What does IPA stand for? By Peter Hammond
"BERRY Christmas," snuffled Maple, a mild-natured, blonde heiress (and BBC2 presenter)."Brent Wood," he replied, by way of introduction."And this is Mr Brown," she continued, "from Boston?"The men shook hands. "Marvellous." Maple concluded, "May I offer you a winter warmer? We have mulled wine, brandy, or perhaps some tea.""Hot XXX Buns!" came a reply, but not from either of the men."Language, Hope and Glory!" cringed Maple. "I do apologise for the parrots; I don't know where they pick it up such words." Burton, Maple's butler, (formerly a lumberjack from the Pacific), entered the room carrying a tray of fruit. "An orange, Madam?" he proposed.
Burton offered Brent a Chestnut. "Stout man," he replied, helping himself.Brent took from his bag a gold coloured cylinder, decorated with the initials IPA. Finding somewhere to open it, he unrolled a painting. Maple put her hands to her mouth, and exclaimed, "The Summer Virgin!"
Maple couldn't say that she liked the work; she thought it was spooky – especially the moon. In particular, She felt uncomfortable with the artist's signature, "Chockwork". However, this was business, and now she'd best pay. Maple took from her fingers, 5 Gold Rings, laid them beside the painting – and the deal was done.Burton entered the room again. "Ah!" said Maple, "Ale." She and the two men raised a glass of beer in conclusion of the transaction.
"By the way," said Mr Brown, in his American drawl. "I've been wondering, what does IPA stand for?"
"End of an Era" – The Elephant Training School By Andrew Tomsett
OLD Frank settled in his favourite seat in the Brave Nelson, gazing lovingly at his pint of Brentwood Best. The frothy head was still at the glass top and the shafts of sunlight through the net curtains pierced the liquid enticingly. He couldn't remember when he had become "Old Frank"; he certainly didn't remember being called "Young Frank" or even "Middle-Aged Frank", but somehow it had happened. He didn't mind; in fact he saw it as a mark of respect that everyone knew him. His favourite pint was practically poured as he came through the door. "Usual, Old Frank?" Mary would say.No answer was needed, just a knowing grin to Mary and the 6pm regulars. He took a large gulp and carefully placed the pint on the table in the ring that the moisture from the beer had created. It had been a good day with the family and his youngest grandson, Billy, had played excitedly. "Did you really ride an elephant, Granddad?" said Billy. One of Old Frank's favourite stories was recounting his days at The Elephant Training School in Warley.He had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, his son raising his eyebrows to the ceiling – not that old chestnut again but what the heck! If you couldn't tell a story when you got old, what could you do?Old Frank took another gulp, sucked the hoppy brew through his teeth and smiled self-indulgently.
Dave By John Cook
SOME say the end of the bar is haunted. "Never stand there," said my bar-leaning colleague as I waved my crisp £5 note at the barmaid, who that seemed to be selecting her next customer to serve based on the cut of their shirt and the age of the head sticking out of it."Why?" I asked"'Coz its were Dave use to sit," he said gesturing over my shoulder. I leaned back to expose affixed to the wall a neatly mounted brass plaque just below the taxi number, with the inscription "this is where Dave sat".Now, I've been drinking beer in this pub for over 30 years and I have to admit I have never heard of Dave. That's strange. I must have bumped into Dave at some point. For one thing it's on the way to the toilet.Dave must have sat in that corner of the bar all his life and certainly all of mine, without me even knowing he was there.He must have been something special to warrant such recognition. A war hero maybe? A good customer or perhaps he once owned the pub.Or was it that his family put it there because they knew that's where he liked to be every night, where he felt comfortable and secure. I suppose the irony is that his plaque after his death is as understated as he was as a person when he was alive.Yeah, that must be it. A packet of crisps with that beer, love.
