Two weeks without alcohol. I have a headache and a cold coming on. I’m out for the next 3 nights though and no athlete competes without warming up. I arrange to meet Simon in City Arms at half 6 as is Wednesday tradition.
I get there before him and order a Steam Dragon. It’s not too strong, I’m easing myself back in. Quite light and possibly made by bees. More summery than the rainy carnage outside. A wet Simon arrives and dives straight into a Brains Brabo. I join him for the next round. This seems fizzy but isn’t. That’s a very weird thing. We agree that it tastes of Pledge polish, specifically on wood. One of the better Brains craft brews then.
Suicidally, Si gets talked into a pint of Ogham Willow. Simon thinks it’s tastes of watery tequila. It’s given him a salty mouth. I’ve had it before and stay well clear. It’s too strong for my first night back on it.
We have a crack at the Bristol beers, Simon has a Nova. He says it tastes of a cleaned out ashtray. Like he’s shoved a tube down a tiny whale’s blow hole and sucked out its good chemicals. I have a Wickwar, Bankers Draft. It’s sort of a ruby ale. Sort of ok. Dunno. Might taste of cold tea. Nothing like sea mammals at all. I’ve made a mistake.
We go to The Full Moon for one. We both go for Pipes Helles. NUMBFACE! Yeah, this could be silly. Tastes of wheat and idiocy. It’s like Christmas morning but with less champagne. It’s brilliant. It’s always brilliant. It’s a well known that three pints of this makes you doubt your own sanity. It goes a bit weird after this.
I’ve written ‘They don’t eat soup in space’ in my notes. In the cold light of day, I’ve no idea what this means. It seemed important though.
I make Simon have a pint of Camden Wit because I know it’s mad. We look up bergamot, or Bergerac or whatever. What is it? Ooh, it’s an orange! Who knew? It’s an orange that tastes like a lemon. With lemon. Brilliant.
I have a pint of Resolution. Sort of fine. I was looking forward to the Liquid Mistress that Chelsea the bar person has told me to have next.
Siren. Liquid Mistress. Chelsea thinks it tastes of marmite. I’ve just admitted to never having tasted marmite. Simon and Chelsea have gone nuts. I guess it’s yeasty. And bastard expensive.
Stroud Brewery. Budding. Malty. Just malty. Light brown. I’d had enough beer by them. Totally out of practice. Next week I’ll be fine. Honest.