket which involved our opening bowler, (perhaps blinded temporarily by his flowing locks), accidentally colliding with a New Zealand batsman thus causing him to be run out. Grumpy, dumpy, overweight and over here New Zealander, Ian Smith appeared truly horrified. "Why don't they call him back"?, he whined, "surely this can't be right, just look at the anger on the New Zealand balcony, they won't be shaking hands with the English team after this is over". Other commentators demurred, sagely agreeing that it simply wasn't in the spirit of the game and that cricket's reputation for fair play had been blemished. Tosh! What a load of lily livered, unpatriotic farts! Sure, had this been a game of beach cricket played between a group of friends on a Sunday tea-time some consideration may have been given to allowing the unfortunate batsman to continue but this was international sport and as such there should be no quarter. The collision was nobody's fault and both players ended up flat out. The one-eyed Ian Smith claimed that the batsman had been injured in the affair and that the umpire should have called a dead ball. What balderdash! As soon as he realised what was happening he got up and sprinted like a good-un in a vain attempt to avoid dismissal, only going to ground again to get the sympathy vote when he realised he had not made it. As for the rest of the New Zealand team, who stomped around like toddlers having a temper tantrum and later closed the dressing room door in the English skipper's face, they should be docked the entire match fee and be sent to sit on the naughty step. It is big boys game, deal with it! The only pity is that England were so inept that they could not win. Having the opposition needing two runs off the last ball, Graham Swann decided rather than gently lobbing the ball to the stumps for a run out that he would hurl it at four hundred miles per hour. Needless to say he missed and the winning run came as a result of the overthrow. On Saturday I had to drive the female half-pint and a couple of her friends to Sheffield for a university open day. These affairs tend to be rather like what happens when a politician visits a hospital, everything is scrubbed up and gleaming, staff are all happy and patients all grateful. Then it returns to normality. Having warned them to be discerning they all buggered off and left me in the middle of Sheffield wondering how I would fill four hours. As I was driving no alcoholic refreshment could pass my lips so I wandered round until I came to what was St. Pauls Square. It is now called Peace Square, a name apparently decided by the people of the city although I suspect it was some fat, lesbian, vegan councillor who looked as though she had been pulled through a hedge backwards. It is, however, a pleasant place to eat ones Gregg's chicken club baguette and to attempt the Times crossword sitting in the watery midday sun. The fountains were spewing jets of water and small children ran around trying not to get wet. Unfortunately this calm was broken by a large muscle-bound black guy wearing a singlet and swigging at a bottle of liquor. Using the 'looney on the bus' principal he made straight for me. I gave him a particularly hard stare and returned my gaze to the newspaper, at which point he abruptly changed direction. I was just congratulating myself on appearing hard, when I noticed his object of attention now was two young girls who he was imploring to read a tattered piece of newspaper while he swayed and danced about. I felt both sorry for, and grateful to them and took the opportunity to slip off and finish my lunch sitting next to a couple of outrageously attired punks with multi coloured hair who in fact were a model of decorum.

Bro was absent at his in-laws so Mick and I sank a few pints of Hopback Spring Zing (4.2%) while discussing the weeks sporting disasters. A quiet end to a hectic day.

Sunday June 22nd.

On Monday this week Mrs. Pint and I decided to have a run out to a nearby retail village, the idea of these places is to flog you last year's stuff at low prices. Of course what they don't say is that the original prices were so outrageous that even the new low price is still above average. Despite my urging her to buy some new clothes, my lady wife stubbornly refused to dip into the Pint household finances but for a cardboard cup of coffee. However I managed to purchase a rather splendid pink polo shirt at a knockdown price. I feel that at my age I am secure enough in my sexuality to be able to carry a prawn cocktail coloured shirt off despite the likely mockery of some of my acquaintances. I wore the shirt on Wednesday when I went to the supermarket to buy the weekly groceries, they seemed quite happy to accept the pink pound and nobody implied that I was some old queen. So, it's three cheers for the tolerance of the great British public. I am afraid that my tolerance levels have been stretched to breaking point this week by several news items. Firstly, although the Irish referendum gave a resounding response in the negative to the Lisbon Treaty, the Eurocrats were still saying it would not be derailed and that they would give the Irish government time to consider what they were going to do about it. Nothing I should hope! Its bloody dead in the water! Forget it. Thank goodness for the judiciary who have at present blocked the British government form ratifying it, for once in tune with public opinion unlike the ludicrous decision to release on bail that obese vileness Abu Qatada. This western-hating cleric, who is here illegally and gets over a thousand pound a month in benefits from the social security, should be attached by his beard to a rocket and launched for Mars where he can preach religious hatred until the lack of atmosphere causes him to explode. Personally I hope the overweight, sickeningly ugly, wobble-bottom gets a severe dose of salmonella from some halal eggs. Why do we allow fanatical arseoles like this to remain in Blighty? On the other hand I was pleased to see that Abu Hamza, another looney cleric, is almost certain to being packed off to America where he faces a jail sentence of a hundred years and he is likely to spend his life under lock and key for twenty-three hours a day. Incidentally, as the vile maggot has only a hook for a hand how does he wipe his arse? Do I care? Bollocks do I! Finally I noticed that the ridiculously named Tiger Woods has had to give up the arduous sport of golf so that he can have reconstructive surgery on his knee. How on earth you can damage your anterior cruciate cartilage playing a game that comes third only to darts and bowls in the league of non- physical sports, I am not sure. Perhaps his caddy dropped his bag of hitting sticks on it. Its a good job he doesn't play tiddlywinks or he would have been invalided out in his first season. Enough of these musings and on to beer. On Friday I thought that Bro was about to get into a heated debate with some pissed up bonehead who suggested to Stevie that the Deuchar's IPA probably didn't sell too well as Pedigree was available. I could see Bro bristling but he managed to contain his annoyance and simply told the idiot that actually he never drank Marstons', always preferring the guest ale. This, plus Stevie saying he never had any problems shifting guest beers shut the drunken moron up. On Saturday night I went over to the Queens Head with Bro and his lady wife as we had it from a reliable source that Sharp's Doom Bar (4%) was again being served and it was also a celebration of Pinners' birthday. The place was jumping when we arrived but I managed to squeeze to the bar and indeed there was the Sharps' handpump. To begin with there was nobody around who we knew. Bro began telling me about the new watch he had bought that surprisingly is still working. He was explaining how it stores phone numbers, tells the time in Beirut and plays a medley of Val Doonican's hits on the hour, when Ross came in. Bro's lady wife and I made a dash for a vacant table leaving Bro to converse with him about Aston Villa or Warwickshire. Later Pinners' party arrived, his good lady, Pigswill, (who had an evening off his redoubtable bartendering), Genitals, Doog and his lad and Judy who had come across country from Wales for the occasion. I got chatting with Doog and the evening disappeared quickly as did the Doom Bar. Bro though couldn't leave without a pint of Landlord but I stuck it out on the very dry, tasty Cornish beer and had to drink two pints of water before retiring for the night.

Sunday 15th June

What a tiresome week it has been one way and another. The Fat Controller has managed to get his way for the present with the forty-two day detention bill, this after dragging MPs in to vote from Um-Bongo land and hauling others from the operating theatre still attached to their drips to get them through the Aye lobby, mind you, to judge from their sheep-like behaviour, most labour politicians act as though they are anaesthetised permanently. That said I personally don't give a toss about holding suspected terrorists for as long as is necessary although I thought the government had the laws in place to request an extension to detention anyway. In fact it wouldn't surprise me if we don't have, (forgive the expression), an explosion of suspected terrorists being held, all of whom are trying to get a share of the promised, three thousand pounds per day compensation. For those out of work it seems a promising option, firstly grow a hefty beard then just log on to www. muslimextremists.org. Download an article on making a bomb from ant-powder and Toilet Duck, and then phone the police to shop yourself. Eight weeks later you should get released as a misguided idiot who is several thousand quid better off. A nice little earner I'd say. Of course David Davies resignation over the issue on a matter of principle was a noble gesture but IMHO a pretty pointless one as the House of Lords will probably kick the bill into touch. However I was rather surprised at how much support he got from the general public, which I suppose shows again just how out of touch with people this government are.

The papers are full this weekend of ways to save fuel as tanker drivers go on their cynically timed strike. Suggestions range from driving everywhere at two miles per hour to converting your Audi to run on dishwasher rinsing agent. I personally think that there is a considerable element of profiteering going on over petrol. Yes, yes, I know that oil wont last for ever and that we need to find a way of making fuel from privet cuttings but Diesel at one-thirty per litre, you've got to be kidding. Its about time that the government got off its fat arse and reduced fuel taxes to ease some of the pain. They could balance any cut by taxing caravans, tractors and any other vehicle that holds me up on the way to Cornwall this year. Last night Bro, Mick and I paid a visit to the Coopers' Tavern where we were mostly drinking the Salopian Brewerys Shropshire Gold (3.8%). This small, seventy-two barrel brewery in Shrewsbury has produced an excellent quaffing beer which is light brown in colour and has a distinctly bitter, hoppy finish to it. We also had some Hopback Summer Lightning (5%) and Bro drank a pint of Everards Sunchaser (4%) which he found to be a little watery. On arrival back at HQ we had a couple of pints of Caledonian Deuchars IPA (3.8%) before rolling home.

