Makes a better title than “Finishing East Sussex at Brighton Bier Haus“, anyway.
A lively end to the night in Brighton, the seafront full of revellers who had apparently run a few miles or got their tatts done, possibly not at the same time.
I’d actually convinced myself I’d been to the Brighton Bierhaus, before, but that was the Brighton Beer Dispensary or Brighton Brewhouse or summat.
Could it live up to expectations as my last county tick?
Despite increasing the average age by 12.3 years and being the only punter not drowning in student debt or with a beard, I felt right at home.
Mainly because I could actually read the pump clips that said things like “bier“.
“Pint of Bier please“. Not hard, is it.
You can’t beat fresh crisp pale beer, and this one was notably popular with the students who complain in What’s Brewing about lacings on old people’s beer.
OK, it was high tables. But they gave an Etihad style view of the action as a drunk bloke attempted to impress the lasses by falling off his stool. Never worked for me.
“I am basically Jesus”
“Rhianna’s got a whole plan to rid me of my kneecaps”
As an exercise in oneupmanship it was certainly inventive.
I resisted their Pizzamythomyorke, wanting no surprises on my toppings, and headed for the Laines for my sweet and sour pork.
Then back via the backstreets.
Where I stayed awake just long enough to colour in my GBG, and then slept the sleep of the just.