May's Birthday Party By Julie Mackay
MAY is celebrating her 100th birthday with her family and friends. A smartly dressed young man enters the hall; his stage name is Tyger. Rosie signals to the DJ who plays The Stripper. Tyger starts to gyrate in front of May. The guests gather round and cheer."Yer sixty years too late, young man. I'm a respectable woman these days."Tyger kisses May's hand and then continues his act until he is almost naked. "Well! I reckon my 'usband Alfred is turning in 'is grave.""I'm sorry if I have offended you, Mrs Clark.""Put yer togs back on before ya catch yer death."Tyger is embarrassed dressing in front of everyone! Rosie brings him a beer."Now what's yer real name, darlin'?""It's Elliott.""Much nicer 'an Tyger. Can't ya find a proper job?""I'm a student. I do a bit of stripping between lectures. It pays more than punting.""In my day, youngsters got a paper round. Still you 'ave a very nice body, Elliott." May winks. "Did Rosie put you up to this? Saucy minx.""Yes, she booked me to entertain you. I thought it might be inappropriate, considering your age.""Cheeky beggar! What university are ya at?""Cambridge, King's College.""I remember it well.""What did you study, Mrs Clark?""Listen to yerself. I cleaned that college for thirty years. I'll never forget polishing all them carved panels and heavy furniture. If anything needs a stripper, it's that woodwork.
A Taste of Old Shadow By Steve Pinkney
THE cold white chill of winter pushed in behind me as I stepped into the hushed confines of the little pub on the lonely lane.A scattering of dimly lit figures glanced up briefly, uneasily, as I moved silently past their tables towards the bar and the man waiting patiently to serve me.His features were simple, ethereal; an everyman such as you would meet every day. But his eyes were kind."You made it then?" he said, softly."Yes. Yes, I did. It's nasty out there. I saw your lights from the lane"."Good," he said. "What will you have?"I glanced at the solitary pump. "What's the beer? Local?""You could say that", he smiled. "We call it Old Shadow. A taste of that and you're ready for anything.""Sounds like just what I need. Thanks".His eyes narrowed as he pushed the glass of dark, honeyed liquid across the bar. "You are on your own, aren't you, sir?""Yes, yes. It appears so", I said as I raised the glass to my cold, cold lips. The beer was like nothing I had ever tasted; bitter yet sweet, soft yet sharp. I drank greedily, and sighed as the ale coursed down my throat and the tears stung my eyes as I remembered. "Are you ready, sir?" he asked, quietly. "Nearly," I whispered, as I looked to the frosted window and out onto the frozen lane where my broken body lay still and unmoving beside my upturned car.
The Spiral By Derek Ridge
EVERYTHING Ben dreamt of last night was correctly prophesised. The smashed window in the kitchen and the accident with the beer bottle had occurred exactly as presented last night. This afternoon he knew that the circle of the leaves blown from the weakened clutches of the oak tree had some significance. The rotating sphere rustled on his drive as they contained a symbolic message for him. He felt frustrated because the dream would only reveal its secrets to him moments before the events occurred.Ben found himself staring into the empty soulless eyes of the slouched intruder. A vase then rolled off the coffee table and smashed into several pieces. Unperturbed they continued to engage, transfixed on each other. All then went eerily silent, apart from the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Ben gave it a quick glance. It would not be long before he would hear its alarming chime. In realisation he quietly mumbled, "It's almost time." A broken Haunted Holmes bottle on the floor caught his eye. His unwelcome guest was injured. Both of them had blood on their clothes. Ben acknowledged that the cycle was almost complete. His haunting daily ritual was once again fully exposed. He always hoped that he could alter his last day alive by replaying those last moments. As usual this unhappy soul had spent the day piecing together the tragic events of that fateful day. It was now the moment of clarity where the chimes would signal Ben's demise.
Another Day By Peter Jefferson
"HE'S done it again, waking us up to remind us that it's his hundredth birthday on Thursday," shouted Carol, slamming down her bedside phone. "I know he's got dementia, but it's nearly every night." John replied wearily, "He's happy in his in own house and he's got Daphne, an angel of a carer who pops in many times a day and lets us know if there are any problems, and it's only a few more days.""Well, you answer the phone tomorrow night. I just cannot stand him keep on talking about the card he's due from the Queen and it's all due to his daily glass of beer."They arrived at 9am on the big day and were met by a distraught Daphne. "I think he's dead," she cried. "I've sent for the doctor, this must be him". Dr Meadows drew up just in front of the postman's van and was led into the bedroom where the old man lay very still but with a smile on his face. After a brief examination the doctor announced: "I think he's been gone for about 10 to 12 hours" "He couldn't have been," interrupted Carol, "he phoned me just after midnight". "I didn't hear – oh, you kicked my ankle," John cried."I'll sign the certificate with today's date then, it doesn't make any difference." "Oh yes it does," said Carol under her breath as she placed the just delivered card into the dead man's hand.
