Apparently Albert organized to go back last night to the same pub as last week, to show Kev the place and the beers. I quote from his email:
Kev's nursey cousin came along, with some delightful young rellies in tow. We sampled and discussed several beers, but as usual lost the place by beer number 5. The ones I remember were, in order of my preference:
White Rabbit White Ale. Superb again, though this time the socializing got in the way of a proper savouring.
Scharer Lager. Gentle.
Little Creatures Pale Ale, with a definite bouquet and gentle hoppy aftertaste. I've tasted the bottled version before, at a deifheid dinner (not the ideal venue), but it's much better on tap.
Fat Yak. OK.
Wheatsheaf Stout. Emetic, but everyone loved it except me and Ben (English, so knows about beer).
In the course of the conversation, the oldies compared aches and pains, and Cap'n Kev educated us with some picturesque country medical terminology, such as:
"your poison glands" = lymph nodes.
"your blood dropping its water in your ankles" = oedema.
We were sitting at a big table on the street, when a passing lass came over and chatted. It was almost like being young again, but with no drive. At my age the feelings become avuncular, and she was so charming that I heard myself saying to her "well you were well brought up, weren't you?"
On the way home, I got on the wrong bus, an express non-stop to the back blocks. Thank goodness I was merry enough not to care.
Next day I remembered the other stupid and annoying things I did. People like me become assholes when drunk. I've been told the way to go is either to get so pissed that I can't remember any of it, or to be teetotal. The way of balance is not an easy path to tread.