Sunday, 24 October 2010

The Local

The great thing about having a local is the barstaff address by your first name.

The barstaff know what drink you want without you having to say.

The landlord of one my old locals that's sadly now closed used to start pouring a pint into a dimpled mug as soon as he saw me step through the door.

The local sometimes means lock-ins.
Ah, the lock-in. Where we'd drink until the dawn chorus began, where we made our own entertainment doing handstands on the bar. Where chips were cooked at 2:30am to soak up the booze. Where we could pull our own pints as long as they were paid for.

The local is the extension on your own home you share with friends and strangers.

I'm in my local right now reading the Sunday papers and drinking Oakham Akhenaten. The perfect lazy Sunday afternoon.

Wednesday, 20 October 2010



It comes to us all eventually.

Nihil verum nisi mors....

So how many of you are suffering for their art? How many of you slug a few bottles down each night even though they don't want a beer but because they have to?
Drink more than 3 nights a week?
Drink more than 5 nights a week?
Drink every night?
Haul their aching bodies out of the bed each morning?

Have to be the first to announce they've glugged the latest US-hopped double cascadian barrel-aged for 18 months in a whisky cask black IPA that was then bottled and cellared for a further 12 months...


Let's enjoy ourselves, but please let's not turn yellow in the process.