Just One More By John Cannell
ALFIE forced his eyes open, looked at the bearded figure standing over him and felt around on the pavement for another can of beer."I think you've had enough," said the man, kindly but firmly."Have a drink," said Alfie, passing a can in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity.The man pulled the tab and to his horror Alfie saw him pour the contents down the drain."Hey, wotyer doing?" he cried. 'Thas beer that is! It makes yer feel good.""It made me feel good pouring it away," said the man.Alfie pondered for a moment."Iss a waste, thas wot it is.""It's a waste drinking it."Alfie pondered some more and looked up through bleary eyes."Who are you anyway? You've still got your dressing gown on!"The man twiddled the keys hanging from a rope round his waist."My name is Peter. I've come for you. It's your time.""Time for what? Ouch, my stomach.""Probably your liver. It's given up the struggle at last. That's why I've come for you.""I ain't going to no hospital.""Too late for hospital, I'm afraid. You've finished with this life.""Oh Gawd," said Alfie, the truth finally dawning on him. "I won't drink another drop, I promise. One more chance... please?"Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a waste of time, but this really is your last chance. Your liver won't take any more."He vanished.Alfie scrabbled around for another can.
The Miracle of Bert By Andrew Papworth
I WAS just starting my Christmas sermon when it was interrupted. "God bless your reverence – may God reward your kindness." It was Bert, a homeless alcoholic I'd helped in the past, plonked in a pew in front of the pulpit. I tried to plough on but Bert didn't take kindly to being ignored. He faced the congregation shouting: "This man's a living saint". Various parishioners approached him at intervals to persuade him to leave or hold his peace. But he was having none of it. The more they tried to keep him quiet, the more he appealed to me in the pulpit. "I just want to give thanks, your reverence."Then the miracle happened. Mrs Mason, my saintly housekeeper, walked up the aisle, whispered briefly into Bert's ear and, glory be, he got up meekly and followed her, swaying slightly, out of the church. The Christmas Mass continued without further incident and I never saw Bert again from that day to this.Once the congregation had all gone I poured a glass of sherry for Mrs Mason, told her how impressed I'd been with her handling of Bert and asked her how she'd managed to be so persuasive."Oh, it were easy, Father. I whispered in 'is ear that the King's 'ead over the road had a special Christmas licence extension, stuffed a fiver in his 'and and said ''ave a pint of Brentwood Gold on me' and then came back to Mass in peace. 'appy Christmas, Father."
Eight point Five By Robert Gunn
THIS is what he had come back for. He eased himself down and once seated, took the bottle of beer from his pocket. He gazed lovingly at the familiar label before levering the cap off. It hit the ground and clattered away, distracting some people from their conversation. He took a large swig and rolled the liquid around his mouth. It was as good as he remembered.It had all gone unbelievably well. Travelling, finding love in a foreign land, starting a business, marriage, then children. Everything had been so good, until that evening the police came with news that his wife and daughters had been mown down on the crossing.
He had neglected the business. One by one the staff drifted away. Then the pains started. The diagnosis had been the last straw. He bought an air ticket and came… home. Home... is that the right word?
He emptied the bottle. Eyes closed, he savoured the lingering, hoppy finish. Placing the bottle carefully down, he pushed himself up and forwards.
Eight point five seconds later he hit the pavement.
Desire By Shirley Briscoe
RYAN sniffed, turned slowly then inhaled deeply. A heavy, yeasty aroma filled him with intense longing. There was beer nearby, and Ryan was alert with desire.
