Tag Archives: beer

Applause

I live opposite a pub – which would be great if, a) I was deaf, b) I could afford to drink, and c) it wasn’t full of morons. Unfortunately, none of these things are true, so instead of going there I usually content myself to lie in bed in the small hours of the morning, listening to the drunken patrons screaming at each other like taxi-seeking monkeys, entertaining me with loud stories of the time they flung their favourite poo at a fellow monkey before trying to get it into a threesome with a genetically not-dissimilar kebab.

But Miss-Matic and I had a guest to stay the other day, so we scoured the back of the sofa for enough loose-change to show him the sights and sounds of our small town, starting by going across the road for a drink.

Upon arriving in the pub, pre-lubricated with wine and beer and the smell of a suspicious vodka that I didn’t allow closer than arm’s length, we discovered that a band was playing to a bunch of locals and their mothers. A girl with reddy-pink or pinky-red hair was screaming into a microphone. I couldn’t really discern what she was singing, but she sounded rather angry.

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A Lack of Enthusiasm for Teleportation

Recently I went with some friends to a lovely country pub, to eat fish and chips on a Friday night, while the beautiful British summer howled against the window panes and soaked up the legs of my trousers.

They were some of the best fish and chips I’ve had. The fish was a giant slab of cod that clearly came from the body-building champion of the cod world. It was delightfully battered and tasty, and the chips were huge and chunky, salted and vinegared – the kind of chips seagulls have wet-dreams about, not those pathetic skinny things people (yes, Americans, I’m talking to you) call fries.

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A Tale of Drunken Celebration and Annoying Repetition

*Warning. This post contains a first-person account of an evening under the influence of alcohol. Such material is only of interest to person or persons who experienced those events. Do not read.*

I completed the final stage of my dissertation process the other day. My 58-page, 13,000 word report had been submitted, and all I had to do next was present my project to others, explain and demonstrate the software tools I had developed, and describe how I had obtained my results.

There was no little amount of stress involved in doing this – especially when my bag decided to vomit my laptop out onto the street just beforehand.

But I’m not here to write about that.

I’m here to write about the aftermath.

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Ash-Matic Does Self-Service

Self-service in super-markets is a wonderful thing. And when I say wonderful, I mean frustrating, error-prone, self-defeating, and shit. Of all the pieces of technology that piss me off, only printers are worse than these fuck-wit self-service machines.

Last night I was in my local supermarket, wishing to purchase the following items:

  • A crate of cheap cider – destined to pollute the lovely Miss-Matic’s stomach.
  • A couple of bottles of Indian beer; one Mongoose, and one Cobra. These two babies were going to battle it out for my affection.
  • A cake, made of layers of white and red stuff (or maybe red and white stuff – I forget).

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