Drink Beer, It's Fun!

A while back, I shared with the nation my yearning for less work, better weather and a reliable and inexpensive supply of olives, pastis and red wine; all served to me in the charmingly simple way of a provencal patron. Well the weather's been much the same as it always is this time of year and I'm still putting in those full days down at the farm - figuratively speaking that is. And have you seen the price of Pernod down at Oddbins these days? Though they do a nice line in sweet black olives with chillies these days - dead nippy as my 4 year old nephew would say!

The truth is, I am now beginning to accept that it is not easy to change a lifestyle which has grown out of the Presbyterian work ethic. Mortality may still be a cheap price to pay for existence, but wouldn't it be great if you could fund the whole enterprise with a little less effort. In fact during the short days and long dark nights, as my seasonal affective disorder kicks in, the only thing which keeps me going has the downfall of the working man for many years - beer.

I think beer is a truly wonderful drink. High in fibre and calories, I am convinced that it is actually good for you despite what the critics and puritans say. It is, after all, a fine natural product: if you ignore all the nasty factory produced muck which sadly floods the market. With this in mind, I count myself fortunate that temperence is not, and has never been, one of my virtues. I count myself doubly fortunate in living within five minutes walking time of many fine ale houses - one of which, The Three Judges, is regularly voted 'Pub of the year' by my local branch of CAMRA. And I am truly spoiled in having a fine supplier of carry-out pakora situated conveniently between the pub and my house.

Archeologists tell us that beer has been brewed for as long as men have wanted to go out and get pissed. They have discovered that the ancient Egyptians made a heady brew, though the rumour that pictograms discovered on tomb walls represent stills from Egyptians Behaving Badly are sadly mistaken. So complete in fact has been the residue from Egyptian beer discovered in tombs that a replica ale can now be bought - and who says history is boring.

One of the other great things about beer is that it can be both a solitary and group pass-time. Now before all you harpies start jumping to the conclusion that I am some sort of sad lonely individual who keeps his thoughts company with pint after pint, I'm talking about taking a good book down to the pub and having no more than a couple of glasses and a damn good read. It is all together a far less intensive type of session than the group sport practised by formation drinking teams the country over.

Indeed, for without the aid of a safety net and deprived of the benefits of nose-clips and shower caps teams of drinkers spend every weekend refining their art and competing with some of the finest imbibers in the country in some of the most competitive venues known. The Prize? Why death or glory. Although this is not death as we have come to know it (you know DEATH). It is rather the kind of death which is cured the following morning with a can of Irn Bru (God bless you Mr. Barr) and two Nurofen.

The glory side of it - as best I can recall of these dark distant days - is best accomplished down at your local night club. A few drinks to limber up, then some traditional bar exercises. You know the ones - you and your mates stand at 90 degrees to the bar. With a pint in your right hand you rest your elbow on the bar (usually in a small puddle of sticky liquid) and, in seamless unison you all say, 'Ooh, I don't fancy yours much, hahahahahahaha!'

Now that you are suitably flexible, you decide that a short walk is in order. A short walk to the middle of the dance floor that is. You ask that girl you've been eyeing for a dance (she's currently dancing with her friend of course). 'Excuse me, would you like to dance?', you shout through the racket. She looks back at you as if you had asked her to lance a boil on your buttock and suck out the puss. Undaunted, you ask again. She shrugs her shoulders and looks at her friend with an expression which says, 'Why don't you go to the bar and con his pals out of a couple of Bacardi and cokes whilst I dance with this loser?'

You are, of course, completely oblivious to this little vignette because ever since she shrugged her acceptance of your irresistible dance offer you have been peering back at your mates, grinning like the village idiot and holding both thumbs aloft like Paul McCartney had never thought of it. You dance the distant frug that people do at these places and all hopes of striking up an intimate conversation are thwarted by snoop doggy whatever his name is comin' at ya at 120 decibels.

Glory indeed. Isn't beer wonderful. Needless to say, this wouldn't happen in the south of France because people there still talk to one another. Even the sullen teenagers have an openness about them which should be the envy of everybody here (it isn't, of course). The pecks on the cheeks and the firm handshakes which permeate French society are the backbone of a truly friendly nation. So when I do get there, and get to know my local provencal patron, every time I order a drink from him I shall warmly shakes his hand and peck both cheeks in gratitude for just being there to serve me and talk with me.