Home Turf
Heheheheh..... another year, another time I'd have been organising this weekend's fun and games for a bunch of 'netheads to come and drink beer in my home town until it seeps out of their ears. This year I'm doing it all for me. Ain't I selfish :o)
So.... after a day of hassles, 150 miles of road and for once a pleasant journey I rolled into hometown in the early evening. Dumped the funbuggy at the Hospitable Home of Kev and jumped into a taxi. Odd, that's the first time I've ever met a cabbie from Uzbekistan. Or indeed, anybody else from there either. Mooched my way into the Corn Exchange where the beer's at, picked up my glass and beercards and straight away run into Jon, he of the sadly recently depleted cat pack and Phil; immediately spotted by Paul and Tracy .... all these guys I've been beering with for around 18 years.... that's just scary, whereupon a slender arm snakes around my shoulders from behind for a sneak hug. " I hope to f*ck that's female" and indeed it's SouthernSophe', a great buddy of similar seniority who's been serving at the beerfest in shorts and fishnets ever since I was going. A whole bunch of great people in five minutes. I love Beerfest time. During the evening Kev turned up from his prior engagement; ran into a guy called Frank I know from way back who's one of life's groovy people; S'Sophe's excellent other half Andy and his very civilised mate John and really too many folks to name. A shame Ginger Chris, Sal' and Scottish Miche' couldn't make it, coz if they could over the weekend we'd have been in an "all the old gang's here" situation, but there were no downers to be had here.
Three days of beering to be had here - hammered the British style beers, the German ones that were here for the first time being served by a tiny guy in Leiderhosen and even found myself on the cider. The thing with beerfest is that the stuff's so damned well kept and varied you find yourself doing that Gilly Madwoman wine thing off TV... "I'm getting chocolate, I'm getting malt" when in reality the only thing you're DEFINATELY getting is pissed. Nice to see representation from Sharps in Cornwall, Hook Norton, but I'd have to call my big winners the Earl Soham Brandeston Gold, the Brain's Reverend James and the Bartrams Soviet Stout. Excellent program and lined glass but I don't even want to THINK about how much I spent....
THE BRITISH AT PLAY
Saturday night loometh.... I was at Beerfest for the afternoon session, myself, Jon, Phil and a chap called Nick the Nice I've known since Pontious was a pilot. Ran into a friend from many moons ago, Mo Dangermouse and her excellent new friend who bears a disturbing resemblence to the chap who used to present Fingerbobs (showing my age) so some exchanging of old war stories was the order of the day for a while, before it was time to go. The main bar was closed off for an hour while they re-jigged it for live music; and then it would have been seven quid to get back in to depleted beer stock.
The downstairs bar was running out of beer fast so we popped into town for ANOTHER burger... my diet's been rubbish this break, almost entirely cooked breakfasts and proper "burger van" burgers... and then found some evening pubs. Dragged the guys out and met up with my good muckers Sarge and Big Gay Al (this is the one who's neither big, nor gay. Keep up), the Ip and the Idiot Boy. Now my choice would have been the Dove or the Fat Cat, both of which put out beer of Beerfest quality where the average pub in town does not; however I wasn't choosing the pubs though, the lads were. OK, it was real ale and Mannings was acceptable, but the Plough was pretty average (although I ran into Mr Bushy, my former works colleage and fellow Oliver Reed akolyte - don't ask - which was nice) ; the Abbott ale in the Cock and Pie might as well not bothered after 'festing. Mind you, the Bisongrass vodka "Frisky Bison's" mixer in the Vaults were jolly and superior, gonna steal that recipie.
Herein lies the bizarreness of the night... as we bumbled off to the horrid Cock and Pie we came across a post box with smoke coming out of it. Some joker's dropped a match in or similar, so Jon dials the ever popular three nines on the mobile and within minutes a large red vehicle with blue flashing lights populated by male strippers, or so it would appear turns up; chaps jump out and with powder extinguishers pour stuff into the box until it ceases smoking. What I found a little over the top, and why I like to avoid the English when I'm on holiday abroad was the numbers of drunken young women wobbling down the road, squealing and getting excited by this and grabbing jobbing firemen to have pictures taken by their mates on phonecams, or other harrassed looking firemen. It's all a bit odd. Or maybe I'm in the wrong job. But then I knew that, my lot never competed with them at the 999 nights at Brannigans.
Plenty of time to mooch around but not really time enough. Enough time to pop into the deli' and pick up some excellent cheese, some local, some not so; enough time to pop in to my friend Rob's framing shop and get my old commission popped in for preserving. But no time to mooch around the park, not enough time to see all the folks I'd have liked to. Mooched around the point out into the north sea at Landguard, Felixstowe... they've opened up more of it and restored more of the fort; the scene of the last attempted invasion of the British Isles. At least that anybody's admitting to..... then popped in on my friend Kaz just in time for her to be heading out for a late afternoon bike ride with her boy. Five minutes grummaging in the shed to dig out her brother's bike meant I was joining them and folks, there are worse ways to spend the last sunny afternoon of your break back home.