Sunday June 8th.

This week I received correspondence from a regular reader, Pearl, who seemed to have got out of bed on the wrong side. After ranting on about the nanny state he turned his fire on jobsworths such as bin inspectors and smoking wardens and implied that new labour was somehow connected with female genitalia. After an implication that I had voted for them he continued to vent his considerable spleen on our local custom of wife-swapping every Tuesday evening. Finally he suggested that I should write a piece about the sexual gymnastics of my local landlord instead on rambling on about beer. I decided against this as for one, I do not think this would necessarily endear me to the gentleman and two, my powers of description are not sufficiently advanced to do it justice. Never-the-less I am happy to receive e-mail even if it is full of bile. In fairness to Pearl he did finally say that he enjoyed reading this drivel.

 Having happily retired myself last summer, I was more than pleased to be able to attend Mick's celebrations on Friday as he bowed out from the teaching profession. The evening was made all the better by the Oak having Deuchars IPA (3.8%) as a guest ale. I was accompanied by Mrs. Pint, who enjoys a glass of rose or two, as we joined the party. As well as Mick, who seemed in good spirits, unsurprisingly, there were the Woodbutcher and his lady wife, Akin and Al, and also a guest appearance from Squirrel and his good lady. The beer was quite excellent being light and fruity but of such a strength that one could have a good session on it. Stories abounded but Squirrel topped them all by relating a tale about a bisexual acquaintance of ours that involved a long drinking straw, four fingers and a huge ejaculation. In fact it nearly put us off the delicious buffet that the Woodbutcher had paid for and Katie had provided. However I managed some of the small pancake rolls filled with shredded duck in hoi-sin sauce, very tasty!

On Saturday Bro and I decided to cycle round our small but perfectly formed village to inspect the local pubs. We did not bother with the Sports Club's so called beer festival. Previous experience has taught us that this fine institution does not have much of a clue when it comes to keeping real ale and this years involvement of the landlord of the SoM is rather like persuading Dr. Crippen to hold a cocktail party. Also it appeared that a large number of acne covered teenagers with their overweight, scantily clad girlfriends had decided to pay it a visit. The first pub on our list was the Three Horseshoes and they had Moorhouse's Blond Witch (4.5%) and Jenning's Tom Fool (4.0%) on, both of which were in good condition. I had the Tom Fool, a mid brown, well balanced beer. Next stop the SoM. Against my better judgement I had bowed to pressure from Bro to call in. It came as no surprise therefore to find that, despite it being a Saturday evening, no guest ale was available. Little wonder it was so quiet in there. Hastily we cycled on to the Red Lion. Pearl has nicknamed it The Star Wars Bar due to the preponderance of strange beings that inhabit it. Last night was no exception but we did have a rather pleasant pint of Bateman's XXXB (4.8%), this beer seemed to have become rather too treacle-like in recent times but last night it was back to its best, a dark russet coloured ale with a fruity smell and a good balance of malt and hops, the flavour is quite distinctive and lasts well on the palate. Finally to the Oak where we finished the evening on Hopback Spring Zing (3.8%) a light and refreshing, yellowish brew with a good dose of hops. In conclusion I can report that all the village boozers with exception of the appalling SoM, (which mystifyingly features in Camra's Good Beer Guide) are, at present, serving some fine beers and thus deserve my congratulations.

Sunday June 1st

I am becoming extremely irritated with people who continually take the view, that just because I am a miserable old fart who is constantly searching for perfection in a pint of beer that my taste buds are senile and my quest is ridiculous. Why should I be ridiculed for demanding high standards and value for money? One of my acquaintances, the Mad Monk, often refers to how he had a cracking pint of Pedigree and how it can't be beaten. The reason, I suspect, is not that he actually believes this but that it winds me up. I usually try to explain that there is a lot better than this second rate bitter and that he should try drinking some Thomas Salt's or Thornbridge. Generally he blithely ignores this advice and tells me how good a pint of Bass is at present! Down at my local, the landlady, Katie, usually inquires as to whether I will be drinking Pedigree just to get me to go off on a rant about what a poor product it is. I know my views on beer are regarded as eccentric to say the least and I think it is about time I set the record straight. Marston's Pedigree; there is no doubt in my mind that this used to be an exceptionally good beer and one that I would drink in preference to all others, but that was twenty years ago. The modern version is a pale imitation of what it used to be as it is now bland and badly balanced compared with the wonderful flavour it once had. The reason for this is that it has become a national beer, this has meant mass production and has led to it being shaped to suit the average palate. I do in fact occasionally have a pint to see if there has been any improvement despite the fact that the price of Pedigree is now around two pounds-seventy. This is a ludicrous price for a beer that is at best, average. You wouldn't pay a premium price for a loaf of bread that wasn't even fit for the toaster so why pay it for beer? Acquaintances often tell me that taste is a personal thing, I agree, but believe that you can't make judgements about these sort of things unless you can make comparisons. For some reason that I cannot fathom, Marston's drinkers generally stick with Pedigree rather than take a chance on something different in the same way that Pat always drinks Guinness. This means that as they are not sampling the likes of Castle Rock or Fullers ESB they are in no position to make comparisons with Pedigree. On Friday Moorhouse's Blond Witch (4.5%) was the guest beer at my local which could have been tapped a little early as it tasted rather unbalanced to me with a rough bitter edge. Better was the Banks Mild (3.8%) which had a nice fruitiness about it. On Saturday we picked up our old friend Mick who has been out of circulation for some time now due to ill health but certainly looked well enough last night. We went to the Queen's Head where, rather boringly, were served Tim Taylors Landlord all night by the doughty Pigswill. Mick was in celebratory mood as his early retirement has been confirmed and kicked in at midnight. We were joined by Pinners and Genitals for a jolly good chat. Also present were three Blues Brothers, Wonder Woman, a bloke in a red pvc suit and afro wig and a lass in a purple dress and an orange wig who were either stark, staring bonkers or, on their way to a fancy dress do.

Sunday 25th May

This week I got extremely irritated by the news that, as a nation, we apparently are still drinking too much and ignoring government advice. This manifests itself by an upsurge in alcohol related conditions that are bringing the NHS to its knees. So, if you come down with a bad case of salmonella you may have to wait your turn while the hospital pumps the stomach of some idiotic pre-pubescent teenager who decided it would be fun to drink three bottles of Bailey's. Had a heart attack? Would it be possible to hang on while some bloke has part of a broken bottle surgically removed from his head? Bad case of syphilis? Just be patient, the doctor will see you as soon as he has finished treating this young tart's hangover. Of course its all a load of bollo, I am sick of hearing, dire health warnings about alcohol related illness issued by earnest young twonks telling me to observe recommended limits, and just how easy it is to get hold of cheap booze. Of course we don't listen to these doomsayers. For a start they appear with such regularity that they just become wallpaper whilst we wait for a news item worthy of our attention such as some rich bastard dressing up in nappies and having his arse spanked red raw by Miss Whipcrack. Another reason is that the people who issue the warnings are, by and large, the sort who never ever allow a drop of the devil's liquid to pass their lips. Personally I hope they all come down with a dose of some nasty STD which they would not have caught had they been comatose due to several pints of Jaipur IPA. Anyway, why pick on us Brits, the average bloody French citizen gets through several gallons of wine a day and a few more in the evening and can't manage to mange a single snail without a large glass of red, but we don't see the garlic eaters being taken to task for it. Similarly the sausage eating Germans enjoy a few steins of beer with their bratwurst and saurkraut whilst they relax in their lederhosen but are not harangued about the fact that they are going to die a horrible death because of their habits. In any case I am not about to be lectured on the dangers of alcohol by, of all people, doctors! From personal experience I can say that, as a group, they are the worst crowd of alcoholics on this earth, just beating teachers. Should you ever be at a medical convention make sure you avoid getting in a round with brain surgeons as it will involve every spirit known to man and some that have yet to be discovered all mixed together. So, the next time some do-gooder comes on your TV sermonising about the demon drink just go and get a tinnie or a glass of wine from the fridge and by the time you have poured it and returned to your seat the sports news will be on and you will probably need a your units anyway! This week The Oak has had Young's Special (4.5%) on and Jenning's Yan Tan Tethera (3.8%). The former was a pleasant, well balanced, mid brown ale without been anything to write home about, the Jenning's was typical of a beer brewed occasionally for distribution to W&D's nationwide tied houses. Drinkable but fairly bland and bearing a particularly silly name. Why on earth do brewers feel the need to call their beers something ludicrous when the average punter simply asks for, "a pint of that please". IHMO it is clearly an attempt to make it sound more interesting than it tastes. Poor old Pearl went to Wembley only to see this beloved Robins beaten to a place in the premiership by a goal from a fat forty year old. I did not hear from him until Sunday morning and had feared that he would be found hanging in a toilet somewhere on the M25. On Sunday Mrs Pint, myself, Pearl and his lovely wife went to a festival of acoustic music to see, amongst others, Jethro Tull and Fairport Convention. Both were excellent, l particularly enjoyed Jethro Tull who are undiminished by time and made a mockery of the perception that rock music is just for youngsters. Naturally Pearl got a little tired and emotional and kept yelling, "come on Ian" at the top of his voice, but the enjoyment was such that nobody seemed to care. Oh, and Mrs. Pint bought a silly hat.

