Down with the pigs

The idea was to go see what I could do on a Sunday and then find out which beer was best at satiating my thirst.

So I walked to the next village, Via a geocache, for the the first time ever. That's a new hobby that's going to be infuriating for ever more.

The way to the pub looked like this:

 When I got to the pub (Royal Oak, Ockbrook) I had copious amounts of Thornbridge Raven. It looked like this:

When I got home, I had an intensive hour of hardcore weeding, it looked like this:

( image removed because no-one wants to see weeds)

And so then I drank Jever. Jever looks like this:

And then I needed something else to work up a sweat with. So I listened to this guy be out. And then not be out. And then be very out indeed:

And then I drank Cantillon Vigneronne and Saison Dupont.

And I watched Jenson Button win the Hungarian GP. BTW - Hungarian GP? I've got to go to that next year. Fast cars and goulash. Full of win.

Anyway.

I then sat down by this eer laptop and thought - what was the best part of the day?

That first geocache? Inquisitive hoverflys at the pub? Those delicious licks from Thornbridge Raven? The undeniable willy-tingle of a cold Jever? Button sticking it up the outside? Every damn mouthful of Cantillon Vigneronne, a beer that makes you glad you have a pulse and a forgiving palate? Or those last gasps of Saison Dupont, almost demanding that you've cycled through pendulous countryside before uncorking it?

Nope. It was this:

Ladies and gentlemen, they are pigs. In shit. And you could tell by their little snuffles that they bloody loved it.

I have no illusions concerning the afterlife. But if I could laze around in the sun and provide bacon 'n chop fun to others when I've gone, I know what I'd like to come back as.