|
|
|
N "U-turns" Laws
What’s this - I can hear you asking - the Highwayman being serious? Well, yes I am. Just imagine if we had gone through history reversing decisions made by others. In 1833, the government passed a factory act, which prevented children between the ages of 9 and 13 working more than 9 hours per day. Mind you, here is a law that has now gone way too far. My two offspring - who point blankly refuse to fly the nest - would refrain from the four-letter ‘W’ word altogether, given half a chance. In fact, the very idea that there are nine hours in a day is a concept they would struggle with. The son & heir is known locally as a ‘Mantress’: half man, half mattress. The other one, who flutters her eyelashes and calls me daddy - usually with her hand held out expectantly - finds that work gets in the way of her hectic social life so much, that she sometimes almost forgets to pick up her wage packet a week earlier than it is due. Now here’s a problem for you Gordy - with a possible solution. The prevalence of obesity has trebled since the 1980s (indeed, I myself am just a tad overweight) and well over half the adults of this country (almost 24 million) are overweight or obese. Now if you were to reverse Newton’s law of gravity, Mr Brown, then millions of people would weigh less, be eternally grateful and you would at a stroke save this country over £3.7 billion. Probability is that part of mathematics which gives a precise meaning to the idea of uncertainty, of not fully knowing the occurrence of some event. We often hear that there is a good chance of a shower; people bet with different odds, say 1 to 5, that a football match will be won by some team and so on. In each case, we are making a guess as to what will be the outcome of some event. Probability theory is the science that quantifies our ignorance, and spells out the likelihood of our guess being realised for a particular case. Now using the laws of probability, we can predict such things as the likelihood of the Landlady being seen behind the bar at this establishment before we next sing Auld Lang Syne. The unfortunate thing is that, if you were to reverse this law, it would probably have the same outcome. Another of good old Newton’s laws is: every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Bearing this in mind, the reaction from the little Hitler lovingly referred to as my wife after reading this - using the laws of probability - will be to stop talking to me (heaven) for a little while. My equal and opposite reaction will be to stop talking to her, and with any luck - like the executive desk toy - we could spend an age bouncing of each other’s silence, not having to speak to each other for ages... This, though, is a law that should be heeded by the unelected premier. The pubs of this country perform an important role in the community. They are a meeting point; a place of discussion; a place of social interaction. The alcohol plays a major part in this social activity but let’s not blame it, or the hours it is being consumed in, for the current problems this country is encountering at the hands of anti-social lager louts. Education - not more legislation - is surely the way to tackle the unacceptable levels of drink-related crime in our society. Landlords as well as customers need to stand up and be counted. The words ‘unacceptable behaviour’ need to be used to unruly customers on a regular basis, so that they understand that there are rules that must be adhered to. Perhaps Gordy ought to visit one or two real ale haunts to see, not surprisingly, how well they are run. How often do you see anti-social behaviour (except at CAMRA meetings) in well-run real ale pubs? Let’s not go around changing laws for the sake of it. Why don’t we take the laws that we already have and enforce them - or is this too obvious a solution? If you do want to have a go at changing a law, matey, why not look at murder for example? If I shot my wife this would, after everything I have written about her over the years, be considered as a premeditated act and I would be tried and convicted of first degree murder - but surely shooting my wife should only carry the charge of discharging a lethal weapon into a public nuisance. Or perhaps the laws relating to possession could be changed. According to the theory, possession is nine tenths of the law. If this is the case, Gordy, how come every year you take over 30 percent of what I possess? Now there is a law you could look at. Or, finally, why not look at the age of retirement and getting the point across to the son & heir, and the one who flutters her eyelashes and calls me daddy - that before you can legally retire from work, you must first of all start?
More Cheese, Hannibal?