Ever since Ryan had become aware of beer, he'd craved it. His family were strictly tee-total, but Ryan ached to try some.He spotted the glass on the floor, leaning drunkenly against a mud clod, abandoned, dregs taunting him from the bottom. Ryan slinked towards it. His family were busy studying the garden."Look at the beautiful leaves on that hosta," his father whispered with awe.Ryan couldn't care less about hostas. He approached the mud clod. Excited, he thought he could already taste the beer with his heightened senses."Never touch alcohol!" Ryan remembered the lifelong mantra as he touched the glass. "Many have been lost to the evil of alcohol."The warnings echoed in Ryan's mind as the first drops of warm beer flooded his mouth. "There's no turning back! One sip and you're lost forever."The sensations were unbelievable, and he realised his family was right, he was lost forever. He sipped as much as possible, the world spun crazily and he knew his parents would be disappointed. When he could swallow no more Ryan tried to leave, but found himself moving dizzily. He slithered around for a bit, then cried out in confusion, and slid helplessly backwards.Later his parents stood sadly on the mud clod, while Ryan, lost forever, bobbed around, lifelessly curled into his shell.
Together they were happy By Lynne English
VICTORIA was 54, divorced and lonely.She had a good secretarial job and a large family but still felt sad most of the time.She was also disabled: a car accident had left her with a painful hip, meaning that she walked with a stick.Victoria did not socialise as much as she felt that people stared.Robert was 53, widowed and lonely.He enjoyed his job, delivering barrels of beer to small pubs but he struggled to accept being alone.Robert was also disabled although you would not immediately notice that he had a mild form of cerebral palsy.He was, however, very self-conscious about it.One day their paths crossed. Victoria had helped organise a fundraising event for the local hospice.Robert delivered beer to the Beer Tent on the day of the fete. The weather was glorious and the cream tea/beer marquee looked very inviting.Robert decided to stay: he really did not want to go home to his empty bungalow.Victoria also stayed and, by chance, the only seat left in the marquee was at Robert's table.They began chatting and within an hour they felt they had known each other forever.They only saw each other, not their disabilities.The rest, as they say, is history. Their bodies were not perfect but they each looked beyond that.It is the person inside the body that matters.To each other, they had no imperfections.Victoria and Robert were never sad again.Together they were happy.
A Dream of the Future, a Memory of the Past By Steve Cook
THIS is madness, the sky is being stabbed with flashes of light. The air around me throbs. I imagine I am back in Romford on Christmas Eve at Hollwoods Nightclub. But I have not just had a few beers with my mates down the Crown and jumped in a cab, my world is being rocked by gun fire and rocket blasts. Oh, to be back in England. I joined the army at 19, see the world, do something for my country, make my dad proud. I wish this was why I did it, the reality is that I joined because I had nowhere else to go. Now, five years later I wish I was anywhere else but here. oh The irony! All around me people are shouting, the lights are too bright, I close my eyes. In the darkness sounds merge into a single drone. I start to lose concentration. As I drift off I am back in my local with my brother, Mark and Simon. We have a few beers, maybe a game of pool then jump in a cab. Life was so simple, I loved my weekends and my mates but what of the future? I had no money for nice clothes and could not always stand my round. I had to get away, carve a place for myself and gain some self-respect. "Merry Christmas everyone, Happy New Year"!"We are losing him", "Sir, it's no good, he's gone."
"Damn, he was a good soldier, what a waste".
Old Man's Barge Green Ale By Kimberley Brooker
IT was a very strange condition of the will, even the Solicitor had said so. So it was not surprising that she felt very uneasy as she entered the bar at The Hutton Junction in Shenfield at precisely 7.31pm. The terms of the will were very specific – she was to ask for a certain drink and attend each year annually until the reason for doing so was not needed anymore, also she would be observed for compliance.She had had to sign a document agreeing to the terms.
If not, then the inheritance would be given to charity and she would never know why she had been a beneficiary of the will.
Now the fact that she was beneficiary to anything of worth amazed her, particularly as far as she was aware, she had no close relatives.
She was an only child and her parents died last year.Celine had a look that was extremely unique but she never realised this.
She was of slight build and always wore very tailored clothes.
This, coupled with her olive skin and long straight glossy dark hair, made her look very Italian.
So of course she really stood out when she approached the bar and said, "Can I have a pint of "Old Man's Barge Green Ale, please?"
When she heard the female voice saying, "I'll take this order, Jim," it wasn't the voice that surprised her, but the fact she was looking at a mirror image of herself!
