Perfect Imperfect

Fourteen quid on a train to Doncaster. Four more of your stinking English pounds spent on a certain taxi to a certain venue, all this effort to find a beer festival, drinking beer for the use of.

And here is Mikey's quick review of the Doncaster Beer Festival.

Oh bum.

To be honest, I was rather displeased with that. On top of the trains being late on the way in, and the last train back being an hour earlier than advertised it was not the ideal way to progress my evening to an enjoyable conclusion. Harked back to the incident a couple of years ago when I travelled to Hull for their beer festival to be met with a sign that said "We've run out of beer, sorry". With extreme irony, this year's Hull festival was starting at the same time as the Donnie one, and I'd clearly made the wrong choice of which town to get beered up in. Cobblers.

Oh well. Unusually philosophic for me, headed back to the station on foot, determined to find a decent pub to have a drink in, to salvage something from the night. The Station, the nearest pub to.... erm.... the station looks a bit of a dive but thirty yards further down the road, The Leopard looks more promising. Tiled front, signage for a long extinct brewery in foot high letters. Upon closer examination, a warm bar with gig posters on every wall, local Glentworth microbrewery on pump, Black Sheep in the other bar and The Smiths on the jukebox. Think I've found my brand for the night, folks. Aces High bitter all night, 4.1%, a bit citrus and very drinkable for all all night session beer. Very surreal moment, reading an HST book at the bar while the juke was banging out that "Aww mama, can this really be the end" stuff by Dylan that HST pinched so effectively for F&L, Las Vegas. All in all, a nice time was had and if I'm in Donnie again, I'll say hello to that pub. Hell, almost worth missing a beer festival for. But not quite.

Breaking News...

Radical hook handed islamic cleric and winner of the "All round Mister Tosspot" award, 2005 Abu Hamza has been eaten by a ticking crocodile that's been following him around for several years.

No, but really... but it's a quiet view from the bunker at the moment. Not a great deal happening in the world. So I've been at the pub. Huzzah !


Enjoyed the snow, while it lasted. Which wasn't for long. Woke to a major fall of the stuff, which confused the cat mightilly. Turns out my accuracy with snowballs has improved somewhat, to the unhappiness of the person who threw one at me in the first place.

Proof the world's gone insane

Boom boom?

So would it have been better to have a more realistic depiction of the travelling existance; a gang of them bodge laying Basil's drive for an exorbitant fee; steal from his shed; demolish his fence and trespass on his land; or in his case, just cook him for tea?

TGB.

Men at work

Well, the presence of a couple of new bottles in the kitchen collection, and a large number of beerclips, several of which have commenced their new career as fridge magnets, and for all of which, I paid nowt; would indicate that I quite successfully chatted up the head brewer of a fine brewpub in Scouse last weekend. In a totally hethero way of course. Doesn't normally work for me, chatting people up for freebies. I haven't got the tits.

A low key bank holiday for me this time around; I'm conserving funds for the debauch at the end of the month. School reunion coming up down south, which promises much weirdness; but also which I suspect will involve me having to be financially solvent enough to get there in the first place; which kind of precludes the usual "hit the streets and party like it's 1999" effort. S'funny, I don't remember 1999 actually being that great a party year. Quite a weird one, actually. Anyway. Just come out of the shadow of a two day laundry binge (yes, deeply joyous and very interesting) and a couple of days of my own home cooking (not dead yet, but working on it), plus the manly man power tools training at work (Angle grinders! Sparks! Metal cutting! More power, more power, feeeeeeeeeeeeel the testosterone) and have now actually, properly, run out of anything to eat. So some limited supplies run is in order, yes? Maybe. Maybe I should add some tools to my shopping list. Away with your poncy electric carving knife, I cut my turkey with an angle grinder. Yay! No, that is not the way that to the end of the month with a little drinking money left intact, we get.

It's not just cash....

It's not a ten pound note... it's a brown coloured paper currency transfer guarantee note, with a picture of our glorious monarch on one side and Charles Darwin on the other.

