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