I have done some pretty stupid things in my time. Entering a darts tournament when I had never played the game at any level and finding myself playing Bob Anderson, the Limestone Cowboy from Swindon a couple of years before he went on to went on to become World Champion. Chatting about family matters to someone in ‘Staples’ believing it was someone I knew well, only to discover it was Bob Crampton, a reporter for the local independent TV company. And going to a late night party at Ashton Gate when Bristol City were in the first division (known these days as the Premier League) climbing down onto the pitch and urinating on the penalty spot in front of the East End the day before a game. Thinking about it, maybe the last one wasn’t so stupid after all!
The latest stupid thing I have done is to join CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale. My partner and I realised that it might be a good idea to cut back on our alcohol consumption. I am never one to turn down the opportunity of a drink and usually more than one drink, so we decided that it would be a good idea if, for health, weight and financial reasons to cut down dramatically. It was all going so well until, under the slight influence of alcohol, I decided it would be a good idea to join CAMRA. I mean: they promote good beer, you get a membership card which entitles us to a discount in our local and they give you discount vouchers to use in Wetherspoons. It was only when I paid the subscription, which also entitled me to 15 months membership for the price of 12, when I realised the contradiction in my decision-making process. We now had to ensure we got the benefits from membership.
It does not help that my local pub boasts a minimum – a minimum – of 10 real ales at any one time, almost all of which are more than drinkable and some are plainly too good to resist. Last week, for example, they had a to-die-for stout which went down impossibly well. It was almost a relief when they ran out but they still managed to replace it with something equally as drinkable.
The worst thing about alcohol, unlike my issues with food, is that I am not a fussy drinker. I won’t drink any old rubbish – if the world sold nothing other than Strongbow, Magners, John Smiths, Black Tower and Fosters I would be teetotal – but unfortunately they are not the only products available.
I have matured from a young drinker whose idea of a night on the lash was a few pints of Carlsberg at Tiffanys ‘heavy night’, or if the Carlsberg was off, Ben Truman ale. For some reason, you could drink any amount of these two and all you wanted to do was go to the toilet, never a good thing if you had been eyeing up some young lady with a view to collaring her for the slow dance during ‘Stairway To Heaven’. The frantic second half of the song was never compatible with either a slow dance or a full bladder.
I then managed to progress to Colt 45, the American Malt Liquor, a drink so popular that it’s not now sold anywhere so far as I can tell, Barley Wine and finally real ale. Oh, and then cider, the better lagers and eventually, as well as not instead of the rest, wine, red or white. This doesn’t read very well, does it?
I was probably the last person on earth who should join a group that encouraged the consumption of alcohol since my intention just days before I was planning to cut back.
The important thing with my best laid plans is that there’s always tomorrow. And tomorrow there will always be the day after. Until then, mine’s a pint, please!
