"What do I have to say?" I ask myself this question often. This is my usual response:
"Where do I want to be?" I do know the answer to that one: the Brassmoulders Arms in 1979. Drinking Tetley's Mild served through an economiser.
I've been all over, drunk all kinds of fancy beer, but a pub crawl around Cross Green or Hunslet; that was something else. There was only one beer involved. For me there was only one beer in those years. A beer as unfashionable as you could get. A cloth cap beer brewed by a big brewery. Drunk in pubs as magnificent as the ale.
"What do you want?" "A pint of mild, please." I still say that. Even when I'm not being asked what I want to drink. Nostalgia? Bad joke? Unfulfilled longing? Who knows. That it still falls so easily from my lips after all these years must mean something.
Today I could have said "a pint of Mild, please" seriously. They had Rutland Panther straight from the barrel at Bruxellensis. But no-one asked me what I wanted. Bloody typical.
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