Dear God,
Beer tippers, BEER TIPPERS! This is a heinous crime indeed, up there with child molesting and round dodging.
I had forgot all about this phenomenon, and was reminiscing with Mrs H the other night, as she was funnelling me infield.
During our wooing period, I had been invited out to meet a few of her men friends in a bar in central Birmingham, in which was obviously some kind of test. We started off having a fine session, and then later in the evening I spot this t-wat sneaking his pint of Guinness, which I'd just bought him, under the table and tipping it on to the floor.
My jaw was slack with amazement, I'd never seen such a thing. What does a man do? My instinct was to wring the carpet out and pour it down his throat, but unfortunately it was a night where I was out to impress. These are rarified circles in which I frequent after all. In hindsight, maybe I should have taken AZ's lead with his response to the llama farmer.
I have to confess though, to leaving a few 'confused beers' about the place. You know how it is, you're half way through a drop and put it down to do a little dance, (make a little lurv, get down and out), and can't find it when you return, bow-legged. So you open another, convinced it will be 'fresh', and then it all happens again. And again.
Cold beer is the holy grail though, every time we've tried an alternative it's been a disaster. The Continental bitter had a limited 'clean weapon' tactical effect. The property was left ok, but nothing else was standing. A brief flirtation with a bottle of Lagavulin one year was closely followed by the 'Clarkson Incident' where I was lucky not to get beaten up by a couple of heavy looking chaps. Three bottles of red wine induced a severe, and never experienced before, bout of kleptomania. On the Saturday morning I found myself better equipped for the race than some of the teams.
Nurse, the wet towels please.
H