A GAME OF TWO HALVES or THE BEER FESTIVAL PART ONE (3/4)

3:30
They had Salopian's Oracle on and it was in good form as always. I took my drink upstairs for a rooftop smoke. It was windy but I managed. I took a big swig of my pint of fruity floral golden bliss and looked up at the clouds. I remembered with glee the man beginning with, ahem, V, and how he once told me to read a certain sci-fi novel. "It's the greatest book ever," he declared, to which I laughed and questioned, "what, better than the movie?"
It was then I was apprehended by a glass collector, "Are you OK, Sir?"
Talking to myself again. My biggest fear was that the man beginning with Z didn't turn up, he never fails to bring along complete madness with him. After noticing a sniggering couple looking at me, I supped up and went in search for the real beerfest, keeping one eye over my shoulder for.... Him.

5:30
I had a sneaky whisky for the road and my instincts took me back to the decrepit football ground. This time there was an even bigger queue to get in. A special needs overweight ogre in a security jacket, leather man bag and some kind of earpiece stood snarling at everyone. He looked the part. I finally got in and found a cracking cherry mild. Then it happened.

Stood minding my own business in the outside terrace, two haunting figures glided in to view and stopped right in front of me. It was Zip! And this time he'd brought with him a vagrant known only as Krusty Ken. Krusty Ken has permed hair that hangs halfway down his back. When he turns his head drops of some kind of brown slime fly everywhere. He chews chewing tobacco which drools into his empty pint glass. When it's full he looks for someone who's drinking dark ale and switches with them when they're not looking. He calls it the old cockadoodledoo based on the average victim's reaction. He prides himself on being constantly drunk yet never bought a pint in his life, or won a bet in his life; the bookies love him. The football team that used to play at this very ground have been begging him to sign up with them and this gives him a great enthusiasm for life in general, despite being unlucky, down - and - out by nature and penniless. And he can't play football.

"John boy! Long time no see," Zip initiated.

Krusty wiggled his eyebrows at me in a knowing fashion. I looked to Zip for some sense.
"And I've brought this fine specimen with me."

I shook their hands and the vagrant belched. I noted his flowery shirt.
During some general chit chat and catch up, the vagrant enacted his cockadoodledoo trick on the poor bald man stood behind me. Asked him, inquisitively, "So, vagrant, how's work?"
The bald man spat his drink out: "What the hell!"

All hell broke loose. Baldy got me in a headlock. Zip poked Baldy's mate in the eye. The vagrant's grassy locks got caught around someone else's neck. The scuffle spilled into the pitch and someone threw a football on. Zip flew up the wing and Baldy came in with a sliding tackle, which Zip dodged with ease. He squared the ball to Krusty. Krusty nutmegged Baldy's mate. The crowd were going wild, 'vagrant, vagrant, vagrant...' He passed to me. I had an open goal. I shot. I missed. Baldy got the rebound and scored. His mate held him aloft and carried him off the pitch.

I was ordered onto the sub's bench but I spat my dummy out and went for another drink.
Mongo the security guard spotted me at the bar and asked me to leave so I made a sharp exit. I went to a couple of other pubs, who served me, and somehow ended up back at home.


19:00-22:00
And so it began, and was surprisingly busy even at this early hour.  I glazed lovingly across the headers searching for something fruity and then another wonderful memory splashed across my mind, Quantum were here.

I sped feverishly towards ‘Q’ hoping for a mountain of delicious beer offerings and I was not disappointed; 6 supreme ales to choose from (which for those of you not in the know is a superb turnout for a brewery!).

14 pints later…

Myself, The Grey One, JT, PT, TT and GTi all present and with a bunch of brown sticks knocking around and fruity air-cobblers in full flow, things were mighty fine.  Conversations ranged from the ludicrous to the omnipotent with jesting the main currency of verbal exchange, and with the copious amount of beer being swigged such as Quantum’s UK Light (3.6), Mandarina Bavaria Pa (4.5) and Citra/Amarillo IPA (5.5), my tastebuds were satisfied handsomely.

Another 9 pints later…

With a comedy football match later and verbal competence now clearly an issue (plus the influx of even more part-time plebs in the venue) certain members of the posse were developing itchy toes and with the amusingly fruity, although largely pointless, contretemps between JT, PT, TT and GTi regarding the whereabouts of the Unicorn pub in Stockport, and whether the Ultras would be there this night, only myself and The Grey One remained… or so I thought.

THE FAILED ATTEMPT or QUICK ONE, UP THE HILL AND ENTER (2/4)

11:00

Instead of the proper seven percenter, I chose a session strength IPA which was quite forgettable. That's it.

