Avebury Stones, Wiltshire (1999)
Nobody knows why the stones are there, who put them there, or what they mean. A mystery for the ages.
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Light Posting
Been a little under the weather the past couple days, hence the light posting.
Normal service should resume tomorrow.
Pub Crawl Alert
I hardly ever drink beer anymore, at least here in Murka, because at heart I’m a pub drinker, not a party drinker or heaven forfend, a solitary drinker. And there’s no pub culture Over Here, only a bar culture, thus Q.E.D.
So this list of top British beers* got my attention, and it made me want to go Over There and embark on a nationwide pub crawl.
Now there’s a problem brewing, so to speak, in that said list doesn’t include two of my absolute favorites, Wiltshire’s Wadworth 6X and Cornwall’s Tribute, which are to me an astounding omission. That said, however, I know that both of them are wonderful so I don’t need some poxy list to tell me about their charms. Another omission is Kent’s Spitfire Ale, which I haven’t tasted for myself but which goes highly recommended by everyone whose opinion on the topic I respect; and their advertising is just wonderful.
And not having spent any time at all Oop Nawth, all the Yorkshire brews listed are to me like Swedish virgins, i.e. unknown, unobtainable but somehow enticing**.
I mean, really (#8).
And we all know about this one (#6):
Kent, here I come.
I won’t drink lager beers of any brand or national origin anyway, so some of the listed brands are unlikely ever to find their way down my gullet — hell, I never liked that Carling Black Label swill, even when I was smack in the middle of the target demographic (young, stupid and poor) — and I once described Scotland’s Tennent as the reason why the Jocks fight so much.
And while I heartily agree with their ranking of Fuller’s ESB as the very best of beers, I find it a little too strong and always end up drinking their London Pride (#7) instead — hardly a terrible compromise, I assure you.
Anyway, give the linked video a chance; and if like me you have a sudden urge to sink a pint or two afterwards, don’t blame me.
And if ever I find myself with the funds necessary to embark upon a nationwide pub crawl to sample all those lovely brews for myself, it’s on Ye Olde Bucquette Lyste, you betcha.
*ignore the stupid A.I. voiceover. FFS, how difficult could it be to have someone real just read a script?
**that’s just a literary device: I have absolutely zero interest in virgins, of any nationality, assuming that any still exist over the age of… well, I think 14 is probably the lamentably-low bar these days.
Random Totty
Apparently Brooks Nader was a Sports Illustrated (who?) swimsuit model, then did something else of equal significance. Whatever.
In Memoriam
(This article posted at a time close to the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Greenwich Mean Time.)
We will remember them.
Transplanted
This story (ordinarily the type I’d ignore) really struck a chord with me:
I decided, four years ago, to leave London, selling the flat I owned in Dalston and moving to Somerset.
The life I’d been building in London evaporated and I felt broken. The country seemed to offer a gentle place where I could retreat, lick my wounds and start again. After all, the countryside is where I had always been happy. Or so I told myself.
Of course, the reality blew a ten-foot hole in that dream, because of course life in the country isn’t as idyllic as it’s often painted. Read the thing for the details.
Anyway, the reason why this silly woman’s article interested me is that I’m a little like her (minus the foolishness).
I’ve often thought about finding a small place out in the boonies — “small” in country terms, i.e. just large enough to where I could make a short .22 range where I could bang away for hours on end without disturbing the neighbors — but of course there are several factors which have always stopped me from doing just that.
The first is that I’m a city boy by inclination. I mean, most of my life has been spent in the ‘burbs, but the times when I’ve really enjoyed my life was when I lived in downtown Johannesburg and Chicago, and spent lengthy periods in places like London or Vienna. I liked having a dizzying choice of places to eat out and drink, the movie houses and auditoriums, the shops which sold pretty much anything I needed (outside the gun world, of course), and even art galleries: all within walking distance of my living room. For that, I was prepared to put up with the noise of the city, the proximity of neighbors and all the things which would drive other people away.
Likewise when I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve always preferred to stay in the great cities (London, Paris and so on) over the small countryside towns. Then again, it must be said that I really enjoyed living out in rural Hardy Country at Mr. Free Market’s country estate as well — probably the first time in my life that I’ve properly lived out in the sticks.
I have no illusions about living in the city, because I’ve been there and done that, on two continents. Also, having spent half a year out in the company of The Englishman and Mr. Free Market, I have no illusions there too — although it must also be said that the Brits do a good job of making their small towns very livable, as anyone who’s ever been to places like Marlborough or Devizes will attest.
So while I often ask myself the question: if you won the lottery, where would you spend most of your time? the answer is probably “close to or actually in a city” more than “out in a country retreat”.
If for some reason I did choose the country option, however, I know I’d make a better job of it than the stupid woman who wrote that article.