Last Friday, we had a bit of a hoo-haa at Meadhall in Cambridge, to celebrate a spanking-new beer book by Josh Bernstein of Brooklyn, NY. The book is called Brewed Awakening, and it’s fun, interesting and full of both factual and personal-perspective kind of stuff.
Anyway, that’s the advert, but more important was the fun. We had a good old time drinking 2010 OFR (Our Finest Regards: 2011 barleywine launching at Publick House on 16th November!!), Babayaga, Baby Tree, Jack D’Or and St Botolph’s Town. This is quite a line up for Pretty Things.
Thanks everyone for coming. It was a ball! As part of the proceedings, we had a story writing corner where folks added a single sentence to a story. As usual at such Pretty Things creative events, the results were incoherent, funny, and inconceivably creepy in equal measure. Also, impressively, the start of it all rhymes! (the end is a bit weird, but by then let’s just say it was understandable). The photo shows you the work in all its glory, and the full text, should you choose to read it, is below:
It was a cold night for babies to be drinking. That got the constable to thinking.
What was drawing the babies into the bar? Was it the signs, blinking? He could hear the shouts, and glasses clinking.
Constable Bob, he was befuddled. What kind of baby likes to get muddled?
Then he saw blood becoming puddled.Ack! Perhaps the mysterious force drawing these babies into the bar was hungry for a fresh, young meal.
A mist then set itself over the pub, leading the assembled, drunken masses to reconsider whether they have actually ever seen huddled, muddled, blood puddled masses in the first instance.
But, they were mistaken. The babies felt this as a bright yellow sun showed itself in the distance.
Babies, to evil forces, have a remarkable resistance.
Constable Bob has seen it all coming: the babies, with their backs against the wall, demonstrated what Bob had known all along: Nobody puts babies in a corner.Bewildered and blinking, Constable Bob queried the babes, “What beer should I partake?” They cried, “Drink them all!” and Bob wept, for once, he HAD drunk them all, and was forced to buy a liver on the black market. It was QUITE expensive. Little did he know, the liver purchased was that of Behan. “This liver, it is cursed!” he stated, but alas, it was too late. For he had slaked his thirst with the beer that had immersed a feeling within him.
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