The Colonial Bar

A local landlord who gets some strange ideas into his head has decided to take on a pub closer to the town centre. For some reason, he’s decided to rename it the Colonial Bar. Fair enough; that’s up to him. The pub has always been in the centre of the Midlands and has never associated itself with any type of exploratory or naval history; and he would be better off keeping that kind of theme in his current pub as it’s closer to the canal. But how he has associated luxury dining with colonial times is beyond me. You want pilgrims in hats and captains of the British Empire looking for a table to lay out their maps. These people look like they’re getting ready for dinner for an evening cruise or are on their way to a jazz club. The artwork actually fits the new premises as you can picture the stained-glass windows in the pub. The name however, does not. 

My Neighbour Gollum #dreamdiary31

My neighbour next door lives in a hut. It’s not really a house; just a bunch of sticks constructed into a shelter on a piece of grass. His garden consists of discarded tins, papers, and rotting food, all of which is randomly dotted around the overgrown lawn. As you hang on the edge debating with yourself as to whether to set foot on his turf to persuade him to tidy up a bit; you get a sense of something present watching you inside the hut. A small steady burst of steam is streaming up into the sky; and you can smell plastic fumes filtering out into the neighbourhood. There seems to be a lot of movement around the hut; and it’s hard to say whether it’s some rodent come to investigate this new intruder or the man himself. Finally he rises, wearing only a loin cloth, and stares at you with large unblinking eyes.

Boot Repton Cross at the Boot, Repton

We pull into the sleepy village of Repton in Derbyshire and invade the first pub we see. It’s on a narrow road, and at the same time traffic is trying to overtake our bus so it’s a stagnated entry. But once we’re inside, we find ourselves in a modern pub with a shoehorse bar. We begin to crowd ourselves around large high tables which have easy access to the bar, and begin deciding which of the five ales on sale that we’re going to try first. All the ales are brewed on-site; though the brewery is closed today so all we can do is see the vats by peering through a window in a barn outside the pub. The young and attractive bar staff are eager to please us and they certainly know their way around the hand pumps. The beers are well-kept and are very refreshing. I tried their Repton Cross which was a session beer and an IPA.

Cloud Eight

If you’ve completed the seven steps to heaven and you’re trying to reach a state of euphoria on cloud nine; then there’s just one more gateway that you need to pass; the pearly gates. But those of us who work there call it by another name: Cloud Eight. We decide who gets admitted; who deserves eternal rest; who deserves to be sent into the pit of fire and who should be sent back for another spell. We have to assess each individual’s achievements and decide who needs more coaching; who has benefitted from their experience and who deserves a rest. It’s ultimately up to St. Peter to decide who should be admitted; and if you haven’t proved yourself worthy then you have to state your case to The Lord. So it’s up to the rest of us to check that all their paperwork is in order; or in disorder if there’s no chance of forgiveness. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it!

Green Jack Lurcher at the Rising Sun, Redditch

Lurch had been left, well, in the lurch. The man who’d been feeding him scraps for the past week had gone indoors; leaving Lurch out in the rain. He’d decided to stay outside as he didn’t want to lose track of the man; but it was also raining and there was nowhere for him to take shelter. He’d tried burrowing underneath a dumpster but he couldn’t stand the smell that protruded from above him. And so he’d taken to aimlessly wander in circles; occasionally stopping to sniff at a passer-by in the hope that they would give him some food. All the humans seemed very busy darting about in their trench coats and umbrellas carrying various bags; probably to find some sort of shelter. But Lurcher had nowhere to go, just like the man who was feeding him. Where was he anyway? It started to get colder and colder and the wind picked up. Then a gate swung open beside the pub as someone dashed out into the abyss. Lurcher creeped forward, hoping to find somewhere dry for the night. 

The Goofy Guy #dreamdiary30

I’ve just finished assembling my display for the big showcase. It’s a beautiful sunny day and everything is built up, polished and ready to go in the nick of time. The crowd are milling around waiting for the event to open. And there in the front row is the Goofy Guy. I don't want to discriminate against people, but from first glance I know that something's going to go very wrong as soon as he approaches the velvet robe. There's no air of misdemeanour about him, instead he displays a simple expression of curiosity. But one single touch will mean instant catastrophe. I'm begging for him to not come over before the judges start their rounds but there's no stopping his thought process. I can hear the calamity getting closer and closer with each footstep. There's a pause as he takes out his guidebook to examine what is in front of him. Perhaps I should go up and strike a conversation and put myself between harm’s way? Too late.

Decanter Decanted

I was a bit disappointed with my first visit to Bromsgrove’s newest high street independent off-licence; or so it seemed at the time of my visit. There were racks rather than stacks which made a pleasant change for an off-licence, but it was more of a showcase than a shopping experience. While the displays looked very nice; there was very little in the way of choice with only one whole bay dedicated to the good stuff. Just opposite, there was a huge range of bottled cider of both fruit and concentrate varieties; and beyond that was a section of glassware and upmarket children’s drinks. The front of the shop was dedicated to displaying unusual spirits in attractive bottles. The shop’s manager was quite pleasant to chat to but she did leave the front for an alarming amount of time; time enough for anyone to make a quick getaway. I’m also under the impression that she’s a franchisee of an off-licence chain. I wish them well but I do hope that they get some beers in from further afield.