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After a relaxing 19-hour journey we arrived at our Philadelphia hotel late last evening. I felt so full of energy, I didn't go to the pub. Shit. It's day two and I still haven't been in a pub. What's happening to me? I didn't even have a beer in the airport.

I did find a corner shop, or convenience store as they so quaintly call them here, yesterday. Which was first encounter with Pennsylvania's weird laws. No singles on sale, only sixpacks. A real pain in the arse for someone like me, who's only in town a couple of days. Decisions, decisions. The choice wasn't great - loads of PAs, IPAs and wheats. Naaah, didn't fancy any of them. So I went for Bell's Porter.

No. I'm not going to tell you about that (a bit too roasty for a Porter - sorry, I've just checked the label and it says "robust Porter" so I guess that makes it OK). Because, revisiting the shop today, I notice they had Victory Storm King. Storm King. What happy memories of coffee spiked with grapefruit juice it conjures up. But it is full of alcoholly goodness. Just what I need after my 36-hour alcohol fast.

I like it more than last time. Though that could be because it messed up my legs on an afternoon New York pub crawl. I really shouldn't have insisted on a full Imperial pint. It proved to me that anyone who thinks you can session beer of any strength has no idea of what a session is. Or is an elephant.

It's still quite chilled. Which seems to be supressing the grapefruit nicely and just leaving the roast. Much more my kind of Stout. I'm feeling quite chilled, too. And not just because I'm sitting next to the airco.

Dolores and the kids are swimmng. This arvo we plan visiting USS Olympia. A pre-dreanought heavy cruiser. And, totally coincidentally, the Triumph homebrew pub is on the way. How's that for planning?