Funds, Ladies and Gentlemen, what are they?
Like memories, I don't have them.
The above jokey statement in fact belies a foul, nidorous cataclysm of financial ruination that hangs above me like a cloud of crying, near dead, children. Whilst that statement is slightly over-exaggerated, it is however by no means easier to manage than its un-exaggerated reality....
Funds, as we know, are essential to life, essential to drinking and of course to paying debts. Funds are limited. Funds are scarce. Funds, for me, are a far forgotten dream.
This post is, therefore, not an exploration of the cost of buying beer. It is in effect a statement. Not a pious cry for help, not a whinging moping mardy about whose fault everything is, instead more an honest reflection. Am also not going to use this blog to make rash and unlikely predictions about my abilities to sort out and likelihood of solving my funding problem, which we may also refer to as debt - that would be reckless. I am however going to admit, dear readers, to you, what has mostly caused this situation.
Its me.
My debt is mine. I caused it. My lack of funds stems from my own reckless, wilful, degenerate over consumption of ale in fine public houses the land over.
For clarity, specifically, nobody else:
Forced me to go to the pub almost every day for the last 5 years;
Held me at knife-point and poured delicious real ales and keg beers down my capacious throat as if liquid itself was going out of fashion;
Made me buy numerous bottles of beer that one should maybe only buy now and again as an expensive treat;
Compelled me to spend my existing funds and many many more travelling the country with friends and family to visit amazing unspoilt pubs.
No.
All of the above actions undertakings and happenstances took place with my consent, under my own yoke. Alas the weight of those decisions, mistakes, tribulations, misdemeanours and rash actions, has caused me to wither. Just a little. Maybe a lot. So I have to stop. I have if nothing else to think of these effects on those that I love.
Before Sheffield publicans begin contemplate suicide, I am not giving up drinking. Too much it seems, I love the social hub-ub, the sparkling marriage of the hop and the malt, the listening in on jocular, absurd, nonsensical and moving, in equal quantity, conversations in pubs, and the joy of finding that near perfect beer, good enough to sate you, perhaps fully, but not enough to stop you wanting to continue your search for the very best, to stop.
I will however be cutting down significantly.
So, like I said, the above is a statement. Maybe part proclamation, part paean for positively overindulging. Its where I am.
Your very good health
Wee Beefy
Showing posts with label Drink Responsibly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drink Responsibly. Show all posts
Thursday, 8 December 2016
Monday, 16 December 2013
Barred?
Good heavening
am going to share a story that happened back in February. Those that know me will probably twig what event I am about to describe, if nothing else based on how much I wittered about it since. I think there is also a small chance that this post may potentially become a confession. But we're all friends on the blog aren't we? We can share....
One night in February I had ended up in the Bath Hotel and they had made me drink beer. Obviously, every single action I perform thereafter is their fault. And the Ball on Crookes. And the Sportsman at Crosspool. Just so we know I'm innocent...
Anyhoo, in the good old days there was an N52 night bus which, for a small fee, would magically transport me from West Street to near my home (or much further on than my home depending on snoozing) around 20 past the hour, and having just missed such a chariot, I opted to wander into the....pub which is part of a group, and opens late, the name of which you can never ever guess.
It was rammed as it usually is around midnight on a Friday and since I needed my real money for the ale tractor set up a tab and purchased a delicious pint of Bradfield Stout. Having failed to find a seat and being in urgent need of a trip to the facilities, in desperation, I placed my full pint of real ale in, erm... a rather large pot. Containing a small tree or similar.
Now, I realise this sounds daft. It was. So to ensure that even if the location of my pint seemed perplexing, said drink could be identified as belonging to someone, I wrapped my scarf round it, and placed the other end in the top of my work bag, and asked the youngsters on the nearest table to watch my drink. And there is no way you can guess what happened....
For those unused to the vociferous enthusiasm of glass collectors, and/or random ale thieves, someone unwrapped the scarf and waltzed off with my pint in the 90 seconds it was out of my sight. I asked the people nearby if they had seen what happened and they suggested someone had probably collected it, and it didn't seem like they'd nicked it. So I went to the bar to pay my tab, even though I had in essence purchased nothing more than the concept of a pint. This was a deliberate set up on my part to prompt them to tell me I was below the limit for a card payment, so that I could then moan endlessly that someone, possibly a member of their staff, had snaffled my ale. It worked a treat.