Sunday 18th May

This week, for me, has been dominated by our peculiarly British climate. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday the sun shone gloriously and in this continental heatwave I felt like doing very little at all other than sit outside soaking up the rays. Since Wednesday conditions have reverted to normal, that is cold, windy, cloudy and rainy, rather like an average day in Moscow, and therefore I have been unable to do very much except to sit indoors listening to Captain Beefheart's Troutmask Replica and complete the concise crossword. The reason for this change in our weather is of course that on Thursday, this summer's test cricket series got under way, or rather failed to start due to bad light and drizzle. However I am confident that we shall return to more blissfully hot days on Monday afternoon at six-o-clock when the game, versus New Zealand, peters out into a draw. On Friday evening my local was bustling and I had three excellent pints of Jenning's Cocker Hoop while chatting to Akin and Al. However I also understand that Kate and Stevie have got round to reading some of the drivel I post on this site and will have to be careful as to what I write about them in future. Already Stevie has complained about my description of his less than magnificent stature and insists it is simply the sunken bar that makes him appear to be the same height as a garden gnome. However I can assure readers that there will be no favouritism on this site, all beer will be tasted and evaluated with complete neutrality, (unless, of course, I receive it free of charge). On Saturday evening I found myself Billy-no-mates and was forced to stop in and watch the dire National Lottery show on TV hosted by some silly, blonde, airhead in a dress that looked more like a straitjacket than an evening gown. Why does the BBC persist in airing these dumbed down, populist programmes? Presumably they think that as it is a Saturday night most normal people will be out enjoying themselves so they don't need to bother putting out quality. The only viewers will be the insane, the senile, the imprisoned and several dogs named Rover. I managed to consume a can of Bass, which it must be said, tastes better than the real thing these day, however it is still an unpleasant experience to be avoided if at all possible. On Sunday Mrs. Pint and I had the pleasure of going to see those bastions of English traditional music, John Spiers and John Boden who were performing in Derby. If you enjoy this sort of thing then you really should make the effort to see them as the sound they produce from just a fiddle, a melodeon and their voices is incredible, on the other hand, if you are like Pearl who derides all music that does not originate in 1970 and regards folk music as the province of the woolly jumper and beard brigade, (the same people he associates with traction engines and real ale), please, dont bother! On our return we called in at our local where the excellent Cocker Hoop was still being served and spent a happy hour conversing with Pearl, Steve, Colin and Katie.

Sunday 11th May

You may think that Friday evening is a time for rest and relaxation after a hot and bothered working week, unless, like Miss. Pint, you have to work waitressing at a nearby hostelry. This is not a doddle by any means as she never tires of telling me. Waitresses are in the firing line in pubs and the problems that customers carp about are usually the fault of the chefs or the management. Wrong food, undercooked food, slow service, are not the waitresses' fault but it is they have to field complaints from the great unwashed public. From what I have been told the pub is always understaffed waiting on, on the bar and in the kitchens. I would also suggest to readers that they should be particularly careful when ordering extra sauce with anything as it is frequently recycled from other peoples left overs. Apple sauce, gravy, parsley sauce and other pour-over sauces may be composed of the remains from several days dining! However there are lighter moments, last night for instance Miss. Pint was asked by a table of jovial diners who were having a discussion if she happened to know the main constituent of glass. Naturally she answered, quick as flash, "sand". "So", said one of the laughing consumers, "not paraffin then", much to the embarrassment of one of the female members of the group. This trivial knowledge brings me to Pearl and his lovely wife who were kind enough to invite Mrs. Pint and myself over to Pearl Mansion to partake of a quiz game on Friday. Despite my feeling distinctly unintelligent, we ventured into the realms of Derbyshire and the small inbred village of half-wits where Pearl has his dwelling. Of course Pearl and lady wife are regarded by the yokels as Lord and Lady of the manor and as such have nothing to do with the village riff-raff. Pearl Mansion is a cut above the average hovel and we received a warm welcome. Once inside it is apparent that they are a couple who live a life of luxury despite the dour environs. In Pearl's spacious reception room there are all the accoutrements of wealth, an impressive stereo system for Pearl to play his back catalogue of Doors' albums, an expensive black leather settee with recliners and a large colour TV. Of course none of the locals can afford such objects of desire, in fact they have only recently had black and white telly. We chit-chatted generally whilst nibbling canapes and drinking from Pearls collection of quality bottled ales. I settled for Landlord which is quite passable, Mrs. Pint had a jar of Adnams. We retired to play the video quiz, which Pearl assured us he would win comfortably. The quiz was presented in game show format by a compere who was more irritating than Graham Norton and Ant and Dec rolled into one. Naturally I found pressing the appropriate buttons at high speed extremely difficult despite this not being a problem for anyone else and soon fell behind. Fortunately I benefited from a bout of infighting between the other contestants as they stole points off one another not regarding me as a threat, and I ended up coming second to a sickeningly smug Mrs. Pint. However, when we played a second game, I had my chance for revenge when she had to leave to collect Miss. Pint from waitress duty. I took over her buzzer and used it to ensure she made zero progress while the rest of us piled up points. By the time she got back there were only two rounds to go and she was well adrift. Instead of accepting the inevitable she met the challenge with gusto and went on to win for a second time! By now Pearl, who was worse for wear, had been reduced to a giggling simpleton and seemed not at all put out and quite oblivious to his earlier boast. We left with me having to apologise for being such a bad loser on what had been a fairly jolly occasion. We quickly made it to the car and locked ourselves in until we reached the safety of the Staffordshire border. On Saturday evening Bro and I nipped over to the Queen's Head in order to have a few pints of Sharp's Doom Bar. This mid-brown, dry, well balanced beer is, at present, top of my list, pushing Tim Taylor's Landlord down to two. It was certainly pleasing to see the two handpumps side by side. The lugubrious Pigswill served us and we decided to sit out in the garden which is basically a yard with a few tables. Whilst the Sharp's was wonderful the company was anything but. A crowd of very fat, balding men and one anorexic female with combined IQ of a dim tadpole were sat around a table talking so loudly that Bro and I could hardly hear one another. We attempted conversation but it was incessantly interrupted by one particularly vile piece of scum who was bragging about his boat and his range rover. He went on and on with occasional stentorian interventions from the other overweight members of his party. These obese, bull-necked, pale-skinned, loudmouths were apparently unaware of how vocal they were and at length Bro and I returned to the bar cursing the nouveaux riche. The waiting Pigswill whisked our glasses off us and refilled them. When we returned to the Oak I was pleased to find a beer I had not tried, Dr.Okell's IPA (abv. 4.5%). This is brewed by Okell's brewery on the Isle of Man and is a light coloured, sweetish bitter and, had I not had several pints previously. I think it would have been quite moreish.

Sunday May 4th.

After another day spent wrestling with MFI's furniture I was more than ready for a jar or two by the time eight-o-clock came round. Kindly Mrs. Pint drove Bro and I into Lichfield where we alighted at the Queen's Head. I set off at a furious pace, as we crossed the road to reach the bar, full of anticipation of a decent pint of ale. Then I had to cross back to the car to collect my wallet which I had left behind in the glove compartment. By the time we entered we had been preceded by another group of thirsty souls so my wait for a pint continued. At last I got served by Pigswill who was in taciturn mode. The Batham's Bitter was probably a little tired but never-the-less quite acceptable. As usual the honeyish tasting liquid soon disappeared and we decided to try the Burton Bridge Bitter. Regular readers will know that recent pints I have tried from this brewery have been distinctly lacking in flavour and in one case actually unpleasant on the palate. I am pleased to report that the beer I had last night suffered from neither of these problems and had a very distinctive bitter flavour which made it extremely drinkable. So it is back to form for Burton Bridge, jolly fine show eh what! Meanwhile Bro was deep in conversation with Ross who was at full throttle talking about Aston Villa. He proudly showed off his season ticket which was not unlike a credit card. 'As you can see there is no actual date on it', he began and promptly dropped it on the pub floor where it was instantly kicked around and scuffed up. After a bit of a scramble he retrieved it, anxiously checking to see that no damage had been done to the magnetic strip! He quickly returned it to his wallet and changed the topic. Pinners turned up and we fell to discussing the remote possibility of a cricket tour to Cornwall. I invited myself as a non playing member of the team. Both Ross and Pinners felt that Falmouth would be particularly suitable mainly because of the existence of the nearby Seven Stars public house. In fact this place was so central to the idea of a tour that little consideration was given to who we might be play against but it appeared this did not matter as discussion about opening time at the Seven Stars was in full swing. 'When I went to Falmouth we always went for a walk after breakfast and ended up at the Stars at about half two', said Ross, 'we only had time for one drink as they close at three'. Bro and I pointed out the obvious solutions. One, take a shorter walk or two, walk straight to the Seven Stars! Ross was not listening though, 'they open again at seven, do you think we could get a match finished for then?' Well yes, play a twenty over game and be outside the pub for opening time.So the conversation went on until at length until we had to take our leave. In the meantime I had a pint of Tim Taylor's Landlord and another Burton Bridge. We left adequately refreshed for Bro's lady wife to drive us home.