The car is packed, the sat nav lady knows where we are going and the significant other is caged in the front seat wearing her latest fashion accessory: a Hannibal Lector mask, looking like she is chewing a wasp. Two and a half hours of answering necessary questions like “Have you picked up your money?” and “Are we eating in or are you cooking tonight?” are punctuated with silences the size of a Russian oil baron’s wallet. We left the A1 with a twenty-mile Abramovich between communications and wound our way through the land where all creatures grunt and smell, passing countless little Emmerdales, until we finally arrived in the land of ‘More cheese, Gromit’. Our accommodation for the week was booked through www.elmhillholidaycottages.co.uk - a real home from home with every mod con you could want. Peter and Liz Haythornthwaite went out of their way to make us feel welcome and to ensure that we had everything we needed for a relaxing week. A personal greeting on our arrival, along with a tour of the premises - accompanied by fresh baked homemade scones and tea - even coaxed a smile from behind the mask of the ogre. Readers, believe me, if you thought we had a spectacular view from our pub (not that you know where our pub is, of course) just step through the front door of this cottage, look left and ‘Wow’. Askrigg is a beautiful place to make your base in the Yorkshire Dales. Whether you are an experienced rambler or (like us) steady amblers, there is something spectacular to see. The waterfalls, especially after a downpour, are a sight to behold. The village itself - the heart of a working farming community - has, within a 100 yards of the cottage we stayed in, a post office, a paper shop, a grocery store and three pubs - all serving real ale: heaven. Amazing though, that we should travel all this way to sample St. Austell’s Tribute. Very nice it was - as indeed were all the beers at the Crown, whose front door was approximately eighteen paces away from ours, not that I counted. My particular favourite at this establishment was the Theakston Black Bull. Nice to see a local serving local brews. Good honest food helped satisfy a healthy country appetite, brought about by a desire to walk further and see more. The White Rose down the hill from us - a hell of a walk, it must have been thirty yards away - was more of a hotel, with less of a welcoming atmosphere. There was a definite local pack at the bar, which defended its territory well, managing to make you feel vulnerable whilst walking between the scent-sprayed bar stools which marked their boundaries. One of the pack, a barman, almost showed his teeth when I asked if we could order food: “Have you booked?” When I replied no, he barked back: “You should have.” At this point my blood pressure had risen and my appetite was fading. The significant other swiftly strapped her Hannibal mask around my face to stop me biting. Grudgingly, he went away to find out if there was a spare table and came back with a waitress, who immediately asked us to follow her to table 9. We walked through the door, accompanied by the echoing clack of our shoes on the wooden floor, into a virtually empty dining room. The lack of background music led to every clink of a knife or fork against the porcelain plate being amplified a hundred fold. ‘A library with food,’ I mused to the one dining with me, which set us both off with a fit of the inexplicable, uncontrollable giggles. Of course, from that moment every chair that scraped against the floor sounded like the passing of violent wind. The stifled hisses of laughter, that sounded like some cartoon dog whose name eludes me, were getting louder until the waitress emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates and inquired: “Who are the two ducks?” I abandoned any further attempt to control myself, knowing that if I had I would have burst. That out of the way, and the ensuing embarrassment dealt with - being stared at by the large echoey room’s other eight guests - our starters arrived. We both had the pate. I suffered the salmon steak as a main course and the other one had gammon. One of us did not manage a sweet, I never do but the other managed a sticky toffee pudding. The total bill came to £31.55 and I will leave it up to you to decide whether you think it was worth it. The beer on the other hand, Askrigg Bitter was absolutely excellent. A light summery beer with a citrus aftertaste and lingering full mouthed dry hopped flavour. I asked the predator behind the bar who brewed it. “Bob down the road,” was the reply. Bob is the Yorkshire Dales Brewing Co. The other pub in the village was the Kings Arms Hotel, but this being some eighty yards away we did not bother with it, as we had to think of the journey home. Hawes - the capital of upper Wensleydale - is a must for visitors to the area. Market days are entertaining. The Dales Museum is worth a visit, along with the rope factory and indeed the Creamery: the home of Wensleydale cheese. All in all, an excellent week - we came back relaxed (mind you, if she was anymore relaxed she would be horizontal) and ready for the harness once again. Roll on the next festival. Time to relive some of the earliest accounts of life at the Blue Chime - more stories will be added soon...
Banter Clause is
coming to Town
The good fairies arrived as the last person left and picked up all the streamers and paper hats, washed and put away all the glasses and emptied all the ashtrays. Any landlord will tell you: if it was not for these mythical creatures we would have to spend hours doing this ourselves, then get up the next morning with a smile on our face, open up and carry on serving as if it were just another day. (Regular readers may detect more than just a hint of sarcasm).