Except it was very loud and I had to raise my voice. This alerted the staff to my perhaps being pissed and so the manager stepped in to have the same conversation all over again. If I'm honest, this wasn't making me feel any better, especially when he suggested that I simply buy another pint. A quick chat with a colleague meant he turned his back on me for a while and my limbic brain was quick to note that I was now being ignored. So I raised my voice. A lot. In a Yorkshire accent that I don't possess.
I have worked behind a bar so I know that there is nobody who enjoys being shouted at by drunks but the response was (and I quote) "No-one screams at me. Take your card and get the fuck out of my pub". Now, that's quite rude. And it is owned by a large company, so if we want to be factual it is also not his pub. However, the shock brought me back into a more sensible state and on being passed my card back having not paid for my stolen pint I said "oh brilliant! and smiled, before a very large person ( a professionally trained very large person) gently escorted me to the street outside.
On my ale tractor home I thought about my experience and decided this wasn't me. I don't scream and shout and I don't say Naaaa-then unless I am having a laugh. Well, apart from that night, obviously. So upon returning home more or less sober, I emailed the "pub in question" with some precise details and caveats and apologised. I also pointed out I'd like to pop in the next night to do so in person and to draw a line under the matter. Inevitably the very large person on the door had been pre-warned about me and refused me entry. I explained about the email which I considered quite a polite manner of behavior but to no avail. I was told I had to wait for the manager to tell me I wasn't barred.
And this is where I'm confused. You may, having become used to my bleary and inaccurate recollections, think that I mis-remembered an important slice of discourse but I assure you I was never told I was barred. Not only that, but I never received a reply to my impeccably drafted email. Nor any written, verbal or otherwise communicated disbarring notice. So I boycotted them. For like, months. And then gave up and went in the other night to find that no-one cared.
The point of this is - does this sound like your experience (not that I dare to suggest you've had any) of being barred? Only I spoke to a few upstanding citizens in the months after and found some who had been barred twice in the same night from said establishment. So with all this being new to me I couldn't figure out if this was normal?
Oh, and of course the other perhaps more important point is that this serves as a cathartic exploration of my errant ways one night. So I consider the whole episode, having enjoyed a lovely pint of dark ale in there last night, closed.
And I also reckon I win....
Sir Beefalot
am going to share a story that happened back in February. Those that know me will probably twig what event I am about to describe, if nothing else based on how much I wittered about it since. I think there is also a small chance that this post may potentially become a confession. But we're all friends on the blog aren't we? We can share....
One night in February I had ended up in the Bath Hotel and they had made me drink beer. Obviously, every single action I perform thereafter is their fault. And the Ball on Crookes. And the Sportsman at Crosspool. Just so we know I'm innocent...
Anyhoo, in the good old days there was an N52 night bus which, for a small fee, would magically transport me from West Street to near my home (or much further on than my home depending on snoozing) around 20 past the hour, and having just missed such a chariot, I opted to wander into the....pub which is part of a group, and opens late, the name of which you can never ever guess.
It was rammed as it usually is around midnight on a Friday and since I needed my real money for the ale tractor set up a tab and purchased a delicious pint of Bradfield Stout. Having failed to find a seat and being in urgent need of a trip to the facilities, in desperation, I placed my full pint of real ale in, erm... a rather large pot. Containing a small tree or similar.
Now, I realise this sounds daft. It was. So to ensure that even if the location of my pint seemed perplexing, said drink could be identified as belonging to someone, I wrapped my scarf round it, and placed the other end in the top of my work bag, and asked the youngsters on the nearest table to watch my drink. And there is no way you can guess what happened....
For those unused to the vociferous enthusiasm of glass collectors, and/or random ale thieves, someone unwrapped the scarf and waltzed off with my pint in the 90 seconds it was out of my sight. I asked the people nearby if they had seen what happened and they suggested someone had probably collected it, and it didn't seem like they'd nicked it. So I went to the bar to pay my tab, even though I had in essence purchased nothing more than the concept of a pint. This was a deliberate set up on my part to prompt them to tell me I was below the limit for a card payment, so that I could then moan endlessly that someone, possibly a member of their staff, had snaffled my ale. It worked a treat.
Except it was very loud and I had to raise my voice. This alerted the staff to my perhaps being pissed and so the manager stepped in to have the same conversation all over again. If I'm honest, this wasn't making me feel any better, especially when he suggested that I simply buy another pint. A quick chat with a colleague meant he turned his back on me for a while and my limbic brain was quick to note that I was now being ignored. So I raised my voice. A lot. In a Yorkshire accent that I don't possess.