Sunday 27th April

My good friend Pearl, whom I drink with on a Sunday evenings, has been busy delving into his computer to do some research, rather than find pictures of naked ladies, and has emerged with the following facts which go a long way to explaining why pubs are closing at the same rate as Amy Winehouse gets arrested! Landlords, (and ladies) of leased public houses are obliged to buy their beer, (and other drinks), from the brewery that owns the lease, in my locals case, the bloated Marstons (W&D). Because they have this hold over the pub, the breweries blatantly profiteer by charging excessive amounts. Recently a pub in Bolton closed its doors because of just this sort of thing. The landlord was being charged one hundred and nine pounds for an eleven gallon barrel of Carlsberg Lager. The amazing thing is that if he could buy the very same barrel on the open market it would cost him sixty pounds, a difference of forty-nine pounds! Pearl kindly worked out that with VAT the brewery was charging the pub one pound forty-five a pint, this is compared to eighty pence a pint if they had bought it on the open market. Pearl also found a Hansard record where, in evidence to a parliamentary committee, landlords showed that on average, buying through the tie or a pub company costs them in excess of ten thousand pounds a year by comparison to free trade. Given, that out of the profits, a tenant or landlord has to find heating, lighting, business rates, wages, water rates and other costs it can hardly come as surprise that some are struggling to make ends meet, particularly with the economy as it is at present. The big breweries, basically don't give a damn, as you can tell by their recent price hikes. These actively discourage people from popping out for a pint or two and so the pub suffers even more. I am not sure what the average drinker can do about this but I would have thought that it is at least worth an angry letter to the brewery. Last night Bro and I nipped into the Coopers for a couple of pints of Castle Rock Harvest Pale which was, as usual, very good. On our return to the village we decided, on a whim, to try Gandhis Place or as he is no longer incumbent I had better refer to it as The Three Horseshoes. This pub has a mixed history as far as the quality of its beer is concerned but we thought we ought to give it a try. The pub itself is an old, pleasant, two roomed building that IMHO ought to be the best place in the village, but a succession of landlords have all failed to increase custom. (They could try getting Castle Rock on of course!) I was pleasantly surprised to see that Wychwood Fiddlers Elbow (4.5%) was available. This brewery is now owned by W&D so I suspect that its beer will become blander in time as have some of the Jennings beers. We ordered a couple of pints and they were acidic and smelled like vinegar so we asked if they could be replaced. The landlord, who is a nice bloke, was most apologetic and obliging and within a couple of minutes he had put on a new barrel and poured us some more.This was more like it. Fiddlers Elbow is a mid brown, predominantly bitter ale with only the slightest hint of malt about it but is quite moreish. We came away from The Shoes reasonably impressed and will be visiting again.

Sunday 20th April

I spent the early part of this week knee deep in pieces of bedroom furniture with only a screwdriver, a drill and Planet Rock on the radio for solace. However after some initial problems I eventually read the instructions and the wardrobes went up without major trauma. Next were the chests of drawers which again went together with no problems. The only headache now is waiting for MFI to deliver the remaining bits to enable me to complete the job. On Tuesday Mrs. Pint took a phone call from a very nice woman at MFI who was responding to her vituperative missal that she fired off the week previously. The woman could not have been more apologetic and assured us that there would be some discussion over goodwill, so at least some good will come out of the business. In the post on Tuesday was a card informing me that I had won the Sunday Times hard crossword competition which contained answers like gamashes, transumpt and trahison most of which I have already forgotten the meaning of. Anyway the card said that a copy of the Oxford dictionary was on its way to me, which was most gratifying. Finally, on Tuesday, my local surgery rang me to say that I need not bother with the appointment made to discuss the results of my wearing a twenty-four hour blood pressure monitor. I had said all along that there was nothing wrong with my blood pressure and that I suffered from 'white coat syndrome'. In other words whenever I walk through the doors at the surgery my blood pressure soars, which is exactly what this monitor proved, showing that throughout the day that I had to wear it, was completely normal. I can't really blame the practise nurse for raising my blood pressure just because I happen to be attracted to strict uniformed women! On Thursday Mrs. Pint and I went to see Bellowhead in Wolverhampton and had a marvellous time. For the uninitiated, Bellowhead are the brainchild of John Boden and John Spiers and consist of eleven excellent musicians and multi-instrumentalists who have developed a big band approach to traditional music by using a hefty brass section to accompany the fiddles, pipes and melodeons The concert was one of the best I have ever been to and would thoroughly recommend seeing them as an antidote to the malaise that hangs over our once great country. This brings me to Alistair Darling and his amazing multicoloured eyebrows' abolishment of the ten pence tax rate. It seems idiotic to believe that this would not cause a storm, and so it has proved with ministers, their aides and backbenchers fomenting rebellion. Maybe this will be the issue that does for the Fat Controller and his cronies, but dont bet on it, there seems to be no honour left in politics. These days you can tell an outright lie and still carry on as if nothing had happened. Take the vomit-inducing Harridan Harman whose campaign for deputy prime minister was illegally funded. I noted this week that the old, hatchet-faced battleaxe will not now be prosecuted. Talk about one law for them and one law for everyone else! On Saturday we popped into the Coopers' Tavern to find they had a mini beer festival on and a couple of lads called Norcsalordie performing folk and other songs at ninety miles an hour. We drank, in order, Hopback Spring Zing (abv. 4%) which was a light refreshingly hoppy beer, Blythe Staffie (4.4%) which explodes with a fruit and malt leading to a dry hoppy finish and finally Falstaff Captain Jack (4%) which was a more subtle and balanced beer. Splendid drinking! We thought that as the Coops' was rather crowded we would nip round the corner to the Devonshire Arms where we had a pint of Burton Bridge Golden Delicious (3.8%) which I am sorry to report was nothing of the kind. To my reasonably experienced palate it tasted as if it had passed its sell-by-date and was a most disappointing beer to finish on. Burton Bridge seriously needs to examine what they are doing as this is the second time I have had to report on a less than satisfactory product of theirs.

Sunday 13th. April

This week has been a fairly busy one as far as supping beer is concerned, so I shall begin by enlightening readers as to what and where I have been drinking and the quality of the ale. On Sunday last Mrs. Pint and I rolled down to our local where they still had the excellent Outlaw Wild Mule on. It is a pity that the only reason they were allowed by Marston's to take this, and several other beers that have been guests recently, was that originally they were going to have a beer festival and thus had a better range to choose from. However their festival clashed with the Burton Winter Beer Festival so they decided to simply sell the beers over the counter one by one. It is interesting to note that the beer sales have been up during this period, Marston's take note! On Thursday lunchtime I popped down for a midday tipple with Akin who is on holiday for two weeks. This time Stevie and Kate had the last of their festival beers on, Roosters' YPA (abv. 4.3%). I must confess that although it was lunch time and my palate was fairly clean this beer was staggeringly good. Mid brown in colour and well balanced but with a tendency towards fruity flavours, (the GBG says it has hints of raspberry), I personally could have carried on drinking it all afternoon. Roosters can take a bow for their YPA and the Wild Mule, they are certainly a brewery to be reckoned with. On Friday we had occasion to nip into Derby to take Miss. Pint to a gig by a group of spotty local youths thrashing around on various 'musical' instruments. Naturally I used the opportunity to visit the Brunswick Tavern for a pint of their marvellously bitter Triple Hop, priced at under two quid as are most of their own brews. Even Mrs. Pint sipped genteelly at a half of the astringent liquid! I noted with some amusement a sign on the door that displayed a picture of that slimy turd Alistair Darling and the legend, 'This man is banned from these premises for life'. Continuing the anti-labour theme, inside they had a handpump with a cartoon of the fat controller Gordon Brown on the clip. This dispensed another of their own brews, called Up Yours, a low gravity beer priced at one pound fifty a pint, sadly I did not have time to sample it but judging from the use the pump was getting I gathered it must have been pretty good. Anyway we certainly had a better time than we would have had listening to the teenage angst being dispensed up the road. Finally on Saturday a crowd of us went out to celebrate several birthdays including Mick's and the Woodbutcher's. First up we went into the Lichfield branch of Wetherspoon's where the beer was priced at one forty-five. I had a pint of Springhead Liberty (abv. 3.8%) which was pale and fruity but nearing the end of its shelf life and some Nethergate April Fool (abv. 4.5%) which again was acceptable. A fairly dark brown ale with a sharp hoppy edge, not unpleasant but not particularly good either. The rest of the gang went for a beer called Plum, I didn't see who brewed this monstrosity but on having a taste I can only describe it as being like a very sweet fruit wine. Bro described it as 'a cordial. Thank god for the Queen's Head where they had good old Tim Taylors' and Batham's bitter on tap. Both were in good order and completed a good night out.

Sunday April 6th.

