Saturday 8th April 2017.
Madame Cholet’s burrow on Grange Road accepts paying guests under precarious terms. The key to the front door, for instance, mysteriously withheld. We negotiated a testy agreement to a midnight curfew. Andy Lev crouched poised behind a convenient wheel arch, in case things got gnarly.
Boozy late afternoon’s work of sun and supping. The Grand National. The Nag’s Head beer garden, galloping poppycock.
My duck starter, oddly spiceless and unmarinated – same too my lamb chop main. The general opinion ho hum. Perhaps the long table of twenty-two boisterous beefcakes, still hot from scrummages and wet flannel lashings, distracted the old sensorium. It was a bruising cacophony.
A word for the Landlady of the Jolly Brewers whose sage instructions with regard the hand drier in the gents averted a soggy sayonara. Not a single incriminating wet palm print on a trouser seat pocket.
Judge ‘Gonzo’ Pickles
Fred ‘Skippy’ Pickles