I have worked behind a bar so I know that there is nobody who enjoys being shouted at by drunks but the response was (and I quote) "No-one screams at me. Take your card and get the fuck out of my pub". Now, that's quite rude. And it is owned by a large company, so if we want to be factual it is also not his pub. However, the shock brought me back into a more sensible state and on being passed my card back having not paid for my stolen pint I said "oh brilliant! and smiled, before a very large person ( a professionally trained very large person) gently escorted me to the street outside.
On my ale tractor home I thought about my experience and decided this wasn't me. I don't scream and shout and I don't say Naaaa-then unless I am having a laugh. Well, apart from that night, obviously. So upon returning home more or less sober, I emailed the "pub in question" with some precise details and caveats and apologised. I also pointed out I'd like to pop in the next night to do so in person and to draw a line under the matter. Inevitably the very large person on the door had been pre-warned about me and refused me entry. I explained about the email which I considered quite a polite manner of behavior but to no avail. I was told I had to wait for the manager to tell me I wasn't barred.
And this is where I'm confused. You may, having become used to my bleary and inaccurate recollections, think that I mis-remembered an important slice of discourse but I assure you I was never told I was barred. Not only that, but I never received a reply to my impeccably drafted email. Nor any written, verbal or otherwise communicated disbarring notice. So I boycotted them. For like, months. And then gave up and went in the other night to find that no-one cared.
The point of this is - does this sound like your experience (not that I dare to suggest you've had any) of being barred? Only I spoke to a few upstanding citizens in the months after and found some who had been barred twice in the same night from said establishment. So with all this being new to me I couldn't figure out if this was normal?
Oh, and of course the other perhaps more important point is that this serves as a cathartic exploration of my errant ways one night. So I consider the whole episode, having enjoyed a lovely pint of dark ale in there last night, closed.
And I also reckon I win....
Sir Beefalot
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Eeh, responsible drinking
Now then,
before walking off some of my hangover and then reinstating it, I was off art Friday and Saturday with folks, round my local and not so regular haunts. Old friends, family and pubs followed, with a reckless strong ale theme flowing throughout, thus....
Tuesday was a good night out after work, starting at DAda, wherever that is. I had a pint of the Fullers Bengal Lancer and a half of the Thornbridge Yule, which mysteriously became a second half of the same whilst chatting with bar stranger Steph, who has run away to be immersed in bubbles and surrounded by shampoo. Good catching up with Ems and James, TYMITW as well.
The Rutland Arms offered a fab range as usual and I had a pint of the Magic Rock Rapture and for the first of the week's themed beers partook of a half of the excellent Raw/Steel City Responsibly at 7.3%. Do you see what they did? Yep, they called a beer Responsibly. Its clever see, coz yer might drink a pint, or even 3 halves, neither of which would be "drinking responsibly" yet conversely responsible in intent. Good.
The Sheffield Tap was my last refuge and I had a pint of Kirkstall Bogus Official and the excellent Marble Decadence. A fab way to relax, perhaps more than was justifiable, with an excellent brace of ales.
On Friday I met members of the Crookes Crew (Respeck, word, etcetera) in the Rutland to start on a pint of delicious Potbelly Beijing Black and finish, not literally, on two halves of the excellent Raw/Steel City Irresponsibly. Mr Stephens, from the Eddie Izzard Death Star Canteen sketch, was quick to point out the fallacy of a responsible half (as I had two) of the Irresponsible, but these were just words, and besides socialising was ahead, hence my second.
At DAda next, Angie was bought a Gluhkriek by Jambon whilst me and him followed an oft trodden pattern by having the Bengal Lancer in pints and the Yule in halves. Good to see the DA busy, even if we only popped in for one or two. Off to Crookes therafter and we met Jack and Wee Keefy in the heaving Cobden, where I had two pints of the Bradfield Bitter for something like £2.80 a pint, before heading to the Ball for a rather slowly consumed Kelham Island Christmas beer and much revelry.
Saturday saw me and Chala at the newly reopened and not as good as its predecessor Marmaduke's (AKA 22a) before we headed to the Church House for a pint and a half of the Double Dark and Caledonian XPA. The XPA, which was not all that pale in colour, nicely demonstrated both the yawning gap between the pale hoppy output of smaller brewers and larger concerns, plus the not unlikeable familiar malt photofit of the average Caledonian beer. I enjoyed both by the way.