It's not a twenty pound note... it's a shiney, nice to the touch, turquoise coloured paper currency with a picture of Adam Smith on the back that's damned useful for cocaine troughing. Allegedly.

It's not cash.

It's M&S cash.

The road to Wigan Beer

Post number 401 in this nonsense. Ain't that amazin'. Do I never shut up? Is anybody still reading this guff? Who knows.

And what's also amusing is that beer made in Wigan really does taste of meat pies. No, really. TWM suggests the aftertaste is actually reminicent of a combination of certain illegal herbal substances widely available in the UK, and cooked pork; I say it's just a taste of hot meat pie (I'd not know what the other funny stuff tastes like, obviously) but neither of us are convinced of the claim in the program that it's Ginger, Spice and Lemon and stuff. Why would they put Ginger Spice in a pint? Wouldn't her Union Flag dress pollute the beer? Anyway, we were in Wigan on Friday night, the occasion was the 21st Beer Festival, the beer in questoin was Allgates Bright Blade and yes, we did enjoy, although I completely crapped up my evening organisation and failed to notify my old buddy D in time for a meet and a pint. More of why my organisational skills were wobbly in a moment, but he's called Arthur. Anywhere that you can get a entire hot cooked black pudding for your supper is alright by me, I shall do my damnedest to get back next year.

Anyway's up - obviously, considering my presence in Wigan, I've been on my travels to the west again, this time via the automated systems of the local Traffic Police. Bastard GATSO's. Damned sneaky place to put it, twenty feet inside a 50mph zone right at the end of one of the longest motorways in Britain. Was fuddled somewhat on my PieTown travels by popping into the aforementioned Prince Arthur in Scouse earlier in the day; as I'm now Fitandmobileman again, I can do these things on foot. It's an idiosyncratic boozer in the "old boy's Mild drinking pub" tradition - racing on the telly at three in the afternoon, Tetley Mild and Bitter on handpump and decor that's not been refurb'd since 1905 when the clientele weren't exactly plebeian. Tastefully art deco interior, a triangular bar to fit the shape of the building, gigantic over engineered pissoir's in the gents. Frankly, my sort of place. I enjoyed. The pub, not the gents. Let me make THAT clear at least. But not much more was clear for long because afternoon drinking on an empty stomach isn't the best way to prep for a beer festival. But it worked last time, didn't it? And the time before that, now I think of it. Anyway, here's what the Liverpool Historic Pub Guide, an especially fine publication says "...would rightly be considered an irreplacable gem situtated in any city centre. As a humble street corner local it is little short of miraculous". Of course, the guide is out of date as at the time, the pub didn't serve real ale, and now it does... a nice touch was the afternoon barmaid providing an extra quarter of a pint of bitter gratis, because of the perceived amount of head on our pint... which honestly wasn't excessive, and not really necessary.

Hey ho. Public transport's the order of the day here, but arses were not gotten into gear in good enough time and by the time we got off the train in Pietown, it was too late to visit The Anvil, their local pub of the year, or organise anything with my buddies. Bother. Another time. On to the festival, and it's time to procure another of those nice little half mugs that seem to be in vogue with CAMRA organisers at the mo, and away we go. Only time for a couple of hours of supping, and my tastebuds are jaded from the afternoon, so I alternate local beers with proper flat cider to keep my taste buds frisky. Managed to get the aforementioned "Bright Blade" down my neck, along with Allendale "Wolf", and Yorkshire Dales "Brassed off" on the beery side of the house, and "3 Cats", "Potters Mental Ward" (from just over the Mersey in Cheshire) and "Parson's Choice Yarlington Mill", from the Appel'y mania, before it was time to carefully stow the glasses safely for the trip home, grab a very reasonably priced Festival polo shirt to replace the ones I've trashed this month and head for the complimentary bus, which as it turned out, didn't have enough seats for both of us. So the taxi takes the strain, getting us to the station with no minutes left to spare. So close in fact I thought my train back was leaving already... as it turned out it wasn't, it's just that the timing board on the front of the station told lies, and the driver of the train to Preston that was leaving as I ran onto the platform looked me in the eye for two full seconds before he put his foot down anyway. Swine. Thus endeth the tale with a happy ending, and a wobble back to Scouse to drink more beer in The Swan wisely leaving the Sambucca alone. And as my literary hero used to write, when he was short of a snappy ending "this is all ye know and all ye need to know, for now. Mahalo".