This year – just like
last year and indeed next year, and for that matter ad
infinitum – on 2nd January the one-legged Santa, along
with the rest of the decorations went back in the box
and into the garage. One-legged Santa I hear you ask?
Many years ago when I still believed in goodwill to all
mankind and decking the halls with bows of holly tra-la
la-la-la, I was allowed out on my own to buy some new
festive adornments. I took it upon myself to purchase –
without the express permission of the other significant
half – some exterior lights in the form of signs wishing
season’s greetings, snowmen, stars, rope lights and a
waving Santa. (Does anything in my life go according to
the premeditated format?) Of course deep down inside you would just love to wire her up and hang her but again, you know that the little nest of vipers is right. So with everything hung and wired, cue the grand switching-on ceremony, performed by yours truly with no applauding crowds or gasping children. The lights looked spectacular apart from one unlit Santa leg. Customers can be such cruel people – sometimes their cutting comments have hurt me so much I have run from the bar, clutching a flooded hanky, heading for a darkened room. With this in mind, I had to think fast. Fetching the first aid box from out the back, the leg was bandaged and – to the amusement of the regulars and passers-by – has remained so ever since. Festivities over though and the ambient temperature forbidding the movement of the travelling palace, the Highwayman has little to report. Apart from, that is, his childlike anticipation of the time that Andy Williams sang about, ‘Yes It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year’: Chesterfield Beer Festival (suppressed salivating gurgle). Legend has it that Banter, a good hearted saintly man of portly proportions and a huge red nose caused by over indulgence, enjoyed a natter and a pint of real ale. So much so, when Gaseous Keg took over many pubs he vowed that, once a year, he would bestow a treat of such magnitude upon the traditional beer lovers that it would be talked about from one February to the next. Banter ruled that Gaseous Keg, ruler of the Kingdom of Froth, could not enter the premises even to have a friendly light-hearted conversation with the festival lovers.
This in legal circles
became known as the ‘Banter Clause’. Of course over the
years this idea has been plagiarised (look it up) and
now songs such as Jingle Bells, with the one-horsed open
dray, have been changed beyond all recognition.
Forty-five people each
with a different interpretation of Einstein’s Theory of
Time and Relativity and at least four of them believing
that being on time is totally irrelevant. Then the
question, do you all have your tickets? Forget or lose
your ticket once, anyone can do that but twice, come on.
I will spare your blushes though, my regular and valued
customer who is no longer allowed to be in possession of
his own ticket, by promising not to name you in print
(Regulars, he stands at the bar with Sprag and big
Roger). Remember the bus leaves here at 10.30pm and not
a minute later I shout as the motley crew disembarks
like lemmings leaping from the cliff. So after many gulpoids the task begins. If you have never been to a Beer Festival you do not know what you are missing. Taste, flavour, colours like a rainbow of orgasmic treats flood your sensory organs and you get a free glass – is that because of the generosity of CAMRA or can’t they be bothered to do the washing-up after? Being sensible and trying to sample the beers you have not had before rather than trying to get as much down your neck in the allotted time, I would say is the order of the day. This is probably the second resolution I along with forty-four of my regulars will go some way towards breaking. The quality and range of beers on offer are so diverse that it is difficult to show restraint. Having said that, you may see the merry men but you will rarely see the blotto binger. So in the words of the nicked song:
You’d better watch out,
You’d better not cry, You’d better not shout, I’m
telling you why Banter Clause is coming to Town.
