Backyard Boozer

I’d seen mention of this place before, but Reader BradC sent me the full scoop on this wondrous creation:

Lockdown has forced many pub lovers out there to source other forms of entertainment. Some have decided to do bar crawls at home, while others have used Zoom calls to have a drink with their buddies. There are also those who have decided to forgo drinking at all and picked up new hobbies. However, the most creative solution came to the Crabs family, who realized they needed to get a pub built in their garden.
After consulting with Amy, who is the mastermind behind Octavia Chic, and her husband, plans to create a garden pub were made. It took around three weeks for Amy and her husband to complete this project and the result took people’s breath away.

I want one of these.  I want it badly.  If I had a backyard, this would be assembled and running in about a week.  And you’d never see me again.

My question is how Longtime Friend Mr. Sorenson (Reader TrueBrit’s hubby) has not had one of these installed yet.

In fact, the only thing wrong with the place (other than not having Wadworth 6X on tap) is that it’s missing a brass foot rail.

And Southern Comfort on an optic… hand me mah smellin’ salts, Martha.

Go there and drool over the pics.

More Chinkvirus Casualties

Under First World Problems, add this situation to the list:

GREGGS fans say they’re “heartbroken” as the bakery chain has reopened today but with a limited menu that doesn’t include favourites such as corned beef bakes. Others can’t believe Belgian buns are off the menu, as are regional delicacies including stotties.

For those just coming into this here corner of the Intarwebz (i.e. my back porch), some explanation of a personal nature may be necessary.

Greggs is the premier fast-food chain in Britishland (much bigger than McDonalds), and my home away from home.  Every time I fly into Heathrow, I jump on the train to London (unless Mr. Free Market has sent Baillie the chauffeur to pick me up), and get off at Earl’s Court.  Literally across the street from the station entrance is a Greggs, and I sit there, suitcases and all, and enjoy a sausage roll and cup of tea.  Only then do I feel strong enough to go to the hotel or whatever.

This applies when I’ve had a morning arrival, of course;  evening flights will find me doing the same, only at The Blackbird, a block down, where the sausage roll and tea are replaced by fish & chips and a pint of Fuller’s London Pride, respectively.

Getting back to the original topic:  I see that the “reduced” menu mercifully includes my favorites, the aforementioned sausage rolls, and my other, the steak bake pie.  So I’m alright, Jack.

That said, I quite understand the frustration that others may feel to find their favorites MIA from the menu.  Were that to happen to me, well… I don’t want to say I’d go full jihad  on Greggs with bombs etc.;  but there could well be murders.

Bloat

In this case, I’m not talking about government bloat, but my own.  This fucking pointless lockdown caused by the Chinkvirus has quite enfattened me, not so much because of what I’ve been eating — okay, not that much — but because our gym has been closed for the past three months by our timorous apartment management.

I hate strolling, unless to a pub — but as the pubs have been closed as well, even that has been denied me.  AND we’re starting to approach the annual Texas Broil a.k.a. summer, so the desire to walk outside is lessened yet more.  Which means that New Wife has put her foot down and decreed that we will now be entering a period of No Sugar And Only Healthy Foods.  Fuck.

My coffee tastes like hot, rancid bilgewater and I can only imagine what weeks of salads and such are going to do to my already-tenuous control of my temper.  And I know, I know:

Me too.

I think I’ll just have to spend a lot more time at the range.  Which reminds me, I need to lay in a little more ammo, because reasons.