There's something unexpected

No, Howard's not been found shot on his doorstep or under the wheels of a train. But my cat's worked out how to use his catbed.

Wow. A lot of money that cost, and he's always treated it with the contempt it deserved. Today, he's decided it's cozy, nice and his fav' new thing. Only taken him the best part of four years to suss that one out. Contrary beasties, aren't they....

An early Easter wish

I don't ask much of life; generally something along the lines of "leave me alone to get on with my stuff" But I've got a little request. Just a small one. Would the Halifax please take Howard "Bloody" Brown and put his head under a train? Will he please just f*ck off and die? Is that too much to ask? This corporate marketting whore with his Himmler'esque haircut and five o'clock shadow (take a look at a picture of Himmler in negative and be very afraid), his cocaine smile and his eyeballs inflated by helium has done one advert too many for my grinding teeth to stand and now must be put forward for a Dando Doorstep Challenge. Howard, your f*cking fish with a voice sounds like an Aryan Thatcherite nightmare from a Steve Bell cartoon. It has that sort of Vanquish driving, Surrey living, gated drive, "job in the city quality" about it that really makes me want to break it's bowl open with a baseball bat and watch it expire slowly in the air. Stop it. Lay off the LSD. This has gone too far. If your junk mail is talking to you with a little zizzy voice, it's really time to take a break from the acid. This is what happens when financial burnouts turn to drugs. It's bad enough that it happens in the toilets of high price bars in the financial district every day, but whatever you do, DON'T PUT IT ON MY BLOODY TELEVISION TWENTY FOUR HOURS A DAY!!!!

Phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhew............

Hear that loud rushing noise?

That one that sounds like a big wave coming in at the beach? But with sharp edges? See that man walking as if he's just put his back out?

Yep, it's recycling day and they've just picked up my SPECIAL consignment in the glass bin. I HAVEN'T been drinking myself into a stupor at home. I've been doing that the pub. Heh. But I've emptied a couple of crates of bottles I was keeping for homebrew, which I've not got around to doing and I need the space. And I just happen to have finished off a couple of spirit bottles this week. This house ISN'T a den of alcoholic vice! No, really!

Erm. It just looks bad, folks!!!

Getting Blown by Darling

Sorry, couldn't resist that title; the budget on the same day that half the county's moving horizontally past my window at speed due to yet another inclement weather system giving old Blighty a good spanking.

Same effect anyway, I suspect old Alistair'll f*ck us good and proper anyway without the decency of any foreplay or lubricant. Might sneak out for a last pint before work, 'fore the git can slap the usual pain on my pint. I'm getting pissed off with it. I was watching the analysis on the breakfast bulletins; it's got to be beer and petrol that he hits, because there's nothing else LEFT to hit; the economy's stagnating. I just wish the bastard's would be honest about what they intend rather than dressing it up as "green" or "healthy". There's no need to try and spin things any more, people can SEE that we're in a pile of crap, we're spending billions on TWO wars that nobody actually wants (since when was fighting on two fronts considered wisdom?), oh just don't get me started! Ah. Too late. The bastards at the DVLA are even refusing to take any car tax payments this month until the fifteenth to prevent people paying at a lower rate PRIOR to the budget; the horrible cheapskates. The fact is that prices in this country are rocketing; everything's more expensive - utilities (WHY are these not bought back as strategic assets, rather than a bloody building society); fuel; food (wheat crop's failed in two main provider countries this year due to rain), genuine inflationary pressures that of course the shits at the top won't recognise so we can all keep our "rate of inflation" pay rises down to 2%, that's more like a 5% cut; so here's Mikey's economic forecast, lean lean times are ahead. If you want to be happy for the rest of your life..... learn to distill vodka from potato peelings and keep yourself nicely oblivious, it works for the Russians.

I said don't get me started.....

