Enough of this live blogging from Manhattan.
Back to the knitting. Chucking duff halves of Otter in plant pots in Somerset.
Note the exclusive video evidence.
It gets a bit dull after 5 seconds, as I forgot to turn off the camera, but you get the idea.
Hands up who knew where Somerton is?
I’m guessing Somerton will be crawling with horrible Southerners called Emily and Hugh about now, on their way to drink Prosecco at “Glasto” this weekend.
On my visit it was deathly quiet, so quiet even BRAPA’s parents who were staying nearby would have been scared.
It’s a quaint but pointless little village, once the capital of Wessex. Whoopydoo.
What Pub claimed the White Hart would serve me a pint at 9am but we know that’s never going to happen, don’t we?
The smartly dressed young man in posh waistcoat said “Yes Sir“, but looked frankly horrified when I asked for an Otter at 10.30am.
“I can only serve you coffee till 11, Sir”
“I’ll be back” I said, and stormed off to stare at churches and top music events and send a message to local CAMRA.
At 10.59am I was back. The barmaid asked me what I wanted again, on the basis I might have switched allegiance to Amaretto or something, and relieved me of £2.
Nice fireplace, duff seating.
The Otter was dreadful, real butterscotch stuff (NBSS 1.5).
I really should have taken it back. But what do you say?
“This beer has butterscotch notes”
And isn’t that what pubs provide secret gardens for?
(Plants not shown)