I'm In The Ale House

"I'M IN THE ALE HOUSE"

The Alexander, Wimbledon, London. SW19

This is an eye level view of the sports bar of my favourite local, The Alexandra, Wimbledon. The angle of view is from the "round table" just to the left, out of shot is a big screen and then there are two Samsung flat screens one of which you can see just above centre. The Alexander is a Youngs pub, which until very recently brewed it's beer in Wandsworth Town, a couple of miles from here.

The Alex, as it is affectionately known has three distinctly different bars, the third being a wine bar in it's own right, it's known as "Smart Alex", there are no sports screens in Smart Alex and as such is less frequented by the Onepotscreamer than the other two. Sandwiched in between Smart Alex and the Sports Bar is what I shall refer to as "The Old Boy's Bit", this is the only carpeted part of the pub, it's the watering hole of the more mature regular. It too has a small screen and is the more sedate of the three bars. Although all three areas are very different, we all share a common perception, that we are truly home from home.

For anyone chancing upon this blog it's been a couple of weeks or so since my last entry, incidentally a good few years ago there would have been a chorus of f 'nar, f 'nar for that one, but no, not anymore. We've all matured, we've all got responsibilities now, mortgages, wives, partners, kids, slippers. Our ideal day out now is to stroll through country lanes admiring the birds and contemplating an extension to the kitchen whilst debating with our loved ones what we are going to have for lunch, maybe pasta or some grilled fish, washed down with a glass of carbonated water. If we're lucky we may get Ryvita with a sliver of fine cheese, but go easy on the butter.

C'mon everybody, pull yourselves together, show us your mettle.

I thought I'd welcome you to my world... A few days in the life of "The Onepotscreamer", I'll start with something my good friend Mr Ridgewell has initiated, "The Beer Log".

BEER LOG: Thwaites Lancaster Bomber (4.4% ABV)

"The Northern Beauty".

A very easy drinking beer with an inviting malty aroma, this rich amber beer is brewed using pale ale and crystal malt to achieve a full-bodied flavour. A finely balanced hop character is enriched by the late addition of Styrian Goldings as a dry hop to give a prominent floral hop aroma and warming aftertaste. You will notice in the pic below that nestled between the two Lancaster Bombers is a bottle of Thwaites Liberation. It's lip smacking good. Liberation was brewed to mark the 90th anniversary of the start of the first world war, and the 60th anniversary of the D Day Landings.

Alas this is my first and possibly, my only Beer Log, you see, I was so enthusiastic about compiling my first beer log that, (and this will come as a surprise to my less familiar readers) I made the mistake of over indulging in the Thwaites product range. The following sorry tale describes the the ill effects I encountered as a result. It's worth noting that anyone who is considering starting and maintaining a beer log, should take heed, this is after all, a serious business.

Firstly it is advisable to find an outlet that has a wide variety of beer for sale. I chanced upon my local off licence whilst strolling along the Merton High Street, a stones throw from our home. Apart from the wife demonstrating a fine and authentic Latin American temperament, you will discover a quality purveyor of all kinds of enchanting brews.

There are in fact over 650 beers sold from this wonderful establishment. And, as is usually the case with such outlets, it is run by people of integrity and a real passion for there wares, ensuring that the process of buying and selling is one to positively look forward to. I had in fact taken so readily to the task in hand that I was soon setting off on my fourth excursion too Nelsons Wines that fateful evening in order to carry out further research.

Upon my fourth visit I was greeted in the same calm and helpful manner however as I was making my exit my I somehow tripped over a thoughtlessly placed crate of Tanglefoot, full bodied with a medium bitterness and a rounded, smooth, hoppy flavour, hints of melon and pear with a clean crisp finish and a hoppy linger. Alc cont 5%. I skinned my knees on the pavement outside and sent bottles of Thwaites meandering along Merton High Street. Nobody seemed to bat an eye lid as I hurredly rounded up my flock and disappeared into the night like I a fox with a chicken.

Some time later...

Here's the wife asking the proprietor of my local offie which brew had affected her normally mild mannered and loving husband. She is explaining that he's turned into a "fookin' basta" and that she'd left me singing and gurgling in a bath full of the stuff. And, that on no account was he allowed to sell anymore "Northern Beauty" to her husband.

Bless her, for she too succumbed to the sweet talk and gentle Irish charm of our friend, the proprietor. For the purposes of this blog I shall refer to him as Pat, although as yet I am unsure of his real name. Mayte left the store clutching a variety of bottles which will have to be logged at a later date.

Meanwhile, I'd come round, showered and refreshed myself and decided to take myself off down the Merton High Street for a haircut as me and the boys had an appointment with Arsene Wenger's kids at Cardiff the next day.

Now, I usually opt for a number one all round the lower half, tapered to a nice finish with a number two over the top, in short, a good old fashioned short back and sides. I've got my usual barber up the road toward Wimbledon, but I thought I'll try somewhere on the Merton high Street.

I skillfully avoided this place as the signs weren't so good...

Half an hour later, I emerged feeling like a new man, clean, Shaven and ready for anything. Thoughts turned toward Sunday, this was a big day in my footballing calendar, The Carling Cup Final. The match was to played out in Cardiff, I'd already planned well ahead, the pre - arrangment was to meet the boys at North Acton station at 8.30am Sunday. Big Dave had hired a people carrier to take us to Newport, from there we would take the train to Cardiff in time for an ale or two and in we go.

