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