"BERRY Christmas," snuffled Maple, a mild-natured, blonde heiress (and BBC2 presenter)."Brent Wood," he replied, by way of introduction."And this is Mr Brown," she continued, "from Boston?"The men shook hands. "Marvellous." Maple concluded, "May I offer you a winter warmer? We have mulled wine, brandy, or perhaps some tea.""Hot XXX Buns!" came a reply, but not from either of the men."Language, Hope and Glory!" cringed Maple. "I do apologise for the parrots; I don't know where they pick it up such words." Burton, Maple's butler, (formerly a lumberjack from the Pacific), entered the room carrying a tray of fruit. "An orange, Madam?" he proposed.
Burton offered Brent a Chestnut. "Stout man," he replied, helping himself.Brent took from his bag a gold coloured cylinder, decorated with the initials IPA. Finding somewhere to open it, he unrolled a painting. Maple put her hands to her mouth, and exclaimed, "The Summer Virgin!"
Maple couldn't say that she liked the work; she thought it was spooky – especially the moon. In particular, She felt uncomfortable with the artist's signature, "Chockwork". However, this was business, and now she'd best pay. Maple took from her fingers, 5 Gold Rings, laid them beside the painting – and the deal was done.Burton entered the room again. "Ah!" said Maple, "Ale." She and the two men raised a glass of beer in conclusion of the transaction.
"By the way," said Mr Brown, in his American drawl. "I've been wondering, what does IPA stand for?"
"End of an Era" – The Elephant Training School By Andrew Tomsett
OLD Frank settled in his favourite seat in the Brave Nelson, gazing lovingly at his pint of Brentwood Best. The frothy head was still at the glass top and the shafts of sunlight through the net curtains pierced the liquid enticingly. He couldn't remember when he had become "Old Frank"; he certainly didn't remember being called "Young Frank" or even "Middle-Aged Frank", but somehow it had happened. He didn't mind; in fact he saw it as a mark of respect that everyone knew him. His favourite pint was practically poured as he came through the door. "Usual, Old Frank?" Mary would say.No answer was needed, just a knowing grin to Mary and the 6pm regulars. He took a large gulp and carefully placed the pint on the table in the ring that the moisture from the beer had created. It had been a good day with the family and his youngest grandson, Billy, had played excitedly. "Did you really ride an elephant, Granddad?" said Billy. One of Old Frank's favourite stories was recounting his days at The Elephant Training School in Warley.He had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, his son raising his eyebrows to the ceiling – not that old chestnut again but what the heck! If you couldn't tell a story when you got old, what could you do?Old Frank took another gulp, sucked the hoppy brew through his teeth and smiled self-indulgently.
Dave By John Cook
SOME say the end of the bar is haunted. "Never stand there," said my bar-leaning colleague as I waved my crisp £5 note at the barmaid, who that seemed to be selecting her next customer to serve based on the cut of their shirt and the age of the head sticking out of it."Why?" I asked"'Coz its were Dave use to sit," he said gesturing over my shoulder. I leaned back to expose affixed to the wall a neatly mounted brass plaque just below the taxi number, with the inscription "this is where Dave sat".Now, I've been drinking beer in this pub for over 30 years and I have to admit I have never heard of Dave. That's strange. I must have bumped into Dave at some point. For one thing it's on the way to the toilet.Dave must have sat in that corner of the bar all his life and certainly all of mine, without me even knowing he was there.He must have been something special to warrant such recognition. A war hero maybe? A good customer or perhaps he once owned the pub.Or was it that his family put it there because they knew that's where he liked to be every night, where he felt comfortable and secure. I suppose the irony is that his plaque after his death is as understated as he was as a person when he was alive.Yeah, that must be it. A packet of crisps with that beer, love.