Shine a light
So what on earth am I doing here? Six in the morning and a chorus of out of tune scavenger hawks dive bombing the travelling palace. Let me set the scene for you: it is mid-October and me and the male offspring decide that we deserve a break. Every time England play footie either me or him end up working, so the cunning plan was to escape with a few simple provisions and victuals consisting mainly of bottles of beer, bacon, beans and bread (we did the list alphabetically and never got past ‘B’). Having arrived on Tuesday, we set up camp. “You sort out the awning and I’ll get this telly up and running ready for tomorrow,” I said. “Dad how does this sprung flange sprocket fit into the receptive circular section?” asked the son and heir. Or to use his exact words: “This blinding thing doesn’t fit.” “Just a minute, I’m just in the middle of sorting out the aerial,” I replied. “It is quite important, Dad” he said, “At the minute I have a very heavy cloth and metal construction which is pinning me to the ground.” Or to use his exact words: “Help I’m stuck.” I jumped down from my precarious perch on the back of the van and ‘crunch’ went the piece of vital equipment we needed for our Wednesday night viewing extravaganza. “Shhhhhhhugar!” I said - no way were the bits ever going to form a working TV reception aid again - “Ah wait a minute though, there’s a spare aerial stored at the back of the van.” There it was - an old aerial, but no aerial wire and the wire on the one I had just broken was not long enough. “Did you notice an electrical shop on the way in?” I asked the son and heir. “Muffle, muffle, gagging gasp, muffle,” came his reply and at that point I thought, “Ahhh yes, I know what I was doing” - and to the relief of the gasping travel companion I freed him from his canvas incarceration. One way or another we were going to watch this match we set off on a journey of biblical magnitude and walked the 300 yards to the camp site shop. “Can I be of assistance?” asked the lady behind the counter. (“No, we are travelling acrobats looking for somewhere to set up a high wire act and park our elephants for the night,” I thought but didn’t say as sarcasm doesn’t travel in these parts. As we had found out earlier, when we called in at the reception and the young girl behind the counter said, “Do you want to stay here?” and I replied, “No - I’ve got a van outside.”) “Aerial wire?” I asked politely. “Ahh, you want QUACK SAIL,” she said. “Quack sail?” I replied. “Quack sail,” she said, “Quack sail cable - you know - the sort you fix to your aerial. How much do you want?” “Ahh co-axle. About thirty foot please, “ I replied. “That’s a shame,” she said. “’Cos we don’t sell it, but if you walk into town...” A good two-mile enjoyable walk (sarcasm: see if you can spot how many times I use it without me telling you) later and there in front of us was the electrical shop. Had the it been open we might even have gone in and bought the (expletive deleted) ‘QUACK SAIL’ cable. But it was Tuesday, half day closing, and we decided not to bother. According to my dearly departed father (a well-known pessimist) behind every cloud is a flood of rain waiting to drench you. True to his teaching we were about to be soaked, literally and metaphorically. To avoid the literal we walked into a pub that will remain nameless and purchased two pints of metaphorical. The substance was described as Bass and as many of this column’s regular readers will know it is not the Highwayman’s favourite tipple. Having said that this was a particularly hostile form of the brew that did not want to stay in my stomach from the first sip. To the amazement of the son and heir, who had never witnessed such a happening before I put the pint down on the table and beckoned him to follow me. “Dad’s left a pint...” I heard him mumble under his breath, “He’s left a pint of beer. Shall I ring home or the doctor?” “Neither, son,” I said, “If you want to wring something try the landlord’s neck for describing that as beer.” We ran from the front door and when you are of a more mature portly size (old and fat) like myself, running is difficult, dodging the raindrops impossible. That is when we found the Seabirds. Not the scavenger hawks we mentioned earlier but a real ale pub selling proper beer and food that your mother would be proud to serve (Page 519 in the 2006 Good Beer Guide). Ossett Pale Gold. A light refreshing pale ale with a floral spicy aroma derived from American hops. A sirloin steak and few pints of OPG later and ‘what aerial?’ Fast forward to six in the morning and there are two types of ‘Seabirds’ I am suffering from. We eventually surface and do the breakfast thing and the gallons of tea and slowly regain the ability to speak. One-word statements to start with. Slowly progressing to full sentences. “Football tonight?” is one of the son and heir’s early attempts. “Town?” I ask. “OK”. What could be better? Once again having consumed food fit for a king, we now tuck into copious amounts of the Pale Gold, before watching the football in the Ship, another Flamborough pub serving real ale. Here we enjoy Timothy Taylor Landlord and England 2, Poland 1.
