Bromptons & Beers

Dennis shudders as the cold bites through his camel hair coat on a cold June afternoon, a flicker in his mind sends him back to when summer was a thing and and there was a time you could go outside without an FFP2 digging into the flesh in his now hollow, once full cheeks, due to the food shortages and endless wait for restocking. Rain droplets gather on his safety goggles that he can see racing each other down the lenses, through the steam generated by his breath, despite the promise of "anti-fogging" treatments from the digital outlet he bought them from with a government discount coupon. He had waited seven weeks for these. The slow rumble of the now few vehicles doesn't help with his lack of patience. Where are they going? Why can't it wait? Two in at a time, standing on a grey street, waiting. The only colour, the once vibrant, now faded signs on the billboards, advertising the latest blockbusters, deals and must haves from the society that seems a long time

As you peel your eyelid off of the pillow and attempt to use the piece of inflated sandpaper you have replaced your tongue with to cry out for help, it does feel as though the word may have ground to a halt. The likelihood of this is slim, you are just hungover. Somewhere between the seventh pint and the twelfth you realised that you had superpowers. An inhuman ability to inhale ethanol based beverages. Tequila was a good choice, it makes you happy after all? Alas, as Newton's third law states, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, what goes up must come down. Tequila then also makes you sad, or does it? Back to the pillow. You have managed to locate the phone you smashed on the floor outside the kebab/chicken/insert relevant fried epicurean delight shop last night and realise that you have been woken up early, not by your alarm, but by a sharp spike of hormones flying through your fragile body from the adrenal gland. This is the fear my friend. What the fuc

No one actually likes "craft" beers. That is a fact. There are 3 types. Rocket Fuels, Grapefruits and plain shit. Rocket fuel beers are made as strong as possible for no other reason than the brewer is an alcoholic with a penchant for discovering oblivion at the end of his garden, in a shed, reminiscing about the good old days. This bloke remembers when freddos were less than a fiver and Polish was something you put on your shoes, not the perfectly polite family at the end of the road who he is jealous of. He is jealous because his wife has left him due to his blatant alcoholism and his feeble attempt at covering it up by making Ye Olde Tongue Stripper in an old bath. This lead him to vote in favour of Brexit. Grapefruits, these are usually made by mid level management types just on the wrong side of 45, who have realised the futility of everything they have done up to now and cannot afford a Porsche. They bandy about words like "heady" and  "IPA" havi

Its pissing with rain and it is dark. Hardly surprising as it is 730am in mid-November, in London. However, I am still smiling like the Cheshire cat because I am about to embark on my first ever commute by Brompton. Thats right! I have shed the shackles of single speed hipster cycling and become "one of those cyclists". I did my usual morning ritual of running about trying to find my wallet/keys/pants... and then rushed out of the house ready to jump on my bike. Right. One snag. I need to unfold it first. This is simple and really useful as my eternally patient fiance will attest to, as there are now less bikes cluttering up the living room (or there will be when I finally sell them). Brenda (yes I name my bikes, feel free to judge) neatly sits behind the sofa out of sight. After a bit of fucking about, I finally got the front wheel to be facing frontwards (always handy) and the rest of the bike basically clicks into place. Et Voila! We are off. Without a doubt I have n