Its official, the poll is in. This blog is officially shite and I assure each and everyone that bothers to read this toss that it will get no better.
The impression I get from the beer blogging community, and it’s only an impression, is that there is more to the pub than simply a place that sells expensive beer by miserable staff in a dumpy environment to people with no home to go to. That these places offer something by way of community to the sort of saddos that presumably need that sort of reassurance.
The life of the average cooking lager enthusiast is somewhat different. Not being one to engage with the local community or have much in the way of desire to know anyone that I currently don’t know, and not much of a desire to know a large number of people I do know, the home becomes the centre of one’s cooking lager enthusiasm and the humble kitchen fridge the de facto bar that dispenses lagery delight.
As you might expect the average cooking lager enthusiast spends a fair bit of time sat on the couch, can of cooking in hand, remote in the other and the telly on. Now there’s rarely anything on the telly worth bothering with much, and if like me you have a lady of the house, there is a rigid schedule of soap opera to keep up with. You can pretend to follow pretty much any soap opera by asking the following questions if the lady squeeze decides it to be a subject of conversation with phrases like “who is the father of her kid then? does she know herself?” or “do they know they are actually brother and sister?” or “does he/she know he/she slept with him/her?” She will never guess you merely spent the half hour staring at the wall thinking erotic thoughts about the girl that works in the chip shop.
However once in a while a telly show occurs that has you transfixed. Has you savouring every minute with anticipation, excitement and wonder. Press your red buttons. Ladies and Gentlemen, Let’s play darts!
It’s great, the darts, and I really cannot place one single thing about it that has me gripped. I love it all. I love the old fat blokes, the balding hair, the tattoos, the sovereign rings, the middle aged ladies in the audience cheering for their husbands, and at the end of the day it’s just a load of old blokes throwing darts. The sum of the parts make for a greater whole. Taken as a whole it’s the greatest show on earth. Let’s be honest it’s not even the best dart players, they're all losing to Phil Taylor in the PDC competition, but the whole BDO circus is TV magic. You’ve gotta see Ted Hankey to believe that TV has the power to be the most sublime piece of entertainment. Why would anyone leave the house when this is on? Open a can of lout and settle in. Much is said of the power of the X factor to keep people at home. With the darts on the telly there is no reason to leave the house.
Ted Hankey is by any definition a miserable old balding fat bloke that comes on dressed as Dracula throwing rubber bats at the audience and it really ought to be ridiculous. It isn’t though, it’s fabulous. The whole chavtasticness of it ought to have me looking down my nose at it but all I can think of is: what an athlete! what is the out shot on that number? I reckon I could do this; I want a nylon shirt with “cooking lager” written on the back. Whether the play is good or bad the game is gripping. The whole game can turn on the throw of one dart and the hit and miss of a single double. One minute its double 12 for the game, the fat bloke misses, and another fat bloke gets his and all of a sudden the set is his, the score is even and it’s game on.
Never has there been a stronger reason to move the fridge into the living room to ensure I don’t miss a throw if my can of lout runs dry. Oh and then there’s Bobby George. Gentleman George. I wish he was my Dad.
It’s snowing outside apparently. The country is grinding to a halt by all accounts. Gordon Brown is either winning or losing this week’s coup attempt and Dave Cameron looks like he has very nice teeth and that must make him PM material. Iceland are stiffing us over the failed banks or are we stiffing them? Beer prices are on the up, people are as snotty as ever about a perfectly decent 99p Wetherpoons pint. Big Brother is on and somebody said something to someone. Whatever. A big whatever. There is only one thing occurring in the world. Only one thing of any significance or importance, and the world can turn on a single throw.