Perfect Planning Prevents Piss Poor Performance - The 6 P's

A little ditty I borrowed from my ex military brother, in this case take out the words perfect, planning, prevents and oh, performance. You're left with piss poor...the blame for this I lay squarely at the door of my friend Steve Ridgewell who cajoled me into joining the beer log in the first place. Anyway, I digress, I was rudely awoken on Sunday morning by the mobile bleating urgently, it was Boicey, Eamonn (Boicey) Price "Hello, Draper!, where the fuck are you then?"...10 seconds elapsed before the penny dropped, and then, my friends, there was hell to pay.

The Mrs forced me out of the sack, my brain felt as though it was stuck to the pillow, it caught up with me in the lounge where it found me beating my fists onto the carpet. And then the pain, the brain docking pain of morning after reality, hit hard, very hard. From somewhere close I heard the theme tune to "Tales Of The Unexpected"... It was Boicey on the phone, "get a cab!, get a cab you *£%*!, meet us at the M4 slip road off Kew Bridge"...my wife by this time was being as helpful as she could, finding my socks, boxer's and pointing out where all and sundry was that I needed to take with me. Including of course my wallet, bless her, I'd only promised her the night before that I would see her right for a few quid and "The Fookin' Basta" was going to see to it that he kept to his word. So off we went to the cash point whereupon we parted, I left the wife with a smile on her face, vital.

The relevance of this card will become clear very soon. Although quite how, after I had intercepted the chaps at the M4 slip road just off Kew Bridge, I wasn't to know until later that day. I'd paid my cabbie the princely some of £25.00 nicker to get me to Kew, I was in no fit state to debate the fare and judging by my driver I would have been foolish to even try. He was dressed in a Crombie and driving a Chrysler that looked not unlike a Bentley, Dave was a man of few words and seemed far more interested in my back round than me in his. If there is a Morden Mafia then Dave is it's Tony Soprano. I was greeted with a volley of abuse from the chaps but this was to be expected. It was after I took my place in the back of the people carrier that I discovered this playing card in my back pocket.

All kinds of thoughts crossed my mind as we hurtled down the M4. Big Dave the driver was trying to make up for lost time whilst I was trying make up for my lost mind, with the possibility that there was a contract out on me from last night's capers. Did I venture anywhere else?, I asked myself, has the the wife's tether finally snapped?, could it have been Dave of the Morden Mafia?...all kinds of thoughts were crossing my mind as we passed vehicle after vehicle decked out in each clubs respective colours. The plan was to park at Newport, close to the railway station and take a train to Cardiff. This, apparently was a fifteen to twenty minute journey...however, as is usual whenever there is a well known and publicised event happening, giving transport operators plenty of time to ensure that the necessary infrastructure is in place, it was almost a non event. The last train to Cardiff was still at Newport with some 2'000 fans marooned at the station, signal problems were being blamed. We decided to cab it instead, even so we missed the kick off although we would have missed the whole of the first half had we relied on the train.

Now I've been told I bare more than a striking resemblance to other people in my time. I wonder, has this happened to any of my readers?, and if so, who have you been compared to?...the reason I bring this up is that during the half time interval, as I made my way to the bar for some light refreshment I was hit with the

"Hey, it's Wayne Hemmingway" line, I did retort that this had been noted once before, to which the response from my humorous new friend was "Yes, and it's been said twice now" followed by guffaws of barrel belly laughs and requests for fashion tips from his mates, come to think of it, this guy didn't look un - like Les Dennis. I've also in my time been compared with Herbert Lom and Harry Hill. Hardly Paul Newman but one cannot have everything.

Celery, celery...yes, for you Chelsea folk it's the celery song. Along with leeks, celery was the most popular vegetable in Cardiff last Sunday. The highlight was seeing Cesc Fabrigas virtually buried under a pile of celery when he went to take a corner at the Chelsea end. We were all gleefully smattered with celery throughout the duration of the match, it was also trodden underfoot on the streets and pavements around the Millennium Stadium before and after the game. A sure sign that there had been hoardes of Chelsea fans in the vicinity. The picture below right is of Dorothy's Fish and Chip shop, apparently the finest chippie in Cardiff.

Professionalism is the their middle name (s), well done boys. Honest fayre, honestly priced. (quite frankly a rarity these days)...

Now, I've got to say, the welsh know how to have a good time, I kid you not. Before we left our watering hole for the journey back to London I went to relieve my bladder which meant going downstairs, where I chanced upon the basement bar of this fine establishment.

I was greeted by a scene that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Tarrantino film. In the midst of the dim light and sweat was a rather portly bare chested chap, gyrating confidently to the strains of...

(Tom, you're a one off....thank you from everyone)

I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window

I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind

She was my woman

As she deceived me I watched and went out of my mind

My, my, my, delilah Why, why, why, delilah

I could see that girl was no good for me

But I was lost like a slave that no man could free

At break of day when that man drove away, I was waiting

I crossed the street to her house and she opened the door

She stood there laughing, I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my delilah

Why, why, why delilah

So before they come to break down the door

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

She stood there laughing

I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my, delilah

Why, why, why, delilah

So before they come to break down the door

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

Forgive me delilah I just couldnt take any more

The End

PS: The card proved to be an omen...

the blues won 2-1