Sat 3rd Jan 2009

It was a usual Saturday night's drinking in the pub. On any other week, this is usually something to look forward to after days of hard (and sometimes not so hard) work. But for some reason, tonight I had a sense of inescapable melancholy hanging over me. Maybe it was because this weekend evening of alcohol indulgence simply followed on from other consecutive nights of Christmas and New Year alcohol indulgence, so it didn't seem like such a deserved reward as it does on other Saturdays. Maybe it was the fact that this evening somehow signalled the end of the Xmas festivities, of which I annually look forward to as an oasis of calm away from the world of work, and yet always passes in the blink of an eye. Maybe it was because I'd noticed the landlord had took down the plaque from over the bar which stated in big engraved letters, "FREE BEER".

Yes that's right. When you first see it, you can't help but be aghast. "Free Beer?" you ask, "How can this be? Surely the landlord will go out of business if he is not financially remunerated for his liquid produce. This is commercial suicide. I seriously question the man's mental health". It is only when you look at the sign closely that you notice the clever twist - smaller letters beneath this over-generous proclamation, saying "tomorrow". "Of course!" You realise that even if you do come in tomorrow, the sign will make the same promise again, and then again the next day, and then again and again until you finally realise that this 'tomorrow' is merely a hypothetical construct which never actually arrives. Initially you feel a bit cheated that you will never get your free beer, but can't help forgiving this detail because your sides are too busy erupting with uncontrollable laughter to feel angered by the landlord's false promise. Why has he removed this plaque and banished this joyous tease from the customers?

Rather typically, it is only now the sign has gone that I have realised a water-tight plan to procure that ever-elusive free beer. Had it been there yesterday, I could have taken a cameraphone photo of myself in front of it reading a clearly dated newspaper. Then today I would have the necessary dated evidence to argue his plaque as a legal promise with which to finally claim my complimentary beverage.

But then I'm not sure if an unfulfilled plan to get a free beer is really enough to be responsible for my dour mood. Whatever the reason is, it certainly wasn't aided by the final score of today's Kidderminster vs. Coventry game. The Harriers lost 2-0, meaning that Connie's banana loaf had absolutely no magical properties after all.

I suppose I was what you might call a 'fair-weather' supporter. I tried my best, but I'm simply not cracked up to be a football fan.
My enthusiasm for the game was spectacularly short-lived, but to be honest, there just seems too much disappointment and heartache involved for me to make a full-time career out of it. Why was this sweet old lady such a cheating charlatan? I can't really get to grips with her deceit. Mind you, I suppose it's for the best. Had the magic loaf been real, no doubt some 12th century Catholics would have assumed Connie was a witch and insisted she be burned at the stake.

That's the trouble with these 12th Century Catholics; they're always trying to burn people at the stake.