Drinking tales

Yesterday morning when I woke up, although quite whether awake accurately describes the state I was in is somewhat debatable, I found two unusual items in the pockets of my coat. The first of these items was an empty beer bottle, but not just any beer bottle, it was an empty St. Peter's Brewery beer bottle. For the uninitiated, and those who can't be bothered to follow links, St. Peter's Brewery is a cool little Suffolk brewery who make a selection of really rather good beers, and they sell them in, what are quite frankly, very sexy bottles.

(In a quick aside, I was thoroughly amazed to discover a bar in Columbus that sold beer from this tiny little brewery from back home. I was particularly amazed as I only know of one or two bars in London that regularly stock St. Peter's beer — one of which, the Head of Steam, I feel the occasional pang of nostalgia/longing for — and here I am in the wilds of Ohio and I stumble upon a place that sells it. I'd do a jig if I was that way inclined.)

The second unusual item I found in my pocket was the key to someone else's apartment. Now, I must confess, when I found these two things in my semiconscious (read semi-drunk) state on Monday morning it did take me a few minutes to piece together exactly what I'd done the previous evening to acquire them. If I'd only had a couple of extra beers, I imagine my confusion would have lasted a good deal longer than a couple of minutes. After all, obscure English beer bottles and keys to other people's apartments are not everyday items to find in your pockets after a night on the lash. Come to think about it, even after completely sobering up I'm not entirely sure why it is I have the key.

Yesterday's post work highlight, I can't think of any during work highlights, involved my first brush with Columbus's finest. Well it wasn't really my brush, more the driver of the car I was in's brush. But the nice police officer did want to see my ID when he saw I wasn't wearing the lap belt part of my seat belt (of course, I'm pretty sure he didn't have a clue what to do with my UK driving license when he saw it, but no-one does over here it seems). In the words of Bill Hick's the driver then got to audition for his freedom. I was very impressed when he passed the audition, as I swear even stone cold sober I'd probably fail one of those tests. Fortunately, the police officers clearly hadn't heard Bill's routine and at no point was any forced to do a flip, say the alphabet backwards or stick their dick in an exhaust pipe. (Oh by the way, Bill Hick's — hilarious)