May's Birthday Party By Julie Mackay
MAY is celebrating her 100th birthday with her family and friends. A smartly dressed young man enters the hall; his stage name is Tyger. Rosie signals to the DJ who plays The Stripper. Tyger starts to gyrate in front of May. The guests gather round and cheer."Yer sixty years too late, young man. I'm a respectable woman these days."Tyger kisses May's hand and then continues his act until he is almost naked. "Well! I reckon my 'usband Alfred is turning in 'is grave.""I'm sorry if I have offended you, Mrs Clark.""Put yer togs back on before ya catch yer death."Tyger is embarrassed dressing in front of everyone! Rosie brings him a beer."Now what's yer real name, darlin'?""It's Elliott.""Much nicer 'an Tyger. Can't ya find a proper job?""I'm a student. I do a bit of stripping between lectures. It pays more than punting.""In my day, youngsters got a paper round. Still you 'ave a very nice body, Elliott." May winks. "Did Rosie put you up to this? Saucy minx.""Yes, she booked me to entertain you. I thought it might be inappropriate, considering your age.""Cheeky beggar! What university are ya at?""Cambridge, King's College.""I remember it well.""What did you study, Mrs Clark?""Listen to yerself. I cleaned that college for thirty years. I'll never forget polishing all them carved panels and heavy furniture. If anything needs a stripper, it's that woodwork.
A Taste of Old Shadow By Steve Pinkney
THE cold white chill of winter pushed in behind me as I stepped into the hushed confines of the little pub on the lonely lane.A scattering of dimly lit figures glanced up briefly, uneasily, as I moved silently past their tables towards the bar and the man waiting patiently to serve me.His features were simple, ethereal; an everyman such as you would meet every day. But his eyes were kind."You made it then?" he said, softly."Yes. Yes, I did. It's nasty out there. I saw your lights from the lane"."Good," he said. "What will you have?"I glanced at the solitary pump. "What's the beer? Local?""You could say that", he smiled. "We call it Old Shadow. A taste of that and you're ready for anything.""Sounds like just what I need. Thanks".His eyes narrowed as he pushed the glass of dark, honeyed liquid across the bar. "You are on your own, aren't you, sir?""Yes, yes. It appears so", I said as I raised the glass to my cold, cold lips. The beer was like nothing I had ever tasted; bitter yet sweet, soft yet sharp. I drank greedily, and sighed as the ale coursed down my throat and the tears stung my eyes as I remembered. "Are you ready, sir?" he asked, quietly. "Nearly," I whispered, as I looked to the frosted window and out onto the frozen lane where my broken body lay still and unmoving beside my upturned car.
The Spiral By Derek Ridge
EVERYTHING Ben dreamt of last night was correctly prophesised. The smashed window in the kitchen and the accident with the beer bottle had occurred exactly as presented last night. This afternoon he knew that the circle of the leaves blown from the weakened clutches of the oak tree had some significance. The rotating sphere rustled on his drive as they contained a symbolic message for him. He felt frustrated because the dream would only reveal its secrets to him moments before the events occurred.Ben found himself staring into the empty soulless eyes of the slouched intruder. A vase then rolled off the coffee table and smashed into several pieces. Unperturbed they continued to engage, transfixed on each other. All then went eerily silent, apart from the ticking of an old grandfather clock. Ben gave it a quick glance. It would not be long before he would hear its alarming chime. In realisation he quietly mumbled, "It's almost time." A broken Haunted Holmes bottle on the floor caught his eye. His unwelcome guest was injured. Both of them had blood on their clothes. Ben acknowledged that the cycle was almost complete. His haunting daily ritual was once again fully exposed. He always hoped that he could alter his last day alive by replaying those last moments. As usual this unhappy soul had spent the day piecing together the tragic events of that fateful day. It was now the moment of clarity where the chimes would signal Ben's demise.
Another Day By Peter Jefferson
"HE'S done it again, waking us up to remind us that it's his hundredth birthday on Thursday," shouted Carol, slamming down her bedside phone. "I know he's got dementia, but it's nearly every night." John replied wearily, "He's happy in his in own house and he's got Daphne, an angel of a carer who pops in many times a day and lets us know if there are any problems, and it's only a few more days.""Well, you answer the phone tomorrow night. I just cannot stand him keep on talking about the card he's due from the Queen and it's all due to his daily glass of beer."They arrived at 9am on the big day and were met by a distraught Daphne. "I think he's dead," she cried. "I've sent for the doctor, this must be him". Dr Meadows drew up just in front of the postman's van and was led into the bedroom where the old man lay very still but with a smile on his face. After a brief examination the doctor announced: "I think he's been gone for about 10 to 12 hours" "He couldn't have been," interrupted Carol, "he phoned me just after midnight". "I didn't hear – oh, you kicked my ankle," John cried."I'll sign the certificate with today's date then, it doesn't make any difference." "Oh yes it does," said Carol under her breath as she placed the just delivered card into the dead man's hand.
