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07-06-2010, 16:20
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http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eQjR-WeaVPY/TAz2EdszGvI/AAAAAAAAAVI/mRCGShk5fuc/s320/stock.jpg (http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eQjR-WeaVPY/TAz2EdszGvI/AAAAAAAAAVI/mRCGShk5fuc/s1600/stock.jpg)The title of this blog is courtesy of the man Mudge (http://pubcurmudgeon.blogspot.com/), and in no way meant to be a derogatory term for an event I found to be quite nice and enjoyable. Upon writing this I thought about how I could take the piss and denigrate the efforts of my tankard swigging bearded brothers in beer but found it difficult on the grounds I rather enjoyed the evening. On the beer front there was no shortage of pong, but I drank nothing that could be described as vinegar. In fact I rather liked what I necked. Of all the substances to get trolleyed on, a pint of pong is, I found, very far from being among the worst options. Now there is nothing quite like lout when you fancy getting kaylied. It’s lovely, it’s light, it’s cold, it’s fizzy, you can throw a skinfull down you without feeling bloated, and the next day’s hangover is by far one of the more tolerable feelings of slight nausea and headache. The lout remains the discerning choice of the modern 21st century pisshead. The worst things to get smashed on I have found are the obscure spirits of foreign climes. Stuff like grappa or weird things that taste like aniseed rock. You are never far from a hangover when paper umbrellas are to be found in your drink. For the worst hangover a bottle of green fluid with a plant growing in it, from Spain is to be recommended on top of a jug of Sangria, several San Miguels and a large Seafood Pizza. Upon necking the nasty green stuff that has no name, you can wake up the following morning and wish for death. A night on the pong and fair skinfull left me with no worse a hangover than the lout.

My emergency lout was left in my rucksack to enjoy another day and I found the pong to be more than neck able. My thanks go to the kind commentators that recommended certain brews. I didn’t member it all, but remembered names like Marble and Thornbridge and had a crack at those. They varied from being okay to quite nice. As it’s a beer blog I’ll mention the beer. I’m not a geek and cannot say that any of the names mean anything to me, but I quite liked Marble Pint. The Dark Star Espresso one tasted of cold coffee. You can rave about coffee tasting beer, I shall not. When I have a beer, I have a beer, and when I have a coffee I have a coffee. I have no desire to mix the two in the same glass. I quite liked Fuller’s London Porter. Dark but not so bad. Quite nice. The beer wasn’t warm but personally I’d have preferred it super chilled. I tried one called “sunshine” I quite liked, and liked because of the pong and not in spite of it. Maybe I was getting the taste for it by then. Get me a tankard. I necked all that found its way into my glass and enjoyed most of it. The odd one that wasn’t so great got necked anyway. I necked nothing with the words “chocolate” or “cherry” in the name.

My friends and I swigged a few of these pongs in the seating room before a band started to pluck aimlessly at their instruments, presumably in search of a tune. Upon their clear and unambiguous failure to find the tune they were looking for, we sat out in the stands on a pleasant evening. I didn’t try the food; a friend in our party did and described it as “fuel”. Chippy prices, mediocrity in a polystyrene tray. Edible was the verdict.

Every so often we ventured to the bar to find the place heaving with fat bearded blokes propping up the bar and pontificating in regard to the pong of choice, and creating more of a queue than necessary. I do not know whether they were pontificating ignorantly or in an informed fashion, and am pleased not to know, just leave the bar free for people wanting to buy one eh fellas?.

My friends and I are not ones for pontificating about the floral aroma or bitterness of our grog and most of the conversation of the evening was taken up by the dilemma of one friend that has fancied a lass he works with for ages and now she’s dumped her fella he made the mistake of asking the lads both when and how he should make his move. None of the advice he received was any good, in fact it was piss poor, including the advice I gave him to leave getting a regular lass until the Sex and the City film had left cinemas and he wouldn’t have to watch it. But what do you expect? The lads are the last place anyone should go to seeking advice of a romantic nature. Or advice of any nature.

The event had a broad range of people, not just weirdoes, but no shortage of odd folk you would kindly describe as eccentrics. All appeared to be enjoying themselves. As I was. It was a fun evening. I enjoyed it. I’d come again.

Nothing much to moan about. I could moan about the entrance fee, programme fee & glass hire taking £7 off me before I’d even sunk one mouthful of pong but overall I had a good night out. You will be pleased to note I wasn’t converted. I neither bought a tankard nor any of the tat on the tat stall. I bought one of the charity beers and steered well clear of the cider. Last night I had a can of Foster’s in my souvenir Beer Festival glass. I will treasure the free Morrison’s bag I was given to take it home in forever. I got nicely pissed, on a nice summers evening, what can be bad about that? Thank you Mudge and Clarkey for a nice night out.

As for taking the piss, that will wait. My next blog entry is provisionally entitled “the code of the CAMRA steward” Expect talk of beards, tankards and amazing belts. Shooting fish in a barrel.

Meanwhile, enjoy these tankards.


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