Real Ale
This may well end up in a future booze related QOTW. A few years back I cycled up to the Chapel Beer Festival in Essex, roughly six miles from my home with the intention of downing a few late summer ales with friends.

At 8pm I was ordering my second pint of Scrote's Old Dog's Dick

At 9pm I had eschewed British ales in favour of the Belgian stuff, using the time honored technique of if-it-aint-seven-percent-or-above-then-avoid-it.

By 9:30pm I was drinking De Schleuw's Schtop Schagg

By 10:30 I was Legoed.

By 11:00 I was throwing the last of the granular dregs onto the ground, cursing loudly and attempting to negotiate a set of steps with a bike slung over my shoulder.

A plan formulated in my head which involved a small detour to the local late night Shell for a sarnie. Wobbling slightly, I threw a leg over the bike and pedalled in the general direction of away.

Some time later, with a closed Shell garage nearby and roughly four miles off course, I nipped down a quiet country road to relieve my bulging bladder. I propped the bike up against a tree, unzipped in the dark and sighed at the blessed relief.

At that exact moment, the 23:47 to Colchester went past, lit up like Times Square, illuminating my knob for miles around.

Undeterred, I grabbed my bike and swung a leg over the saddle. Strangely enough, the next thing I knew I was lying in a ditch with a bike on top of me and my fly unzipped.

I rolled in home at around 1am and woke up feeling like a French person had slept in my mouth.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 8 Apr 2008, 17:53, Reply)