The Law, Asses and
Butterflies
The problem is we are victims of our own success: confined to barracks, imprisoned by circumstances. We’ve tried tunnelling. We spent weeks shaking the earth from special compartments in our trousers as we walked across the car park during exercise time. We were so close. The tunnel actually overshot the car park and ended on the beer garden. We made five attempts to surface but had to retreat each time when our son and daughter insisted on things like lunch breaks and time off. We blamed the generous mounds, that now encircle the rustic picnic benches, on giant moles. I suppose I could have made a lone dash on one of my weekly trips to the warehouse, but that would have meant kissing my wife goodbye. Those of you who know who we are will also know that I will take my wife anywhere rather than kiss her and leave her at home. Ah
well at least I can dream of bygone days, bygone days,
bygone days ... The year is 1915. The place ‘the Bull
Drop and Shovel.’ The time 9.20pm. An
article in ‘The Morning Post’ (14.03.1916) read: “At
Southampton yesterday Robert Andrew Smith was fined for
treating his wife to a glass of wine in a local public
house. He said his wife gave him sixpence to pay for her
drink. Mrs Smith was also fined £1 for consuming and
Dorothy Brown, the barmaid, £5 for selling the
intoxicant, contrary to the regulations of the Liquor
Control Board.” “Did
you know, Uri, we have some very strange Laws in
Britain? For example it is still on the statute books
that:
Molesting butterflies, molesting butterflies, molesting
butterflies... it’s always amazed me the strange things
you wake up thinking after a dream. Now
this was a major problem. As much as I enjoy my camping
in (inevitably!) wet Wales, I realised I had a one and
only chance to see the Tomcats display before their
retirement. After much deliberation, the wife and I
decided it was an opportunity not to be missed. She
blamed Tom Cruise for his role in ‘Top Gun’, but deep
down I think a week touring Virginia in over 90° of heat
probably appealed slightly more than wind-cheaters and
hot Bovril in North Wales! A
beer trail was planned - when you scratch beneath the
surface of major beer consumption in America, there is a
thriving micro scene ready to be discovered and enjoyed! The only drawback with American microbrewery beers is that they are largely - but by no means exclusively - keg, but with the pre-obsession with ice cold beer favoured by the punters, it’s not really surprising. At least these beers are packed with far more hop flavours than our bland ‘smooth’ efforts. A hot and humid climate means you will still enjoy them! The drive to Fredericksburg was partly along the legendary Route 66, and a quick search on the wireless soon had us tapping our fingers to the obligatory local country music station. Life was good, but when I looked in the rear view mirror, I occasionally identified with Dennis Weaver’s character in the 1971 cult movie ‘Duel’ when all you can see behind you is the huge front grille of a Peterbilt tractor unit!
Smile and say cheese
The
descent into Cheddar grew ever steeper ... Well, some time later, with the back of my calves stretched in directions they didn’t know existed, we arrived. The Cheddar Gorge was formed in the Ice Age by glacial erosion. Or at least that’s one theory. Mine is much more plausible ... a few centuries ago a group of the local yokels got together and came up with a cunning plan: “Nuw luck ‘ere moi luverlies,” said their leader Denzil Carrotcrunch “If’n we start a-diggen us an ‘ole, not a small thing but a ‘normouse one an’ then build us a path down to the bottom of ert, once these townies get down there whissle ‘av ‘em. They won’t have no energy to get bark ooot and we can then sell ‘em any bit of tat for a small fortune.” This
was her idea of paradise. A walk followed by an
afternoon of traipsing in and out of shops saying ‘oohh
that’s nice’ - never buying anything but still managing
to make a hole in the beer budget. ...
Even after a lengthy pause the sarcasm in her voice
still lingered heavy in the late morning humid air. Five
years of wedded bliss - we’ve been married for
twenty-six but only five of them have been happy - and I
still can’t get her to sample the delights of the holy
frothing mixture. Admitting that she could do with a
rest would be akin to the General issuing the command to
the troops to lay down their arms: there would be no
cessation of hostilities; but as the enemies did on that
much-talked-about WW1 Christmas, we would, after a brief
exchange of pleasantries from the trenches, emerge as
friends for a short period of festivity. As
she salivated over a respectable and well thought out
menu I made my choice.
