Back from the hols, so what about the beer in Espana? Cold, wet, fizzy and delicious. Like proper beer ought to be. Nothing dark, nothing pongy, nothing warm, no unwanted “flavour”. Ice cold crisp golden heaven in a glass.
Now I’m more an egg and chips kinda guy but the lady squeeze drags me to “quaint local restaurants” that serve all manner of bizarre crap. Things from the sea that really look like they are not to be eaten. Some of which is oddly not only edible but fairly nice. Go figure. Keep her sweet and get some, it’s the way it is. I may want a pukka pie, but the lady gets what she wants and later on I get what you might call “it”
This got me thinking. Always dangerous. Time to slug another San Miguel. The main difference between us Brits and our continental cousins? They know how live, we know how to survive. That’s it in a nutshell. The only place you queue up in a bar is an “English style” pub. Elsewhere, people are happy to fetch you stuff. I bloody well love it. Let’s have that here. Let’s do away with pubs and go continental. Stick tradition up your arse, the foreigners have got it right.
Back in blighty, I discover more bullshit that seeks to deny a free Englishman’s right to cheap and refreshing cooking lager. This toss makes my blood boil. Cooking lager is not a privilege, it is a right! Glad to see the comments by and large stand up for the right to neck cheap lout. The time is approaching when cooking lager enthusiasts and aficionados will need to take to the streets, to fight the forces of killjoys. There will be blood.
There is one question I don’t understand. In the hotel I feel the skin burning and dive in the pool, swim up to the bar and sit in the shade. “San Miguel por favor” (you’ve gotta make an effort, like). These 2 German birds speak to me. In English, the union jack shorts tell it to the world. I spreche a bit of the old Deutsch back at them. I bit of Ich heisse, Ich wohne and Ich arbeite. Only what I learnt for GCSE, not really up to discussing Friedrich Nietzsche in Deutsch. Well I couldn’t in English either for that matter. Anyway the lass is fuming.
What am I doing chatting them up? She asks. Now wait a minute, treacle, oh apple of my eye, that’s not chatting birds up. She speaks to all manner of people, even people from Birmingham for crying out loud. I talk to some strangers and I’m in the dogs house. She often says I’m anti social and the minute I talk to some strangers I’m “chatting birds up” what the Jesus hell is that all about?