Grrrrr!!!!

So where are we at? Well, if I can get past the front door, past the fallen trees and upended cows, and the GLC hasn't been crushed by a knocked down telegraph pole, I'm going to spite the chancellor by filling my car with petrol, having my last cheap pint and then scooting off to the factory of fun for my ever pleasant 2pm start. They're doing well. I've been back a full week, with instructions from my doctor to lay off the stress, before I've gotten to the point where I need to jam a government issue crowbar down a colleague's throat so far that it snaps the spine and comes out the back of his neck. This is quite good going, and if you're running a sweepstake, I'd take put on me being dead by christmas heheheheh. It's all a bunch of nonsense and if I start taking it seriously again, I've had it !

Blah blah blah

One tired teddy bear tonight, a weekend of hard socialising mixed in with early shifts.

Really am getting too old for this nonsense. The exercise thing has been going well, and I've been walking a mile and a bit a day (but that's been too the pub, so I'm not sure that's really that good .....), but beered on Thursday (lots), Friday (a small limited bevvy due to working the following morning); Sunday (a catchup beer to try the stuff I wanted to try on Friday but couldn't for reasons of something near sobriety, and it got slightly out of hand due to the sheer tastiness of the bevvies in question, Idle Breweries "Idle Boggin" and Shardlow's Special Bitter). Also had a wallop at Willies new special ale, Meggies Pride (6.6%) which is tasty as a tasty thing as well. I'm not sure what happened to Saturday but I think it had something to do with staying in and watching Manchester United and Chelsea get stuffed seventeen degrees of sideways in the Cup. And I don't even like football. HELP !!!!

The G boy is on great form as well, he's been tarting for all he's worth, even showing off and actually LEAPING from sofa to chair to window, he never bothers with this. I wonder what's going on in his head. Another mouse has fallen under his claws, signifying that's his 2008 rampage well under way. An unknown (at the time) advantage of young Turdwalkers reign of destruction in this house was that it seems that the G boy is actually still susceptible to the joys of a chewed off half of bootlace as a chase toy. He's ignored all his other toys for ages; I suppose being of the second most contrary species on the planet (after women), it was a matter of predictability that he'd go nuts over something that's free. Naturally of course, as combat games with Dad are now the order of the day, my hand is shredded. It's part of the joy of cats, folks. They're greeeeeeeeeeat. Oww. Pass the Iodene?

This is a public awareness announcement

Leave the Absinthe alone. Step away from the green bottle. Nothing to see here.

Actually, it was a red one I had. That's another of life's "haven't done yet" list knocked off. The stuff's pure evil in a small glass.

Fifteen tons of black shite

Is what I cleaned from Goldie Lookin' Car today. I couldn't deal with looking at the witty graffiti that's been scrawled in it any longer. Amazing to see that there actually IS a car under all that grime. Allowed the machine at the Shell station to do the deed; my radio aerial is so soundly secured that I couldn't shift it beforehand, but none the less it survived; I can't face washing it at home, I'd be hosing coal dust off my garden until next christmas. Plus, I really really can't be arsed... Actually, quite amusing... I know I've been mean with petrol supplies in the last day or so, but I actually ran out of gas fifty yards from the petrol station. Of course, being Mr SuperOrganised, I have an empty petrol can and a high vis jacket stowed in the car at all times, along with most tools and extra oils, so it's a minor inconvenience rather than a crisis these days. And I've got the heart fix fitted, so running across a dual carriageway isn't quite the heavy chore it used to be last time the engine went Phut...

Speaking of the heart fix, today was my second appointment with the health nazi's at my "beast your way back to fitness" session, or as I used to call it in days of blunter wit, "pain class". OK, let it not be said that I am selling up into the hands of the nay-pie-sayers and the sanctimonious health mentalists. BUT. The stats do not fib, I am definately in a far better condition than this time last week. Felt it too. Seems the old pump has indeed benefitted from the surgeon's prodding, and it might have needed it for a while. At this moment in time, just for once, I actually feel good. Amazin'. It also would appear that my horrible lardy frame has remained in good enough condition from my previous flirtations with exercise that it's dropping back into form remarkably well. There may well be something positive to be made of this. Oh well, I'd better go and slaughter it with beer before it gets too smug....

