Scran

It's rare my people from The North adventure this far South. I don't blame them. The land is flatter. The politicians are fatter. Yet my friend Martin has made the journey for a work thing. Which means a band thing. Which means some beer things.

One could see it has a regression, a sinking back into beery old ways, but sometimes that is what the soul needs. So that is what the soul gets. We will explore the delights of the Bermondsey Beer Mile and we will relive our youth, albeit through olden eyes.

I feel like I am not shutting the fuck up about Christmas food. BUT, this morning was the last of the hand made sausages. In soft factory spaffed buns. A slither of mustard, a splatter of brown. Juicy. Delicious.

Is lunch 'lunch' when you're 3 beers deep and starving at 4pm? I think so. We landed in "It ain't much if it ain't Dutch". An annoyingly named Dutch beer importer's taproom. It felt like being in Amsterdam, sipping too-strong beers and snaffling cheese and deep fried croquette items.

The cheese was meh, the bitterballen were as expected. We do not complain in the company of spheroid croquetted beef roux, we only drink, eat and be merry.

Tonight we indulge in "good crap chinese" food. Not the kind of food we know to be Chinese, but the sweet thickened fried nonsense that caters to our unsophisticated pallet. Whatever. There is a time and a place and they are here and now.