I awoke this morning to a layer of white stuff over everything, yes, spring is here at last. Of course, the traffic reports on the radio were full of it. Major problems on all major roads, accidents everywhere and broken down lorries. What has happened to this country? Thirty years ago it took a good eighteen inches of snow and conditions that would have made penguins blench before the Beeb started to issue warnings about not making unnecessary journeys, nowadays we get a little light precipitation, not enough to inconvenience a slug, and we are told that we should stay at home or if we must venture out, take thermoses of hot soup, emergency blankets and life saving kits. Don't talk to me about traffic, in the good old days a few feet of snow were no obstacle to driving twenty miles to get a pint of Tim Taylors'. You just stuck a shovel in the boot and got on with it. I remember one such occasion when my old friend Wesley and I were driving to a nearby hostelry for a pint or two and the car ran into a snow drift in one the back lanes we took. We were busy shovelling our way out of it with Wesley becoming increasingly worried that we would only have time for a single bevvy when he suddenly stopped his exertions stood up and remarked that he had just lost a contact lens. Rather than search for it, which would have been like, well errr...., looking for a contact lens in a snowdrift, he simply shovelled a huge pile of snow into the boot of his car. Once back at home we piled it all into the bath, allowed it melt and, lo and behold, there was the lens! Wesley, ever the pragmatist, fished it out, spat on it, polished it on his cuff and popped it back into his eye. "Saved me claiming on my insurance", he said proudly. Last night despite my local having some excellent beer on, Bro insisted on driving over to the Lichfield SoM for a couple. The Lichfield Brewery Spring Barley was excellent though and certainly worth the trip. When we got back we cycled down to the Oak. Here they had Castle Rock Harvest Pale (abv 3.8%) much to my delight and it was in excellent condition but, believe it or not, it was not the best beer of the evening. That accolade must go to the Outlaw Wild Mule (abv 3.9%), As I have said before this little brewery is an offshoot of the Knaresborough independent, Roosters,and produces mainly experimental beers. The Wild Mule was a pale coloured brew with a pronounced dry hoppiness but a distinct fruity taste. Here is a beer that knocks the spots of anything the bigger breweries can offer, and at only 3.9% is highly drinkable. On Friday night I tried a pint of Thwaites Double Centurion which at 4.8% abv. was a bit strong but drank very smoothly and had a strong honey flavour. Well back to this morning, oh yes, its my twenty-third wedding anniversary today so I had better go and be nice to the lady wife by taking her a cup of tea.

Sunday 30th. March

This week you find me in the midst of general turbulence. Mrs. Pint and I decided that, some might think recklessly, this year we would at long last redecorate our decidedly shabby bedroom. Dutifully we went round the furniture stores in an attempt to buy new wardrobes etc. for less than a grand. Finally we turned to that bastion of the British working class, MFI, and purchased some reasonable tackle. As I was recovering from the shock of having my wallet raided to the tune of fifteen hundred quid the lady wife decided that we needed a new carpet which caused further damage to the bank balance. Add to this the cost of wallpaper, paint and assorted bits and pieces I might have been better off buying a new house! Still it was all over wasn't it? Not on your life, removing the old paper that appeared to be stuck to the walls with superglue took a couple of days scraping, steaming and swearing. This revealed walls that looked as though they had spent the last few years in downtown Baghdad and the plastering needed was a quite demanding task and took another afternoon up. We still have to paper and paint before the carpet layers arrive next week. However the worst part of all of this is living in total chaos for the duration. All the clothes are at present in the dining room, the deodorants are in a box which is hidden deep beneath a pile of old newspapers and I cant find my pyjamas anywhere! All of this has got me quite depressed so on Friday night it was a relief to wander down to my local and find that they had a couple of decent beers on sale. North Yorks Brewery's Rocket Fuel (abv 5%) was too strong for a session but was pleasingly pale and well balanced with a slightly sweet finish. Lees' Brewer's Dark (abv 3.5%) was on the other hand a darkish brown, drinkable mild and although it lacked a certain nuttiness it was decent beer if rather expensive for such a low gravity. On Saturday, after another long session of applying gloss paint to the woodwork, skirting board and various parts of my anatomy I was pleased to have a run over to the Queen's Head where I spent the entire evening on Sharp's Doom Bar which I have described before on this site. Most satisfactory. As well as Bro, Pinners and Ingsy were both present as was the pedestrian but jovial Pigswill behind the bar. All in all a good evening. Now back to the papering.

Sunday 23rd March

Its Easter Sunday, a bank holiday tomorrow and yet I still don't feel full of the joys of spring. Why is this? Could it be the weather? It certainly is not at all spring-like round these parts squire. I woke this morning to snow covered garden and a chilly house as I have turned the central heating down to miniscule levels to offset rising fuel prices. Once up and dressed, in several layers of clothing, I set off out to purchase some petrol and to buy some wallpaper for the bedroom that I am about to decorate. The petrol was one pound fourteen a litre! I get the feeling that supermarkets are taking the piss. If you were a shop assistant working in one of the nearby towns, by the time parking and travel in and out were taken into account you would be worse off than if you had no job and simply stayed at home. After paying forty quid for the pleasure of having transport for the next couple of days I motored round to B&Q to find, like many others who had done the same, that it was closed. The car park was full of people with money to spend who were turning their vehicles round and heading back home. Supermarkets, DIY centres and almost everywhere apart from petrol stations and Patel's newsagents were shut. Why? Because it is Easter Sunday and, as we all know, everybody is in their local church singing about 'wonderous crosses' and downing communion wine. When is the government going to realise that blighty is now a secular nation, it has outgrown the need for religion and bloody stupid clerics like the ridiculous Archbishop of Canterbury and his huge eyebrows. If premiership football grounds can put big fixtures on Easter Sunday and sell programmes, beer and stale balti pies Why can't I buy a bag of wallpaper paste? In fact the whole religious thing is beginning to irritate me. Take for example the biblical account of the betrayal of Christ. All Christians condemn Judas Iscariot for taking cash to dob in Jesus but what was the alternative? If he hadn't done so the authorities wouldn't have been able to arrest, try and crucify Christ and therefore the sins of man would not have been redeemed and consequently God's big design would not have achieved. So, Judas ought to be thanked and congratulated for playing such a vital role. Mind you if he had have thought better of his betrayal then we would not have Easter and I could go out and buy my bloody wallpaper.

Last night Bro and I popped into the ever reliable Coopers for a few beers. We started with a pint of Jaipur IPA (abv 5.9%), To my surprise this was not as I remember it from previous pints. The colour was mid-brown rather than a pale yellow and I thought it had a stronger flavour, maybe this was a one off barrel but if it has changed, it is not for the better. I spent the remainder of the evening on Castle Rock Harvest Pale (abv 3.8%) which was 'excellent' as Mr. Burns would say. Bro drank the Tower Joule's Bitter which they have recently acquired the recipe for and are making a pretty good job of brewing. Whilst there an old patient of mine approached me to tell me about the Internet campaign he is currently running. This is about putting up a memorial to Trolley Ted, an eccentric old man who used to wander the streets of Burton collecting up supermarket trolleys and returning them to their rightful owners. Sadly Ted died a couple of years ago but there is a growing clamour for some sort of monument. Bro and I thought hard about this one before coming up with a splendid idea. A gold plated supermarket trolley, but set on a plinth in the middle of the river, with just the handle and its upper section showing, the gold colour being the only feature to distinguish it from all the other abandoned trolleys dumped there. My ex-patient seemed underwhelmed by the suggestion but still accepted pints from Bro and myself without offering to buy any himself.

By the way, I was very pleased to note that our cricketers had gone some way towards redeeming their awful batting performance by bowling out the hapless New Zealanders for a paltry score, but as predicted in my piece last week 'little' James Anderson has reverted to type getting none for plenty as we cricketing aficionados say. My next prediction is that Martin Johnson will not take on the England rugby job.

Sunday 16th March

What a difference a week makes, last Sunday I was bemoaning the dreadful performance of the English cricket team and the abysmal showing by our national rugby players. This week at long last the English rugby team showed some spark indicating that the game is still alive in this country though recovering from a serious illness. Let us hope this is a genuine return to health and there will be no more relapses. The French on the other hand have a team of lily-livered surrender monkeys, they simply did not try against the Welsh thus handing them the grand slam on a plate. They lacked both energy and invention in a game that could have seen them make a Welsh Six Nations Championship a bit of a damp squib. Of course this just confirms my worst prejudices against the garlic-breathed, snail munchers, no wonder they allowed the Germans to walk all over them in world war two. As for the Welsh, let them enjoy a rare success for until they have been and won a world cup they will not convince me they are anything but a flash in the pan, not a truly great side. For once our cricketers seem to have the upper hand against the New Zealanders. Try as I might I find it hard to find anything to really dislike about our antipodean cousins. The swaggering Aussies are a bunch of cheating, foul mouthed, lager swilling convicts but how on earth can one insult this likeable bunch of blokes? Perhaps it is because they are very much like ourselves, occasionally good but mostly exceptionally mediocre. I suppose now there will be calls for 'little' Jimmy Anderson to be retained, all I can say is watch this space, you heard it here first, Anderson is the worst bowler to play for England, ever, end of! Normal crap service will be resumed as soon as possible, leaking runs and zero in the wickets column.