Return to the fairground

Ah well, all good things must end. No more watching Top Gear repeats and getting paid for it. The quack will no more give me time to burn, and I must don the uniform again and make my way towards the coast again at stupid o'clock before even the milkman's out and about. Hey ho.

As days at the fun factory go, it wasn't a bad one. I'm still on limp wristed nancyboy chores (light duties, to those with no sense of fun in their language), and it's amusing watching management spin themselves into a circle working out what I can do and what I can't, while the Occupational Health Specialist provides useless advice working from a model based for nine to five desk workers, and my doctor proves very very effective at sitting on the fence and refusing to commit himself on the subject, in case they sue his arse if I kark it. Good fun. The boss is up to standard; within five seconds of saying "welcome back", he deposited a steaming great turd of a job on my desk that needed to be sorted with Terminal Management quicker than immediately, basically because HIS boss had forgotten about it... Not bad for the first day back, only had to extend my shift by an hour and a half. Oh, and it's my eighteenth anniversary in the job today. Nice one. I'll be having a party for that, won't I ! Maybe not !

Fish and chips for tea...

...because it was a mildly crappy day. I'm not sure on just how far down my banned list they are, but they're something I really enjoy that I have every now and again for sanity reasons.

So far today on top of all th other crap, I've had to turn down one organised trip to the Oktoberfest due to financial restriction, which has NOT a happy bunny made oi; and just to cap my mood of happiness I've just been filling out one of those market research questionnaire thingies which has pointed out to me just how normal my purchase patterns are NOT..... no expenditure on shoes, trousers for the past twelve months, the number of other things that normal people buy that I have to tick "None" for.... oh well. Do people really spend all this money on clothes and fripperies? I guess they must or there'd be an awful lot of empty shop units around.I just clearly don't. All my cash seems to go on beer, petrol, toys and debt. I always was one of the special freaks. By dinner time I was in a fairly poor humour due to the fact that financial forecasts paint me being pretty brassic for most of the year the way things are going; probably won't get much in the way of travel done past the border as I was hoping. Damn, damn and thrice damn.

An early bale out for me tonight. Back to the fun factory at stupid o clock; should be tied up with return to work formalities and sorting out the mass of expired passwords until it's time for me to bugger off out of the door again. Deep joy.

Minor crisis

I appear to be at the end of my last bottle of Croatian vodka, with no future trip out east booked as yet to remedy this unfortunate but inevitable situation. I suppose I COULD go and buy yummy Polish bisongrass from Tesco, or visit the new Eastern European deli in town (a sign of the times that these places are spreading), but it's not half as much fun as flying out east for a weekend, or longer if the money and time can be got and stocking up on cheapo booze that's far tastier than the domestic muck.

Also, my favorate shirt appears to have aquired a number of tears over it that will consign it to the big box of written off things. This is a bummer and cannot be directly attributed to anything specific - cats, moths, drunken misuse are all possibilities here, but it's hard to be sure. Probably minor in the grand scheme of things, but none the less, annoying.

As days go, it's shaping up to be a fairly poor one. And a poor end to my enforced, free holiday from the fun factory. The quack has signed me back to light duties. Tomorrow, I'm back in at 6am. Quite appropriate really, 5th of March is in fact the 18th anniversary of me joining that particular club. Life works that way.

See, it DOES make you go blind and dead. Eventually.

So Paul Raymond's carked it... that is for those of you who are of a sheltered upbringing disposition, the British Mr Porn, the late publisher of such publications as "Men Only", "Mayfair" and at the lower end of the quality spectrum (and exceedingly much more available to schoolboys of a certain age) "Escort". I think then that we should expect a memorial "one off the wrist" tonight from all those blokes in the 30 -45 age bracket who's first (fifth hand, crusty pages yeuuuch) grot mag hidden under the mattress, and first "mum, I want to wash the bedsheets myself" incident were down to his product.

Allegedly.

From what I'm told.

Etc.