Breweries. The crowning turd in the overflowing toilet bowl of my life's missed chances.
About 8 years ago, a little lass joined my team at work. Blonde, slim as a whippet, stunningly beautiful, tight little arrse, and the most pert pair of jubblies you've ever seen. To cap it all, her uncle owned a third of Bath Ales. And she was up for it. Only trouble was, I was happily married at the time, so didn't take her up on the offer.
(Although she did arrange a tour of the brewery for the team, which was nice.)
So if we all nip over there after the Brazil match today, will we get a free pint and a large helping of the blond's fun-bags? And have you laid on a bus back to London in time for work on Monday coz I'm not going to Serf Afrika just for a night out.
The blonde on the far side is my brewer mate's daughter. Single, but you'll have to be quick. The line starts in South America.
I'm the fat ugly one propping up the bar. If I'm in town and you identify yourself as a member of this fine site, the first pint is on me. The beer is the best in the southern hemisphere according to Diner's Club and some beer pundit.
Jazz evening tonight. Sliding in there for a few pints before heading back to Chad next week. How we suffer...