This week's budget turned out to be a pretty boring affair, I watched it on the parliament channel. Looking around the benches several honourable members appeared to dozing off. Alistair 'eyebrows' Darling managed to upset just about everyone. His message seemed to be don't drink or drive, and the lower your salary the more your tax will go up. What a turd! However, when D.C. responded, (with another dull effort), that idiotic creep Ed Balls-Up sat on the government benches, hair akimbo, looking like a particularly bad syrup, constantly making snide remarks and grinning inanely at his supposed cleverness. In fact anyone who saw this appalling display of bad manners would advocate a damn good thrashing for his infantile behaviour. Little wonder today's children are so badly behaved with such poor role models!

Saturday night was in fact a wash-out as Bro had a bad cold and did not come out to play so on Sunday I took Mrs. Pint down the Oak for a few glasses of rose. I, on the other hand, had a few glasses of beer, Outlaw Old Mule (abv3.9%) to be precise. This brewery is the experimental arm of Rooster's brewery in Knaresborough but there was nothing remotely experimental to my mind about the ale. Tangy and refreshing with a biting finish is probably the best description I can arrive at. Also present was the increasingly rare figure of the Woodbutcher who had popped in for a pint. He too was drinking the Outlaw as were Steve and Tim and also, surprisingly, Colin who is a regular Marston's drinker, anyway he seemed to be enjoying the experience. Only the curmudgeonly Pearl doggedly stuck to Pedigree despite all evidence that the alternative was far superior. I arrived home to find that that was left of the evening had been ruined by England completing a test match victory while I had been out. So with no sport to watch I made my way to bed.

Sunday 9th March

Another week has flown past and there is much to discuss but I rather think that this week I shall simply stick to an account of Saturday night's imbibing activity. So those political featherweights, who are so often the target of my written equivalents of tomato tins, can rest easy. That obsequious prick Alistair Darling can go about deciding how to extract more of our hard earned cash, while the Scots continue to get everything free, safe from my poisoned keyboard. The ugly sisters, Harriet Harman and Jackie Smith can get some much needed beauty sleep without my barbs disturbing their rest. Even the coaches of our rugby and cricket teams can rest easy. Yes, even the incompetent Peter Moores will remain free from attack, (rather like New Zealand's bowlers did), and Brian Ashton, despite allowing his favouritism to dominate what little passes for thinking, and proving yet again he is utterly bereft of ideas and out of touch, need not worry, he can marry Ian Balshaw for all I care this week. The myriad races I regularly disparage such as the perfidious French, the boorish Australians, the unadventurous Scots and the decidedly vile Welsh will remain unscathed for now while I eulogise about that one constant in life, draught ale. Not even a sickeningly patronising text message from Wee Jock alluding to our defeat by the sweaties, will put me off course. Last night Akin, who does not drink very heavily these days, offered to drive Al, Bro and myself into Derby for an evening to be spent in two of the most delightful of alehouses. First stop was the Alexandra, a pleasant, two room pub on the outskirts of the town near the station. The range of beers was a little disappointing but the quality was top hole. I decided to try the Crouch Vale Brewer's Gold (abv 4.0%). This Essex craft brewery beer has won many accolades over the years and deservedly so. It has a golden colour and a citrus smell to it that is instantly appealing. This is followed by a clean, sharp taste and a distinctly bitter finish. A lovely beer that will be appearing in my favourites. When Bro began expounding his thoughts on Gorgonzola class 4-2-4s based on the railway photographs that adorn the walls, I decided it was time to move on. We made the fifty yard walk to the Brunswick in good time and found within a cornucopia of real ales available. Whenever I am there I cannot help myself, I have to have a pint or two of the wonderful Triple Hop (abv. 4.0% ), an astringent, very pale yellow beer that is highly drinkable and has an exquisite malty smack as an aftertaste. Bro opted for a pint of Everards Sunchaser which seemed to be equally delicious. Next up I opted for a pint of Derby Thrillingly Blonde but after a couple of pulls on the handpump the barman informed me it had run out. Thinking quickly I asked for a pint of the Brunswick's own Cherry B (abv. 4.2%) not knowing what to expect. What I got was a medium brown bitter that had no aroma I could detect but did have a pleasantly interesting almond / cherry undertone to it and it went down very smoothly leaving me wanting more as a good beer should! We decided to have a final drink and rather than continue in the same vein I went for Abbeydale Brimstone ( abv.3.9%). Brewed in Sheffield this beer was quite dark for a low gravity and had a remarkably full flavour but in my opinion was not quite in the same class as previous offerings. Bro and Al had settled down on Tim Taylors while Akin was downing a half of Brunswick White Feather, (even paler than the Triple Hop). On driving homeward we decided to have a nightcap in the Coopers and we were not to be disappointed, Thomas Salt's Bitter was back! In fact Bro and I had an extra half while we waited for Al to finish his pint, so good was it. So all in all a wonderful Saturday night, I went a home a happy chappie despite the trials and tribulations of our sporting flops. Next week I suspect I might have something to moan about though as the budget is looming. Alistair Darling, watch out!

Sunday 2nd March

Why won't people put their hand up and admit they were wrong or that it was their fault when things go badly? The 'it wasn't me culture' goes from top to bottom of our society. Politicians usually blame the previous administration for faults and at the other end of the scale pupils refuse to accept the blame for anything from decorating the school's playing field with crisp packets to happy slapping the chemistry teacher. Steve Wright,(no not the Radio two disc jockey), went off to spend the rest of his, hopefully brief, life in prison, still claiming that the fact that his DNA was all over his victims was just a coincidence. In the case of politicians, if they have no available options to blame somebody else they simply tough it out or badmouth the bearer of the bad news, or both. So it was this week, a well respected research body from Cambridge University concluded that this government's handling of education had been disastrous and that schools today were far worse than they had been before the constant political tinkering. How refreshing it would have been if Ed Balls-Up had come out and said, "yes, I agree, we are a bucketful of total arseholes and have completely ruined two generations of schoolchildren's chances in life". Fat chance! The government, with nobody to blame opted for the other choice, that is, they didn't agree with the findings and that the body which had done the research were a load of tossers. The asinine education minister came out of hiding to say that the study was plain wrong, that it was based on old data and that the team who had done it were out of touch. Out of touch with what may I ask, presumably Mr Balls-Up's views.

The same applies to the big breweries. Why don't Marston's admit to the fact that they no longer have a clue how to brew Pedigree. How I long to hear a spokesperson come out with, "we admit it is a crap product. It is tasteless and bland but as so many of you idiots still persist in drinking it we will keep on brewing it". Their masters at W&D could be honest and state that, "we no longer have any interest in brewing quality beers or in customer satisfaction, as long as we keep making money we are happy". Here, dear readers, is the nub of the matter; for as long as drinkers continue to patronise these brands there will be no improvement and prices will continue to rise inexorably. Last night Bro and I went over to the nearby city of Lichfield to celebrate Genitals' birthday along with Pinners, Snapper and several others. Genitals himself looks perhaps a little frail these days but was in fine form. However for some inexplicable reason he opted to drink in the King's Head, a typical Marston's establishment. The guest beer was Marston's Sunchaser, an unpleasantly thin and acidic brew. The only other choices were Mansfield Bitter (owned by W&D) and the ubiquitous Pedigree. I could only manage one pint of the stuff although Bro manfully struggled down another half. We then left for the Queen's Head where thankfully they had Timothy Taylor's Landlord, which we moved on to after first sampling the Tollgate Red Star IPA (abv 4.5%), a paleish, hoppy concoction that tasted a million times better than the vile Sunchaser but was not good enough to hold us off the TT's.

All this time Genitals and the rest were still in the King's presumably drinking their appalling excuse for beer. I am afraid that as they age, Genitals and Pinners are either losing their taste buds or have all but given up the fight for decent ale. I think it is about time that Camra, the organisation that campaigns for real ale, need to switch their attention to the quality of the product rather than being merely satisfied that the pub has a couple of handpumps! Perhaps they too should come clean and state the unthinkable, (to them), that Marston's, Wadworth's, Banks' etc are no longer holding a beacon up for real ale drinkers, instead they are too busy making money for their shareholders, and as such they will no longer give them their unqualified support.