Just One More By John Cannell
ALFIE forced his eyes open, looked at the bearded figure standing over him and felt around on the pavement for another can of beer."I think you've had enough," said the man, kindly but firmly."Have a drink," said Alfie, passing a can in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity.The man pulled the tab and to his horror Alfie saw him pour the contents down the drain."Hey, wotyer doing?" he cried. 'Thas beer that is! It makes yer feel good.""It made me feel good pouring it away," said the man.Alfie pondered for a moment."Iss a waste, thas wot it is.""It's a waste drinking it."Alfie pondered some more and looked up through bleary eyes."Who are you anyway? You've still got your dressing gown on!"The man twiddled the keys hanging from a rope round his waist."My name is Peter. I've come for you. It's your time.""Time for what? Ouch, my stomach.""Probably your liver. It's given up the struggle at last. That's why I've come for you.""I ain't going to no hospital.""Too late for hospital, I'm afraid. You've finished with this life.""Oh Gawd," said Alfie, the truth finally dawning on him. "I won't drink another drop, I promise. One more chance... please?"Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a waste of time, but this really is your last chance. Your liver won't take any more."He vanished.Alfie scrabbled around for another can.
The Miracle of Bert By Andrew Papworth
I WAS just starting my Christmas sermon when it was interrupted. "God bless your reverence – may God reward your kindness." It was Bert, a homeless alcoholic I'd helped in the past, plonked in a pew in front of the pulpit. I tried to plough on but Bert didn't take kindly to being ignored. He faced the congregation shouting: "This man's a living saint". Various parishioners approached him at intervals to persuade him to leave or hold his peace. But he was having none of it. The more they tried to keep him quiet, the more he appealed to me in the pulpit. "I just want to give thanks, your reverence."Then the miracle happened. Mrs Mason, my saintly housekeeper, walked up the aisle, whispered briefly into Bert's ear and, glory be, he got up meekly and followed her, swaying slightly, out of the church. The Christmas Mass continued without further incident and I never saw Bert again from that day to this.Once the congregation had all gone I poured a glass of sherry for Mrs Mason, told her how impressed I'd been with her handling of Bert and asked her how she'd managed to be so persuasive."Oh, it were easy, Father. I whispered in 'is ear that the King's 'ead over the road had a special Christmas licence extension, stuffed a fiver in his 'and and said ''ave a pint of Brentwood Gold on me' and then came back to Mass in peace. 'appy Christmas, Father."
Eight point Five By Robert Gunn
THIS is what he had come back for. He eased himself down and once seated, took the bottle of beer from his pocket. He gazed lovingly at the familiar label before levering the cap off. It hit the ground and clattered away, distracting some people from their conversation. He took a large swig and rolled the liquid around his mouth. It was as good as he remembered.It had all gone unbelievably well. Travelling, finding love in a foreign land, starting a business, marriage, then children. Everything had been so good, until that evening the police came with news that his wife and daughters had been mown down on the crossing.
He had neglected the business. One by one the staff drifted away. Then the pains started. The diagnosis had been the last straw. He bought an air ticket and came… home. Home... is that the right word?
He emptied the bottle. Eyes closed, he savoured the lingering, hoppy finish. Placing the bottle carefully down, he pushed himself up and forwards.
Eight point five seconds later he hit the pavement.
Desire By Shirley Briscoe
RYAN sniffed, turned slowly then inhaled deeply. A heavy, yeasty aroma filled him with intense longing. There was beer nearby, and Ryan was alert with desire.
