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Home Run

Oh Dear, Mrs Englishman and the Englishettes have gone away for the weekend leaving me alone for the weekend. Mr FM promises to come over tomorrow to try out his Mauser but to while away the empty hours I happened to pass the King's Arms (officially home of the world's best pint) where they were broaching a cask of limited edition Wadworth's Porter. A Dickensian drink I have never had here on draft before. It was smooth, dark, sweet and chocolatey, with smoky aromas, like Nina Simone in a glass, or licking between Josephine Baker's breasts in the early hours. An hour or two later I have wandered home to find The Colditz Story on the box. Sheer Heaven.

Before I sink into a stupor in front of the roaring fire and whilst the 16 oz fillet steak chambres, before a quick burning on the Aga like St. Joan, let me reminisce about when my father was a POW and they wound up the Italian goons in transit camp by whistling the Cuckoo Dance as they tried to smartly change the guard....

Comments

Probably the best posting you have ever made: a totty picture and blog heaven is complete.

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