 Sunday 24th February

Firstly I must report that on Thursday it was my birthday and I had a very pleasant day. At lunchtime I popped out down to the Oak to meet up with Wee Jock who I have not seen for some time. The Caledonian was in fine form, the same of which could not be said for the pint of Pedigree he purchased for me! I always think that lunchtime is a good time of day to judge the quality of a pint, your palate is fresh and flavours really come to the fore, unlike in an evening when they can be affected by what you have eaten during the day and your physical state. Sadly this did no favours for Marstons. Gandhi was just finishing his stint for Stevie and Kate, who had been off on a short holiday, so there could be no question of the beer being kept badly or the pipes not being immaculately clean. The Pedigree can only be described as mediocre, at best, not actively unpleasant but certainly not a drinkable, more-ish beer. After this poor start I moved on to the Jenning's Cocker Hoop, which is back to its hoppy best. Anyway, Wee Jock and I chatted away for a couple of hours after which time I returned to my domicile for forty winks. I had just settled down with The Twelve Dreams of Doctor Sardonicus by the seventies west coast rock band Spirit on the headphones, when the doorbell chimed. Wearily I got up to answer it and was greeted by a smiling Pearl who came bearing gifts. A couple of bottles of ale, a Viz calendar that had been given away with the magazine, a Fosters Lager beermat and a Peter Gabriel CD that he had got free with the Daily Mail. In fact the CD is quite excellent and has some of the best production values I have heard. Well, we sat and chatted for a while with Pearl regaling me with tales of his golfing weekend until, at length, he decided he had best go. A splendid fellow really despite our occasional spats. On Saturday I went to watch Leicester Tigers versus Sale, (a game which Sale won), with my old sparring partner, Masher and a few others. As you may know the Welford Road ground is a nightmare for parking and after driving aimlessly around the area for ten minutes we eventually parked in De Montfort University's visitor centre on the premise that as we had used a school minibus for transport the authorities would not clamp us. I decided that I may as well make use of the ten pounds I had been fleeced of for a kitty, so when we waltzed into a nearby pub I was delighted to see that they had Castle Rock Harvest Pale (abv 3.8%) on the bar. This is a beautiful golden brew with a lingering fruitiness, so while all the rest of the crew were drinking pints of Guinness or, heaven forbid, lager, I was enjoying a top notch real ale. On my return home I settled down with Mrs. Pint to watch England's victory over the perfidious Frenchies. How pleasing it is to be back in the competition. Now we just need Ireland to beat Wales and ourselves to trounce the hapless Jocks and it is all in the melting pot. After watching our sensational win over the foul-breathed frogs Bro picked me up and we nipped over to the SoM in Lichfield for a couple of pints. I had the Lichfield Overdraught (abv. 1038) which was pleasantly hoppy and had a remarkably full flavour for what is basically a session beer. I ended the day with a Tim Taylors Landlord and very fine it was too.

P.S. Sunday night I went over to the Coopers' and had a very fine pint of Castle Rock Great Crested Grebe (abv. 4.3%) which has a distinct damily resemblance to the Harvest Pale but has a little more malt and a fuller body.

Monday 18th February

I must apologise for my tardiness in putting pen to paper, (metaphorically speaking), but unfortunately I have been struck down with a vile stomach bug this weekend and am still not a well man having a very tender midriff. So I cannot write, as I was going to, about the Lichfield Winter Beer Festival, which I was planning to attend with my old acquaintance Wesley who had himself made extensive plans to get there. Fortunately Bro was able to get along and meet up with the barrel-shaped, garrulous one for a few pints. Obviously I am unable to comment on the gathering but Bro did tell me he left a little early and nipped down to the Queen's Head where he was able to enjoy a pint of Sharp's Doom Bar, I dont know if this a reflection on the quality of the beer at the festival. Sadly I have been in no condition to enjoy anything except doses of Pepto-bisomol and Barnsley kicking Liverpool out of the FA Cup. I can report, as a sort of hangover from last weekend, that on Sunday evening Bro, Pearl and I paid a visit to an old favourite The Elms which I can thankfully report is still in good hands and serving quality beer. We had a beer from the tiny Derbyshire brewer Tollgate and a pint of Charles Wells' Bombardier (abv. 4.2%) both of which were in good form and showed the traditional virtues of a good publican, that is, great cellarmanship. I hope to back with a more interesting column next week.

Sunday 10th February

When our parish vicar addressed the W.I. meeting the other week, the ladies were horrified to hear him suggest that there were certain of members of our small community who felt disengaged from the law as laid down by the parish council. As an example he cited the small group of moronic hoodies who hang about outside the village chip shop seeking excitement and thrills. The vicar felt that there should be some accommodation of these types within the local regulations. Could we not make an exception to the over eighteen drinking law by allowing them to purchase cheap lager from the village store and get bladdered, he argued? Well, as they do so anyway the good ladies of the W.I. felt this was not particularly valuable suggestion, (neither did Mrs. Patel who runs the village store.) Surely, the vicar went on, in the spirit of ecumenicalism, could we not allow them to throw rocks at passing vehicles, intimidate old people and decorate the area with litter and fag packets? The vicar, I am pleased to report, is now out of intensive care and making a good recovery although the same cannot be said for several jars of marmalade and homemade jam. I fear that our own weirdy-beardy Archbishop of Canterbury with his ludicrous, luxuriant eyebrows has made a similar faux-pas in suggesting that sharia law be introduced into this country. What a particularly idiotic thing to say and then make out that he did not realise it would be contentious. I, for one, would like to have the vomit-inducing old goat strung up by his testicles, flogged with his own crozier and be force fed copies of the Church of England review. Why doesn't he step down from public office and go back to having his highly intellectual discussions with like-minded, highbrow church officials in the safety of a nearby mental institution and leave the business of governing the country to those who are elected? Mind you, on second thoughts would you trust that vile harridan, Harriet Harman, the abhorrent and aptly named Mr.Straw or the greasy Fat Controller, with making these decisions, I think perhaps not.

Last night was Bro and my first evening of protest against poor beer at high prices. Instead of going down to the local we travelled to the Queen's Head and were treated to some splendid Tim Taylor's Landlord. As usual Pigswill was serving at a measured tread but even his pedestrian pace did not spoil our enjoyment, if anything it enhanced it by increasing our anticipation as we waited, salivating, while Pigswill first poured and then slowly topped up our pints. Later in evening Snapper came in to the pub followed by Pinners and his mate who had seen their table topping team go down the pan, beaten by a side only just out of the relegation zone. After four pints and some enjoyable conversation we returned to the village but felt a final pint would not only stink of hypocrisy but also spoil what had been a pleasant evening's drinking, so we went back to our homes and our beds happy in the knowledge that we had struck a blow for all those of a real ale persuasion.

Sunday 3rd February

It has been a particularly tiresome weekend so far and I admit to being a grumpy and somewhat irritable old man. I shall begin with Friday night when I walked into my local to find to my horror that the price of beer has gone up by fifteen pence. Yes, you read it correctly, fifteen pence. What on earth can have prompted such a rise? I have no doubt that Marston's will plead that the price of ingredients has gone up, as have the costs of delivery. Heating and other energy bills have are spiralled etc etc. Sadly these arguments are mostly an irrelevance in the case of W&D. For a start the brewery is making solid profits, if not extravagant ones, and shareholders have seen their holdings continue to increase in value. Secondly other breweries seem to be able to sell their beer at a considerably cheaper price. One only has to go to the Coopers to find this out. My third argument, I think, is a clincher though. The product has not improved in quality one iota, it is still a bland uninteresting drink and as such should not go up in price until there is some movement on this front. I might be prepared to pay a premium for excellent quality ale but in the case of Pedigree, certainly not! After grumbling to Katie and Stevie, (who regard me as a moaning Minnie), I dug into my wallet to pay the ridiculous price for a pint of Black Sheep Bitter (abv 3.8%). How on earth you can justify selling this low gravity, inoffensive but fairly tasteless concoction at a price approaching three quid I have no idea. I decided next to give the Marstons Oyster Stout a go, this is a very dark beer and despite weighing in at 4.5% abv it has nothing to recommend it. After these two mediocre pints I was ready to go home but Bro persuaded me to have a half before we left so I resorted to Guinness, that's how bad it was. I shall be doing most of my drinking from now on in Lichfield or Burton where I am guaranteed a quality beer at a sensible price. I feel sorry for Katie who is just following the brewery's instructions and doing her best to serve what is a poor product but sadly there comes a time when one must make a stand. On Saturday this is exactly what the English rugby team failed to do against the vile Welsh at Twickenham. At halftime they were all over the Ospreys but in the second half they meekly surrendered and went on to lose. England may have problems but this was an abject display against a team who were in tatters in the first half. Vickery and company have let down the nation and I can only hope that they pick themselves up and go on to win next week. As for the sickening Welsh; let them have their day, I expect they will all come crawling out of the woodwork to crow as they do once in a blue moon but I have no doubts who will prove the better side in the long term. Due to a combination of injuries and inexperience England were not able to compete for forty minutes with a team that had members of a club side playing in thirteen of its positions, but they will improve and grow stronger as they build toward the next world cup, the Welsh are going nowhere except back to their hovels, lava bread and sheep. Better news on Saturday evening. Mrs. Pint and I had rare a Saturday evening out in Lichfield where I managed to squeeze in four pints all of them excellent and all of them bearing no price increase. The Queen's Head was bustling and not a Welsh rugby supporter in sight. Pigswill served us with a glass of rose and a pint of Church End Hop Gun (4.1%abv). As I swigged at this golden and fruity beer we noticed Pinners and Ingsy who were propping up the bar. Pinners was in cheerful mood following West Brom's victory and Mrs. Pint fell into conversation about the game. Ingsy was quite upbeat following Derby County's unlikely draw and I chatted to him about their impending relegation. I bought another pint, this time Tim Taylors Landlord which needs no further description except to say it was marvellous. After a second pint of TT's Pigswill regrettably informed me that the barrel had emptied and I would have to drink something different. Oh dear! Such an inconvenience. But never fear, Bathams Bitter (abv 4.3%) was also on tap so I had a final pint of this West Midlands brew. It was a golden yellow, delicious, genuinely smooth and had a wonderful honey-ish sweetness. All in all a quite different night to Friday. When will Marstons wake up to the fact that their beer is a boring, uninteresting and tasteless concoction and that other brewers are producing gems that are light years ahead in terms of flavour? Whilst they are run by accountants, never, I suspect.