Today was not our first venture out on this trip. We had
earlier in the week taken a short journey into Wells,
England’s smallest city. The cathedral is a stunning
piece of architecture and well worth a visit. The city
is a credit to their planning department who have left
it on the whole unchanged. No bright neon signs, no
plastic facades hiding the beautiful original designs of
past times. Even the local supermarket is in fitting
with its surroundings. My only problem with the place
was the couple of pubs we had the time to try, although
serving real ale, were guilty of purveying the high
volume national brews that could be had anywhere. I
fully understand the tie and how difficult it is for the
licensee to source local brews but the pubs in question
were Free Houses. Having said that we did visit the
Crown, which served Butcombe Blonde. Acceptable but
close to the end of the barrel. This is in no way meant
to be a criticism of all the pubs in Wells, merely an
observation of the very few we tried. Back
though to Cheddar and my forthcoming plight. The
ancestors of Denzil Carrotcrunch had had me big style.
Laden with presentation bottles of cider and bric-a-brac
that felt like mainly brick we now had the unenviable
task of leaving the place and if you are going back to
Priddy the only way is up.
The Road to Nowhere
Tewkesbury, I think. “Mablethorpe,” she says. Nice drop of Freeminers, I think. “Bracing sea air, up early and a good long walk,” she says. Park in a pub car park, stop in bed ‘til opening time then fall through the front door, I think. “Just think we don’t have to think about pubs for four days,” she says. Then for one fleeting moment I could feel the arteries in my neck begin to throb as my face contorted with rage. It was my break as well and I was determined to have my way. We’ll skip the rest of the journey, as there is nothing interesting about the A57 and A158 leading to Mablethorpe. My Good Beer Guide is, as anyone who knows me will tell you, my bible. If I go it goes with me. And why? Because CAMRA members have taken the time to search out the best pubs in their area over the length and breadth of Britain and bring them together in one publication. Now that has got to be better than pulling up on a street corner, winding down your window and shouting to a passer by “‘Scuse me mate where’s the best boozer ‘round here?” Which could provoke the answer, “You’re looking at ‘im”. An old Chinese proverb might have said “If you are prepared to accept advice from a street corner stranger your journey will be like a keg of lager - without imagination and pointless.”
So we arrive at
Lincolnshire’s finest. We park up make a brew and out
with the bible. “Right then. Lincolnshire. That’s
Bateman’s country ... now then ... M for Mablethorpe ...
Ohhhhhhh Nooooooo.” Check your copy - it is not in. We walked. Oh how we walked. Identical telegraph poles spreading out equidistant in both directions to a disappearing horizon on the eternal fens and not a pub in site. There are times when a man has to pull himself up to his full height (which in my case is only five foot six and a half), inflate his chest to its capacity, stare his adversary in the eye and demand his equal rights. This I did not feel was one of those times, so I begged her to let me go for a pint and yippee she agreed. She knows when she’s beat. She also knows what closing time is and if we were going to get a pint we had to get a sprint on. So like Jonathan Edwards on his run up to the board before the defence of his Olympic triple jump record, off we trekked.
As all you intrepid
travellers will know it is impossible to get lost in
Mablethorpe.
Disappointed, shoulders
hung low, chin scrapping the floor we headed back to our
mobile palace in the country and my secret stash of
bottled Lancaster Bomber. Some two hours later after abluting and preening there we were as the doors opened. Warmly welcomed, the landlord, steward, call him what you may, was pleased and surprised to have customers in so early on a Tuesday evening. Everards Tiger was on the menu, as good a pint as I have had anywhere and reasonably priced at £2.10. Oh deep joy. With a bowl of chilli and chips and good conversation with someone who obviously knew his trade the journey was proving to be worthwhile after all. Eventually I knew I had had enough because she told me as someone stood on my fingers as I crawled to the bar for the last one. So off we went back to the motor home for some restful slumber, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow I had a reason to go walking. This webpage was last updated on Saturday, 13 October 2007 |
|
Copyright © 1996 - 2007 Chesterfield & District CAMRA |
After
nearly 100 years of unreasonable antiquated licensing
laws, the Blair government gave the pubs and customers
of this great and glorious country of ours what they
wanted and deserved: the opportunity to enjoy a pint
after 11 pm in their local, without being seen as
criminals. Now I don’t want to panic anyone, but this
new fella Gordy Brown is looking at reviewing and, if
necessary, making a ‘U-turn’ on this law. Without
wishing to get too political, who elected him?