Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

A controlled break

I broke early. I alighted (or alit?) from the wagon before it reached its destination. Needless to say, I didn’t tip the driver.


I didn’t really break though... It was a controlled break. I decided early on that it would be incredibly difficult to stay off the booze past the end of January.


The reasons were manifold:


-          At the end of January, I met my baby niece for the first time. She is the first child to be born to our family for 35 years (and the first girl since 1939…). That in itself is worth celebrating in the way the Brits do best. (Line em up squire...)


-          Her parents (my brother and his ex-model, now a brain-surgeon missus) live in Florida, so I flew there for a week. This was also a good reason to have a beer. (Another? Why, I don't mind if I do...)


-          My entire family was there to meet me. It was the first time we had all been together for years. (Champagne anyone?)


-          While in the States, we celebrated my brother’s birthday. (Make mine a large one…)


-          It was the Superbowl. Now, I’m not really bothered about sport but if you’ve ever watched The Simpsons you’ll appreciate that this is a big deal over the old Herring Pond. (Any chashers? Or crishpsh?)


Taken individually, these were each suitable reasons for celebration. Taken together, it was as though all of the hosts of Bacchus were arrayed against me.


The straw that really broke the camel’s back though,  was the fact that my brother, who misses his ale – as all true Anglo-Saxons do when they’re foolish enough to venture “abroad” – has decided to get round it in a novel way…


He went and bought his own brewery. Bought a brewery! Because he misses English beer.


Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed… Bloody hell! The genius…


“Mine’s a pint of your finest “Old Bishop’s Bum Grumbler, Landlord!” says I.


I thought long and hard about this upon my return to our fair shores. Recent calculations have indicated that I pay that gotch-eyed bastard Brown a staggering 973 quid a year in beer tax. If the incompetent prick gets his way (as he will do, until next May), this bill will rise to £1,373!!! Lawks-a- Lordy…


Quite frankly, I have better things to spend that money on. My way around this is to start brewing my own beer. My budget won’t stretch to buying my own brewery but, through various means, I am now churning out 50 pints of ale per month at Snookmeister HQ at a negligible cost.


And as it’s duty-free, I have sealed off this staggering misuse of my hard-earned wages.

I can recommend it. For starters, get yourselves one of these bad boys.