Sunday 27th January

Drinking this weekend has been a bit thin on the ground. On Friday night I nipped down to the Oak for a couple of jars and was greeted by the sight of a handpump bearing the logo of Marston's Porter! This is apparently one of their 'classic beers' series, in other words 'we've got no imagination, lets brew a batch of this'. What they should be doing is getting their flagship beer, Pedigree, somewhere near a drinkable standard rather than looking to produce new brews. Fortunately Stevie had some Jenning's Cumberland bitter in the cellar so I opted for that. Bro, Al and Akin were all there and we settled into conversation on all the normal topics. One of the topics was the price of beer, which is due to rise again next week. Twenty pence a pint was one figure that was mentioned. I have to admit that this sort of rise would make me think about cutting down on going to the pub. Personally I have several quibbles with the price of beer, one is that beer, and even wine, drinking is in my experience, rarely the cause of anti- social behaviour. Vodka shots, whisky and pints of fizzy lager, yes, but not draught ale. Serious drinkers like most of my acquaintances and myself never, ever, behave badly, apart from falling in the odd hedge on the way home. The main problem is young drinkers, some of whom are not even old enough to sup alcohol, and very cheap alcoholic drink sold by supermarkets and convenience stores. Add to this the fact that breweries produce drinks that are deliberately attractive to this age group and you have an explosive mixture. The majority of pubs do not serve people until they vomit profusely or put their heads through a plate glass window, and any that do so, should be shut down. Publicans, landlords and their regular customers are, by and large, highly responsible and it is grossly unfair to burden them with whopping price hikes to try to deal with a problem not of their making. If the government is serious about tackling loutish, drunken behaviour in our streets, they should force the supermarkets, shops and off-licences to sell alcohol at pub prices and not serve anyone who cannot prove their age. The only effect that upping prices at the bar will have is that people like myself will not go out so often, pubs will start losing their regular trade and will eventually close down. This will force more and more people into buying from supermarkets and, because of a lack of public houses, some will take to the streets to consume their purchases! So in fact instead of having the desired effect it will have the exact opposite. Mind you, if my local keeps on putting Marston's substandard beers on I shall be spending less time there anyway. It is quite absurd that in Lichfield, Burton and Derby you can drink a wonderful variety of beers yet in our neck of the woods all you can get are the Marston's stable. The SoM is not known for selling excellent beers and last night proved no exception, They had on their usual Pedigree and Bass neither of which provide any quality drinking and a beer called Et Tu Brute, 4.5% abv from the Devento Brewery. This was a licoricey concoction with no malt and an unpleasant bitterness that became more pronounced as you drank it. I can find no mention of the Devento brewery in this year's GBG so it is either newly formed, (and if it cannot improve will not be around when the 2009 edition appears), or it is a front for one of the big breweries, a bit like Redbrick. Judging by the beer I think this is quite likely as no self-respecting small brewer would allow such a poor quality product to leave their premises. Time was getting on so with sinking hearts we looked in at the Horseshoe, (Gandhi's place as was), to our surprise they had Freeminer Bitter abv 4,0% on and it was easily the best beer we had had all weekend although that is a bit of a backhanded compliment. Fair play to the landlord though as he also had Black Sheep on as well.

Sunday 20th January

What is wrong with the weather? This week it has been mostly mild and very wet and although this type of thing may be considered normal in Manchester on a summers day during the third test match it is distinctly not normal for the small village where I reside. Fortunately we are not really at risk of flooding although the SoM's cellar occasionally becomes awash and consequently some of that filthy water ends up in the beer accounting for its vile taste and cloudy appearance. How one can explain that it is a consistently poor pint though is another matter. No, the village's defences have been much strengthened since the last time the brook flooded back in the early 1990s. So what is happening? I can remember winters long ago when the snow was so bad it towered in heaps next to the roads where it had been moved in a vain attempt to enable traffic to get through and by the same token made life for vertically challenged pedestrians extremely difficult and obscured shop window displays. Not only was the stuff four feet deep but it hung around until mid March by which time we were all thoroughly sick of snowballs, snowmen and soggy socks. Clearly climate change is the main suspect and what has happened is that our climate is evening out so that we do not get heavy snows and frosts nor blisteringly hot summers. Instead it is very mild and we get leaden skies and rain all year round. To be brutally honest I am fed up with it, bring back freezing January and February and lets have a proper summer, with rain only occurring when England's cricketers are on the verge of a defeat. I shall be writing to my MP. Last night, as has become the norm, Bro and I procured a ride to Burton and the Coopers'. We began by drinking one the Downton Brewery's beers, (I can't recall the name at present), which had a modest alcohol content of 3.8% abv. This was inoffensive but nothing special so we moved on to St. George's Heart of Gold at 4.0% abv and found this to be not unpleasant but neither would one go out of one's way to drink it. At last with Hopback's Special, (abv 4.5%), we found a beer that had some flavour to it. I finished off with a pint of Thornbridge's Kipling (5.2% abv) which had a strong almost flowery flavour despite its fairly pale colour, Bro settled for a pint of Castle Rock Harvest Pale (3.8%), always a reliable and hoppy beer. At this point Bro decided he had had enough as the beer was 'lying a bit heavily on his stomach' so we called it a day.

Sunday 13th January

Is it just me or is the civilised world entering its final death throes? The news this week has made me think seriously about emigrating to a distant star system, (although I would two thousand years old by the time I got there). I know that Peter Hain, (well known fudge packer of this parish), has been illegally acquiring cash and that MPs are going to vote themselves a pay rise that makes those of other public sector workers look pitiful, but these are just mild irritations. Take power for example, we all know that the oil will run out sometime this century, even Sheik Yahbouti will have to find another source of fuel for his personal jumbo jet. What is the rest of the world doing about this problem? Well, India are producing a very cheap car, (it costs a few hundred quid), so that it will be within the reach of everybody except the lowest castes and the toilet emptiers. This will really help the petrol situation. Ten million new vehicles on the crowded streets of Bombay equals a lot of fuel to say nothing about the problems of finding a parking space in downtown Delhi. Meanwhile the environmentally challenged halfwit, who is the so called 'leader of the free world', pops off to Palestine along with his own squadron of jet planes and an army of security men. Here Gordon 'fat, swivel eyed git' Brown gives the go ahead to build a new batch of nuclear power stations. Now at first sight this looks a sensible sort of idea, particularly if they can all be built in some dung heap where it doesnt matter, such as Swansea. Unfortunately the worlds supply of uranium is even more limited than coal and what with the likes of Iran and, for all I know, the bloody Falkland Islands wanting their fair share, it will run out in about fifty years! Then you have to decide what to do with the depleted waste. Bung it on the moon I say. This brings me on to a different problem which is facing us, there are in this world certain people who wish to put us all back in the stone age. The Taliban, Al-Qaeda et al will only be happy when everyone is as living in tents and eating rabbit droppings, just like them. Of course you will each be able to own a sub-machine gun which you can fire into the air on appropriate occasions such as a Pakistani test match victory over Bangladesh and be at liberty to make a rough effigy of Peter Hain which you can burn in the filthy streets. What a world! Fortunately we have not yet arrived at such a state in the small village where Bro and I dwell, so we were able to have a pint of Titanic Iceberg in the Oak after a visit to the Queens Head where we had enjoyed the company of Pinners and Pigswill over a few pints of Sharp's Doom Bar. Of course this will not be possible when Britain becomes a Muslim state and we all have to grow flea infested beards or dress in a sack with an eyeslit.

Sunday 6th January

Despite having had a good New Year's do at my beloved local and hoping for better things in 2008, (although I can't see Stevie growing enough hair to allow him to dispense with his wig that he got for Christmas), the news already has a certain depressing inevitability about it .

Sometimes I despair of the world we live in. Those people who can afford to travel the globe often tell us how friendly and accommodating they have found people in other countries to be.

I wonder, could this have anything to do with the fact that usually our travellers are in the company of TV cameras and have bulging wallets? Take Kenya for example. This week the news has been concerned with the Kenyan election. So, it was a fix and not a very professional one as it was easily exposed. The fact that certain areas appeared to have several thousand more voters than were registered was a bit of a giveaway. Anyway, the point is how should concerned citizens of Kenya register a protest? One can imagine the deliberations. They might consider an independent inquiry or think about staging a Gandhi-like peaceful protest but no, what do the good denizens of the country decide to do? They nip along to their nearest branch of DFS armed with machetes and machine guns and liberate some three piece suites. Of course there is a problem with this, when they get back home with their leather sofa they find that their house has been burned to the ground some other democracy-seeking tribal faction! Naturally to further the cause of democracy they then set fire to churches, buses, some cars and the odd bicycle while they are at it. The result of all of this? Well it'