Bromptons & Beers

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