AUTHENTICITY

a little giddy
i peddle home through the darkness of manor farm park
the glow of the full moon light
and a vague sense of direction my only guides
the pleasant smell of freshly mown grass wafts past my nostrils
i have journeyed home from hockley without lights
as night has fallen like a blanket
hockley - faded inner-city locale
where the black eagle spreads its wings
i have supped on tasty ales from far and wide
at the pub's annual beer festival
brews with all manner of bizarre titles
allgates honey gold caskablanca from wigan
howard town glotts hop from glossop
weatheroak queen victoria from down the road in kings norton
i catch up with terry from my conversation nvq and his missus
out for an occasional friday nighter
terry buys me a half of perry
which is way to sweet and way to strong
i chew the fat with a semi-intelligible smooth-pated fella called gaz
who wants to emigrate to catalunya like george orwell
and a frizzy-haired moustachioed bloke with a large beer gut
from somewhere out west
both gaz and frizzer share a panoramic knowledge of black country alehouses
and as the ouside light which illuminates the stained glass slowly fades
i warm to their tales and recommendations
this is a lovely pub
an island of authenticity in a sad sea of fake commercialism
slimy slugs and withered lettuces
ember inns 'freehouses' as free as a lifer
a place frequented both by locals and ale devotees from far and wide
long may the pints flow from its well used hand pumps...