So.... after a day of hassles, 150 miles of road and for once a pleasant journey I rolled into hometown in the early evening. Dumped the funbuggy at the Hospitable Home of Kev and jumped into a taxi. Odd, that's the first time I've ever met a cabbie from Uzbekistan. Or indeed, anybody else from there either. Mooched my way into the Corn Exchange where the beer's at, picked up my glass and beercards and straight away run into Jon, he of the sadly recently depleted cat pack and Phil; immediately spotted by Paul and Tracy .... all these guys I've been beering with for around 18 years.... that's just scary, whereupon a slender arm snakes around my shoulders from behind for a sneak hug. " I hope to f*ck that's female" and indeed it's SouthernSophe', a great buddy of similar seniority who's been serving at the beerfest in shorts and fishnets ever since I was going. A whole bunch of great people in five minutes. I love Beerfest time. During the evening Kev turned up from his prior engagement; ran into a guy called Frank I know from way back who's one of life's groovy people; S'Sophe's excellent other half Andy and his very civilised mate John and really too many folks to name. A shame Ginger Chris, Sal' and Scottish Miche' couldn't make it, coz if they could over the weekend we'd have been in an "all the old gang's here" situation, but there were no downers to be had here.
Three days of beering to be had here - hammered the British style beers, the German ones that were here for the first time being served by a tiny guy in Leiderhosen and even found myself on the cider. The thing with beerfest is that the stuff's so damned well kept and varied you find yourself doing that Gilly Madwoman wine thing off TV... "I'm getting chocolate, I'm getting malt" when in reality the only thing you're DEFINATELY getting is pissed. Nice to see representation from Sharps in Cornwall, Hook Norton, but I'd have to call my big winners the Earl Soham Brandeston Gold, the Brain's Reverend James and the Bartrams Soviet Stout. Excellent program and lined glass but I don't even want to THINK about how much I spent....
THE BRITISH AT PLAY
Saturday night loometh.... I was at Beerfest for the afternoon session, myself, Jon, Phil and a chap called Nick the Nice I've known since Pontious was a pilot. Ran into a friend from many moons ago, Mo Dangermouse and her excellent new friend who bears a disturbing resemblence to the chap who used to present Fingerbobs (showing my age) so some exchanging of old war stories was the order of the day for a while, before it was time to go. The main bar was closed off for an hour while they re-jigged it for live music; and then it would have been seven quid to get back in to depleted beer stock.
The downstairs bar was running out of beer fast so we popped into town for ANOTHER burger... my diet's been rubbish this break, almost entirely cooked breakfasts and proper "burger van" burgers... and then found some evening pubs. Dragged the guys out and met up with my good muckers Sarge and Big Gay Al (this is the one who's neither big, nor gay. Keep up), the Ip and the Idiot Boy. Now my choice would have been the Dove or the Fat Cat, both of which put out beer of Beerfest quality where the average pub in town does not; however I wasn't choosing the pubs though, the lads were. OK, it was real ale and Mannings was acceptable, but the Plough was pretty average (although I ran into Mr Bushy, my former works colleage and fellow Oliver Reed akolyte - don't ask - which was nice) ; the Abbott ale in the Cock and Pie might as well not bothered after 'festing. Mind you, the Bisongrass vodka "Frisky Bison's" mixer in the Vaults were jolly and superior, gonna steal that recipie.
Herein lies the bizarreness of the night... as we bumbled off to the horrid Cock and Pie we came across a post box with smoke coming out of it. Some joker's dropped a match in or similar, so Jon dials the ever popular three nines on the mobile and within minutes a large red vehicle with blue flashing lights populated by male strippers, or so it would appear turns up; chaps jump out and with powder extinguishers pour stuff into the box until it ceases smoking. What I found a little over the top, and why I like to avoid the English when I'm on holiday abroad was the numbers of drunken young women wobbling down the road, squealing and getting excited by this and grabbing jobbing firemen to have pictures taken by their mates on phonecams, or other harrassed looking firemen. It's all a bit odd. Or maybe I'm in the wrong job. But then I knew that, my lot never competed with them at the 999 nights at Brannigans.
Plenty of time to mooch around but not really time enough. Enough time to pop into the deli' and pick up some excellent cheese, some local, some not so; enough time to pop in to my friend Rob's framing shop and get my old commission popped in for preserving. But no time to mooch around the park, not enough time to see all the folks I'd have liked to. Mooched around the point out into the north sea at Landguard, Felixstowe... they've opened up more of it and restored more of the fort; the scene of the last attempted invasion of the British Isles. At least that anybody's admitting to..... then popped in on my friend Kaz just in time for her to be heading out for a late afternoon bike ride with her boy. Five minutes grummaging in the shed to dig out her brother's bike meant I was joining them and folks, there are worse ways to spend the last sunny afternoon of your break back home.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 12:11 am
1 Comments:
Beery and saddle sore not always combind in a blog quite so well written.
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