Visit the Shut up about Barclay Perkins site

Little time. No. Done that one. Can't be arsed. No. Done that, too. Rest . . . yes. That's what I need.

Ever get pissed off with Shakespear using words the wrong way? Those bastards in the past. How dare they attach a different meaning to words we know and love? The bastards. total bastards.

I was ill a couple of weeks ago. Self-pity and Rab C. Nesbit got me through.

[Just explaining the bout of Tourettes.]

Rest. It sounds like what I should be doing now. But you know what those bastards did? Do you really want to know? Those bastards in the past. They used our word "rest" to mean something completely different.

Now me being a didactic sort of twat - and one fascinated by language - you're probably expecting me to explain exactly what "rest" meant in this context. Normally, I'd be only too happy fulfil your clichéd expectations. But Andrew sucked out all my energy with Scar Stories*. Martyn Cornell. He's a clever chap with a much better etymological dictionary than me. He'll explain it, I'm sure.

Rest. That's what I should be getting, not explaining. So here it is. Barclay Perkins rest from 1840 For their Ale brewery. (They also had Park Street and Stoney Lane.)

Lovely handwriting they had back then. Unprescient use of language. But lovely handwriting. And an idiosyncratic way of spelling gyle.

I would explain what this tells us about trends in 19th century brewing. But I need my rest.

* A game where I tell the stories behind the scars on my body.