Back in the Rutland yet again and this time I had a half each of the Raw/Steel City Ir and Responsibly to compare flavours. The Ir probably edged it, perhaps the additional fermentation in rum casks (which I may have imagined) helped to contribute.
On to the Sheffield Tap once more and a half of Kirkstall Contemplation at 7.0% and a pint of the Red Willow Mirthless plus chorizo crisps was the order of the day, although at £6.00 nearly, one of the ales had to be overpriced. The Mirthless was OK but uninteresting whilst the Contemplation was aptly named.
I finished my Saturday excursion in DAda (where else!?) supping a half of the Thornbridge Chiron, at least a pint of the excellent Yule and a bottle of the wincingly expensive but joyously excellent Brewfist Fear Milk Chocolate Stout, which did everything it said on the bottle, and was extremely enjoyable. A perfect pleasing creamy end to a night.
And that's not a euphemism....
Cheers!
Wee Beefy
before walking off some of my hangover and then reinstating it, I was off art Friday and Saturday with folks, round my local and not so regular haunts. Old friends, family and pubs followed, with a reckless strong ale theme flowing throughout, thus....
Tuesday was a good night out after work, starting at DAda, wherever that is. I had a pint of the Fullers Bengal Lancer and a half of the Thornbridge Yule, which mysteriously became a second half of the same whilst chatting with bar stranger Steph, who has run away to be immersed in bubbles and surrounded by shampoo. Good catching up with Ems and James, TYMITW as well.
The Rutland Arms offered a fab range as usual and I had a pint of the Magic Rock Rapture and for the first of the week's themed beers partook of a half of the excellent Raw/Steel City Responsibly at 7.3%. Do you see what they did? Yep, they called a beer Responsibly. Its clever see, coz yer might drink a pint, or even 3 halves, neither of which would be "drinking responsibly" yet conversely responsible in intent. Good.
The Sheffield Tap was my last refuge and I had a pint of Kirkstall Bogus Official and the excellent Marble Decadence. A fab way to relax, perhaps more than was justifiable, with an excellent brace of ales.
On Friday I met members of the Crookes Crew (Respeck, word, etcetera) in the Rutland to start on a pint of delicious Potbelly Beijing Black and finish, not literally, on two halves of the excellent Raw/Steel City Irresponsibly. Mr Stephens, from the Eddie Izzard Death Star Canteen sketch, was quick to point out the fallacy of a responsible half (as I had two) of the Irresponsible, but these were just words, and besides socialising was ahead, hence my second.
At DAda next, Angie was bought a Gluhkriek by Jambon whilst me and him followed an oft trodden pattern by having the Bengal Lancer in pints and the Yule in halves. Good to see the DA busy, even if we only popped in for one or two. Off to Crookes therafter and we met Jack and Wee Keefy in the heaving Cobden, where I had two pints of the Bradfield Bitter for something like £2.80 a pint, before heading to the Ball for a rather slowly consumed Kelham Island Christmas beer and much revelry.
Saturday saw me and Chala at the newly reopened and not as good as its predecessor Marmaduke's (AKA 22a) before we headed to the Church House for a pint and a half of the Double Dark and Caledonian XPA. The XPA, which was not all that pale in colour, nicely demonstrated both the yawning gap between the pale hoppy output of smaller brewers and larger concerns, plus the not unlikeable familiar malt photofit of the average Caledonian beer. I enjoyed both by the way.
Back in the Rutland yet again and this time I had a half each of the Raw/Steel City Ir and Responsibly to compare flavours. The Ir probably edged it, perhaps the additional fermentation in rum casks (which I may have imagined) helped to contribute.
On to the Sheffield Tap once more and a half of Kirkstall Contemplation at 7.0% and a pint of the Red Willow Mirthless plus chorizo crisps was the order of the day, although at £6.00 nearly, one of the ales had to be overpriced. The Mirthless was OK but uninteresting whilst the Contemplation was aptly named.
I finished my Saturday excursion in DAda (where else!?) supping a half of the Thornbridge Chiron, at least a pint of the excellent Yule and a bottle of the wincingly expensive but joyously excellent Brewfist Fear Milk Chocolate Stout, which did everything it said on the bottle, and was extremely enjoyable. A perfect pleasing creamy end to a night.
And that's not a euphemism....
Cheers!
Wee Beefy
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