Harder. Better. Faster. Stronger. Fatter.

 

"Once you label me, you negate me" - Soren Kierkegaard


"I've got the hiccoughs. I blame craft beer"

"Cheese cob. Pork pie. Salted crisps. IPA. Lunch of champions"

"Not where I should be but glad to be home"

"Any reason why I shouldn't have another pint of Jaips?"

"Having sat down, I'm going to struggle getting up. Mentally, not physically"

"If anyone tells you that imperial stout is a bad choice on a hot day, they're an arsehole"

"I'm thinking burger & lager"

"Lots of rabbits out tonight. If only I'd packed a .22"

"Orval update: one ladybird in glass, two ladybirds on their backs next to glass, one spider perched halfway down glass"

"What I did today: rode a fly, walked a dog, moved nuclear waste, used a zimmer:"

"Sat outside the Anchor, Walberswick. Wishing this holiday didn't have to end"

"So maybe I have another career option - freelance ATP luminescence swabber. So it's that and making gravy. Too specialist?"

"I really can't be arsed"


Labels: random. idiot. drunkard. contentment


Sorry, Soren. I'm a big fat staggering label.

Looking back on two months of Twitter: it seems to be saying...

Have A Good Time All The Time.

Those random  tweets over the last two months show that, although I've been away, I've never been away too far. Like your 'uncle' who went to 'work on the oil rigs'. Even though there are no oil rigs in Lincoln.

Two months almost-away has been educational. Informative. Entertaining.

Much of it has been spent reading. Bamforth. Hornsey. Jackson. Cornell. Pattinson.

Some of it was spent doing meaningful things. Honestly. Like bottling other people's beer and not fucking it up. Like being mesmerised when legends try to tell you technicalities and you have to stop them, embarrassed, because the science escapes you.

A very small part of it was spent in the sudden realisation that Fergus Fitzgerald, head brewer at Adnams, morphs into Dylan Moran at a certain point of the evening. As he bloody well ought to.

Let's go round again. Maybe we'll turn back the hands of time.

Or maybe the 'craft beer revolution' will fold like a cheap hooker who got punched in the stomach by a fat guy with sores on his face.

Frankly, I don't give a tommy-two-tits either way.

But, sheesh, it'll be one hell of a ride.

Let's go. Let's Scoop again.

Reluctantly ;-)



Moochow grassyass to Ian Dingman for allowing the repro of his most excellent illustration c/o Time Out Chicago.