Author Archives: Fordiebianco

In praise of the Star Inn.

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In a remote corner of Essex, where very few Londoners ever dare to traipse, is a small village called Steeple (no, not Steeple view or Steeple Bumstead). Located on the northern rim of the Dengie Peninsula, Steeple features a rather beautiful church, a caravan park and two pubs. Wap bang in the centre of the village is the Star Inn, a little pub that has already seen a few centuries of drinking. Now run as a free house, it features four regularly changing guest ales and the usual stable of fizzy beers. It keeps a well maintained wood burner, has pub nosh and a rather mellow atmosphere. Its regulars are a gentle and friendly bunch and the land lord keeps the more boisterous weekend crowd well under control. It also features what looks like a HD based multi media centre in which the Landlord conjures up an impressive array of perfect pub tracks (you name it, he plays it).

It is, in other words, a shining example of rural hospitality, the perfect pub.

Local Beer

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It’s weird. While pubs are dying left right and centre, the proliferation of micro breweries around the UK is unstoppable and there is now real hope that people will increasingly drink local beers instead of the tasteless fizzy beer-like liquids that people still drink. Kudos to our local Co-op grocery store who features loads of local produce and even some of the local breweries.

Local breweries? In Mid – Essex?

Indeed. On our little peninsula with its rural hamlets and tiny villages, I already know of two excellent brewers: the brillant Crouch Vale brewery in South Woodham-Ferrers and the amazing Wibblers brewery in Mayland. Just a few kilometers away in the Pant Valley there’s Shalford brewery, and just across the river there’s Mersea Island brewery, again producing beer of outstanding quality. I only recently discovered Shalford and Wibblers and bought one of each of their range of beers and was immensely impressed. I wouldn’t hesitate to offer any of these to guests (though I prefer to keep them for myself). Have a look at their websites and ask the landlord of your local freehouse to get some as a guest ale.

Cheers!

The Shalford range. Note attractive branded pintglass. Available with gift set.

 

Three Wibblers and a Mersea Island beer. Yum!

 

 

John Hughes and Hamster-eating Aliens. Day 4 of the International Week of the Popper

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Hello and welcome to day 4 of the increasingly inaccurately titled week of the Popper. After finding out how the Popper spent his time with the other (or same) sex during his or her romantic moments and getting to know this counter-counter youthculture’s preferences in intoxication, today we’re going to have a look at his/her relationship with the mass media. Back in the early eighties, before the advent of multi channel cable TV and the internet in every household (though some people were already online with their Sinclair QL and an acoustic coupler, scaring the proprietors of the local Bulletin Board Systems shitless) access to the media was obviously dictated by the large state broadcasters, the local cinema and the news agent around the corner. ‘The Face’, ‘Smash Hits’ and the German trend magazine ‘Prinz’ were essential to gauge the newest fashion and music trends 3 months before they became mainstream and to impress one’s friends. The TV unfortunately didn’t offer many moments of brillance: Miami Vice and ‘V’ where highlights (no, really) and the Cosby Show was the funniest thing on the tube (no, really. Honestly). The cinema offered mainly John Hughes (I am pretty sure that I am still able to recite ‘Weird Science’ and ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’ from beginning to end), Ivan Reitman and John Landis. For the more culturally attuned there was always ‘Amadeus’ and ‘Diva’. For some reason or the other the female member of the species seemed to throng the cinemas to watch Highlander. Unexplainable.

So, were there any intentions of engaging in any, you know, serious literature or maybe even -gasp- the theatre?

No. You can neither drink nor smoke in these buildings and nobody sees what you’re wearing most of the time.

 

The Lada Owners Club UK. F.A.B.!

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I am a member of a dying breed: the car that takes me around Mid-Essex is a Lada, making me a Lada driver. There’s not that many of us out there, and most people haven’t seen a nice a Lada in yonkers. Mine is an especially nice one, thanks to the care and love by its previous owner who took it all around Britain, pulling a caravan. Apparently it made it without any problems numerous times to the Highlands and back and so far I have not encountered any problems either. Ok, it’s carburator is a bit iffy and after getting warm it has a tendency to have some problems in the lower rpms, but for problems like this you have the Lada Club UK. Around since 1978, it has catered for any aspect of the Lada community and now has me as a new member. Just like Lada drivers Lada Owners Club members are getting fewer and fewer, but how could you not want to be in a club that for just a few bob per year gives you all this:

Now look at this. Where else do you get four spiffing magazines, a sticker for your car, a membership card AND the added bonus of being able to access the hive mind of dozens and dozens of fellow Lada drivers.

Go, join the club. Even if you don’t drive a Lada. It will do you good.

BTW, you wouldn’t have a carburator for an 1.5 Riva handy?

Booze and Fags: Day 3 of the international week of the Popper

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So by now we know how the popper dressed, got about and targeter his/her mates. But was there ever any, you know, intoxication?

Very little.

Well, if I say very little, there used to be the odd experimental vomit due to accidental overdosing of Curacao Bleu, but apart from that the Popper itself was a rather harmless being when it came to sex, drugs and rocknroll. Well, none of these really.

For intoxication and brand consciousness there were Dunhill cigarettes:The nice thing about them was of course not the taste. No, it was the packaging. If you’d open one of these babies, two gold-paper wrapped chambers full of cigarettes would stare at you, making the act of getting the fags out even more delicious. AND they had a gold ring around the filter. What’s not to like. AND they were longer than other fags.

For more serious intoxication (but not that serious. That would be uncool) there was alwas beer. And Amaretto. Mixed with apple juice, this was mana from heaven and could invigorate even the coolest popper. In a very measured way of course.

Anything else? Well, if you’d try dope or get terribly pissed, you’d loose your Popper status, as loss of control was of course hugely frowned upon. The only thing to get really excited about was a new colour in the polo shirt range of Lacoste.