Three men with huge beards walked through the door and as I watched them bound face first through the pub I stifled my laughter through gritted teeth, then realised this made me look crazy. Nobody in weatherspoons seemed to notice though. In a vain attempt to look accustomed to the place I sifted through a copy of Opening Times. I read about someone's pub crawl, which was rather one dimensional, factual yet unbelievable. Glad I wasn't on that little non adventure, I thought. Then I found and advert for the beerfest. I supped up, and caught the tramp truck to Stockport.

The Jolly Crofter is a bit of a shit hole. The locals speak a strange tongue and the choice of ales is either John Smiths or Boddingtons. I decided the latter was the lesser evil and thankfully it was so cold I could not taste it at all. I promptly moved on.

I knew the general direction of the goal and followed the other 28 days later freaks. We followed a dirty brown stream down a ravine until we came to an old disused football ground. There was a large crowd and they were all buying match programmes. I figured I would have a few pints until the match kicked off and then move on. I had about six pints waiting for that game to start before the announcement for half time. Confused, I moved on to the magnet.  JT

18:00-19:00
Beer beer and more beer. Having quickly quaffed 3 pints of Manchester’s best bitter in a local hostelry in 20 minutes, I was sorely tempted to keep the pace up alone but before I knew it and I was off down the road to the nearest tramp truck stop to catch a horse and cart up to the festival.

As I stood waiting for transport I began day-dreaming of what a delicious solo venture might have been like; pint after pint in warmth, peace and quiet, the Opening Times under arm and thoughts of what my next screenplay masterpiece will be about.  Such thoughts were soon dispelled as the wagon pulled in, I got on and greeted Krusty with an open palm: “Salutations!” I beckoned to all and sundry before squatting beside The Grey One.

Succeeding a sun-baked 30 minutes of important discourse and the rampant 'sniffing-up' of peasant fumes, it was time to get off and start the arduous walk through the squalor of Edgeley village.  Sheeeeeeeeet.

A few moments of stomping later I had to slow the pace as The Grey One began struggling with the incline. ‘It’s disgusting how we treat our elderly these days’ I thought, 'making them walk up steep hills like this', but then it dawned on me; the hill was the test, it was the hard slog we had to endure so that the first pint would be the sweetest and most delicious of the week, it had to be earned then enjoyed like a farrier after a hard days hoofing.

In this mindset, the stomp soon breezed by and as I approached the steps with the Grey One on my back and the wind in my hair, we coughed up the beer tokens for entry and marched straight to the bar.  ZIP

THE PILGRIMAGE or HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE BEER (1/4)

10:00
The previous weekend I had put myself through some pretty rigourous training. Having been sober a couple of days now I felt as ready as I could be. The big day had arrived and I was about to embark on the annual pilgrimage. All those raised glasses towards the divine south east felt justified: blessed is the beerfest. My particular morning ritual consisted of a warm-up pint in weatherspoons but first, the shave.

Hardware: Simpson brush in best badger, 'the colonel'; Merkur 38c DE razor, loaded with Polsilver Super Iridium blades.

Software: Tabac soap, grated and pushed into an empty wooden Geo F Trumper's bowl (coconut); Pinaud Clubman Virgin Island Bay Rum Aftershave Splash; Nivea Sensitive fragrance-free aftershave balm; Nautica Voyage edt.

Now it was time to commence the most sacred of traditions, the year-long wait was over and the most traditional of men's age-old traditional things was pulling my trouser leg and holding up a beer, begging 'drink, drink'. Whilst stood admiring my own handiwork in the mirror, however, I had unwittingly been caught up in conversation with myself about politics. I have been told that I'm getting 'better' and making 'slow progress'. My time in weatherspoons was drawing near, a cultural, historical convention of immense importance and I abruptly snapped out of my self-indulgence when my dad shouted up the stairs, "Do you want a lift or what?" JT


17:01 - 18:00
After a hideous time of wiping arses in work all day I’d originally assumed that the insurmountable misery the working week had brought me would have had finally rendered me dead by Friday evening.  Alas, and to my saviour, the best memory I’d recalled in a long time banished such negativity, aches and pains and informed me that soul-affirming revivification could be found in the squalid suburbs of Stockport town tonight, on the old haunted grounds of the legendary ‘Stockport County Ultras’, the mighty Stockport Beer Festival 2015.

The rush of thoughts of beer and mayhem flooded my mind like fresh river water down an old dusty creek, but it was only just 5.00pm and the venue was still closed.  An inconvenience I thought, with an obvious and easy remedy, but with an evening of potential magnificence on the cards was it worth whetting the whistle before the main event, spoiling my sobriety too soon, and beginning the transcendence into foamy heaven alone?

It’s never too early for beer. The question was ridiculous.

And so after a moment trouser-checking I was off down the street, on a public wagon full of plebs, for a quick pint of goodness with the aim of stimulating my mind and finances for the forthcoming bludgeon of beer.  ZIP