Ever since Ryan had become aware of beer, he'd craved it. His family were strictly tee-total, but Ryan ached to try some.He spotted the glass on the floor, leaning drunkenly against a mud clod, abandoned, dregs taunting him from the bottom. Ryan slinked towards it. His family were busy studying the garden."Look at the beautiful leaves on that hosta," his father whispered with awe.Ryan couldn't care less about hostas. He approached the mud clod. Excited, he thought he could already taste the beer with his heightened senses."Never touch alcohol!" Ryan remembered the lifelong mantra as he touched the glass. "Many have been lost to the evil of alcohol."The warnings echoed in Ryan's mind as the first drops of warm beer flooded his mouth. "There's no turning back! One sip and you're lost forever."The sensations were unbelievable, and he realised his family was right, he was lost forever. He sipped as much as possible, the world spun crazily and he knew his parents would be disappointed. When he could swallow no more Ryan tried to leave, but found himself moving dizzily. He slithered around for a bit, then cried out in confusion, and slid helplessly backwards.Later his parents stood sadly on the mud clod, while Ryan, lost forever, bobbed around, lifelessly curled into his shell.
Together they were happy By Lynne English
VICTORIA was 54, divorced and lonely.She had a good secretarial job and a large family but still felt sad most of the time.She was also disabled: a car accident had left her with a painful hip, meaning that she walked with a stick.Victoria did not socialise as much as she felt that people stared.Robert was 53, widowed and lonely.He enjoyed his job, delivering barrels of beer to small pubs but he struggled to accept being alone.Robert was also disabled although you would not immediately notice that he had a mild form of cerebral palsy.He was, however, very self-conscious about it.One day their paths crossed. Victoria had helped organise a fundraising event for the local hospice.Robert delivered beer to the Beer Tent on the day of the fete. The weather was glorious and the cream tea/beer marquee looked very inviting.Robert decided to stay: he really did not want to go home to his empty bungalow.Victoria also stayed and, by chance, the only seat left in the marquee was at Robert's table.They began chatting and within an hour they felt they had known each other forever.They only saw each other, not their disabilities.The rest, as they say, is history. Their bodies were not perfect but they each looked beyond that.It is the person inside the body that matters.To each other, they had no imperfections.Victoria and Robert were never sad again.Together they were happy.
A Dream of the Future, a Memory of the Past By Steve Cook
THIS is madness, the sky is being stabbed with flashes of light. The air around me throbs. I imagine I am back in Romford on Christmas Eve at Hollwoods Nightclub. But I have not just had a few beers with my mates down the Crown and jumped in a cab, my world is being rocked by gun fire and rocket blasts. Oh, to be back in England. I joined the army at 19, see the world, do something for my country, make my dad proud. I wish this was why I did it, the reality is that I joined because I had nowhere else to go. Now, five years later I wish I was anywhere else but here. oh The irony! All around me people are shouting, the lights are too bright, I close my eyes. In the darkness sounds merge into a single drone. I start to lose concentration. As I drift off I am back in my local with my brother, Mark and Simon. We have a few beers, maybe a game of pool then jump in a cab. Life was so simple, I loved my weekends and my mates but what of the future? I had no money for nice clothes and could not always stand my round. I had to get away, carve a place for myself and gain some self-respect. "Merry Christmas everyone, Happy New Year"!"We are losing him", "Sir, it's no good, he's gone."
"Damn, he was a good soldier, what a waste".
Old Man's Barge Green Ale By Kimberley Brooker
IT was a very strange condition of the will, even the Solicitor had said so. So it was not surprising that she felt very uneasy as she entered the bar at The Hutton Junction in Shenfield at precisely 7.31pm. The terms of the will were very specific – she was to ask for a certain drink and attend each year annually until the reason for doing so was not needed anymore, also she would be observed for compliance.She had had to sign a document agreeing to the terms.
If not, then the inheritance would be given to charity and she would never know why she had been a beneficiary of the will.
Now the fact that she was beneficiary to anything of worth amazed her, particularly as far as she was aware, she had no close relatives.
She was an only child and her parents died last year.Celine had a look that was extremely unique but she never realised this.
She was of slight build and always wore very tailored clothes.
This, coupled with her olive skin and long straight glossy dark hair, made her look very Italian.
So of course she really stood out when she approached the bar and said, "Can I have a pint of "Old Man's Barge Green Ale, please?"
When she heard the female voice saying, "I'll take this order, Jim," it wasn't the voice that surprised her, but the fact she was looking at a mirror image of herself!