Inflamable Memory

First, I'd like to say kudos to the men and women behind the scene making it all happen, which in effect is my brother, mother, father and brother in law.

Upon procrastinating and reviewing my own performance

I think, or at least know on face value that everybody had a good time.

They told me to my face, and that's all I can expect.

The hot dogs were tastier than ever good, the great beer speaks for itself.

Though there is a lingering part of me that thinks that my perforce was below standard.

A harsh self-marking. Critiquing.

I have only ever hosted an event like that before. And that was last year, where if I’m honest, everyone had a good really good time because I got everybody pole-axed.

And I talked about a whole bunch of random shit.

This year I was a lot more calm, sincere and tried to deliver a clear presentation.

I thought I was man enough not to need any notes.

Because last year in my mind, I let loose and that was (obviously) great (well, that’s what my drunken hazy memory tells me).

However, I did and should have pre pared at least something. And unfortunately the funny thing about that particular memory gland, is that it was bloody wasn’t working on Tuesday night.

I couldn’t remember a thing.

I couldn’t remember the name of the brewery in Utah making Polygamy Porter.

Thankfully Joe came through with the goods and reminded me it was Wasatch (of which I basically owe Joe a beer now for saving me, from looking like a complete and utter git).

I couldn’t remember the name of ‘The Mars Volta’

The fucking Mars Volta!!!!!!

I was just in terrible form.

A couple of people asked me about the new trend in modern farmhouse brewing taking over in the states and what breweries I liked that were doing it.

I could not think of any.

But as I type here now, I can think of multiples, from all over the countryside.

I was not as active or interactive as last year (however, yet again this might be drunken memory remembering things differently).

Maybe it was a good thing and predominantly people wanted me to shut the fuck up (obviously not the first and definitely not the last time this will ever happen).

So with another year down, beers tasted, sausages eaten.

As long as everyone had a good (hopefully Great) time, that at the end of the day, is what matters.

Shall we meet again next year?

Who knows?

Thankfully the good beer and food will allways be there to carry me over the line.