9th July – I’ve lost interest in the Olympic Games since this morning, when I discovered the identity of the official beer. Heineken. Heineken! The Powers That Be are desperately trying to engage our National Pride, and what do they offer? A Dutch fizzy lager. However, the chap from Heineken did reassure us that there is an official Olympic Ale. I waited with anticipation. Maybe Speckled Hen from Suffolk? Yorkshire Black Sheep? London Pride? No. John Smiths. John Smiths is not an ale. It’s what you mix with lemonade in a shandy. It’s what you get at a wedding in an occasionally used bar in a hotel function room. My view of John Smiths is that its best to cut out the middle man, and pour it straight down the loo. The trouble is that if the Olympic visitors head for the London tourist spots, they will only find John Smiths. I know this. Not long ago Steven promised me a real ale pub overlooking Covent Garden. It served John Smiths and ice cold Guinness. At least I was distracted by a young lady below our balcony who was doing odd things with hoops while wearing her feet behind her ears.
After the young lady had untangled herself we found a some excellent London Pride only a block away from the tourist route. Someone needs to give suitable advise to the Olympic Visitors. And to Steven.
Technically we live in Oaktree House, but sadly the tree had to go.
We now have a thriving Oakstump at the front of the house.
