22: Nuisance Value

 

The Offending Fuse Box

 

First there was the washing machine. It was first installed in the Fitrambler Kitchen in 1999, and as I write is now twelve years old.

Unfortunately, as I said to the Pink Lady: “Things just aren’t built to last these days.”

She looked at me and sighed. “Twelve years is good for a washing machine.”

“I beg to differ. My ‘fridge is near on twenty-five years old and is still going,” I said; my fingers crossed behind my back, hoping it wouldn’t join the washing machine.

“Most washing machines these days don’t last more than four or five years, Fitrambler.”

My eyebrows shot up so far they almost left my forehead, fortunately m cap was there to stop them. “Five years! Five bloody years? Is that what I’ve got to look forward to? My next washing machine only lasting five years?”

The stare I got told me what I needed to know. A five year cycle on washing machines whether I liked it or not.

“It’s a bloody con! That’s all I can say!”

“The trouble with you, Fitrambler, is you just hate opening your wallet unless it’s for beer or gadgets!”

“I resent that remark.”

“Then buy a washing machine!”

“I’ll be looking soon…”

“This’ll go on for months just like it did with the bike.”

“Yee of little faith. I’ll get one sorted out. I’ve already spoken to Neatentidy and he’ll fit it for me.”

“You can always get the shop you buy it from to do that!”

“Well, Neatentidy fitted in the other one and will know his way around the connections…”

“You mean he won’t charge you and the company will…”

“You have a suspicious mind. And it’s not strictly true. He designed the kitchen, remember, so he’s better placed to get the new one connected. It’s a matter of trust rather than money.”

The Pink Lady gave me the look that always told me she wasn’t convinced.

When it came to doing the washing I felt sure I’d seen a laundrette near me recently. The last time I needed to use a laundrette was for about six months in 1999. There was a laundrette ten minutes away for many years but two weeks before I needed it the bloody thing burnt down. The one I had to use was just over twenty-five minutes walk away, which meant fifty minutes walking time and just over an hour to do the washing. It was Summer when I began but by the time I was nearing the end – when the new washing machine was due to be plumbed in – it was dark nights, cold or wet and the novelty of the walk had quickly worn off.

So, the following Sunday I looked for the laundrette I was sure I’d seen near to home; although the cynical part of me felt I probably imagined it. However, within five minutes I’d found it and returned home to get the washing.

Once I entered the laundrette the relief was short-lived. First I realised I hadn’t brought any washing powder or conditioner; so straight away was forced to part with £1.50 to buy some from the chap running the place. Then I realise it wasn’t going to be a simple matter, like a shop, going in, get what you want and get out. I’d forgotten about the previous experiences with a laundrette. There’s no guarantee that there will be a washing machine free, the wash takes about twenty-nine minutes and then you’ve got to hope one of the driers will be free immediately after, or the time in there is extended even further.

Needless to say, I had to wait ten minutes for a washing machine which would be big enough to take the amount of washing I’d brought, then there seemed to be one hell of a bigger queue for the driers; mainly due to most people using the place for just the driers after doing the actual wash at home.

I was in there for nearly two hours and parted with a total of £7.50. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences and it made me shudder to think I was going to have to go through this every week until I bought a new washing machine.

Still, I’d get the washing machine organised next week…

But I didn’t. Work was busy so I never got around to having a full lunch break so never got time to check the internet and I was getting home in the evenings after 7pm most nights so by the time I’d eaten and washed up, I was too tired to bother.

By the following week I’d agreed to do another job, a change from the usual. From the 28th November I would work at another site 2pm until 10pm. I was offered the 6am to 2pm shift first off, but somehow the thought of having to get up at 4am in the morning in order to get in on time for the start of the shift held little by way of appeal..

The secondment would be for about four weeks and would involve managing a team of Temps. It was also at a site the opposite side to where I normally worked in the town.

The following weekend, I got up early on the Sunday, after I’d decided to Something like two weeks later I got up early on a Sunday morning, I’d decided to get the washing out of the way early. Come back for dinner, wash up and then that left the whole afternoon free.

It sounded like a plan.

I was up around 8am, had breakfast and once finished I idled away time until the laundrette opened. Things went off-plan when I let myself get caught up in shredding papers and sorting out recycling rubbish for the bin men on Wednesday. So involved, that it was around 11.30 that I’d remembered the planned early visit to the laundrette.

I thought about dashing off, then remembered that there was no way to be sure how long I’d be in the place, and the old stomach hated to be kept waiting beyond mid-day for its Sunday feed. So I decided to do lunch first.

A quick meal, fish, sweet corn, carrots and potatoes. I got the stuff out of the ‘freezer and placed the fish on a tray and into the oven. I switched on the oven, the clock light went out, then came on and then went out again.

I shrugged, I wasn’t trying to time the cooking so what did it matter. Then, I realised I couldn’t hear the fan from the over. The light wasn’t on inside the oven either. Strange. So I then tried the hob. No heat.

If it hadn’t been that I’d seen the clock on for a few seconds, I would have thought I’d forgotten to turn on the cooker at the socket. I did check the socket, just to be sure, but it was switch on. The ‘fridge also worked off that circuit, so I put my ear to the ‘fridge to listen for it making a noise. It wasn’t. Great.
But all was not lost. It was, I decided, not a really a big deal. So I got the toolbox out, took hold of a screwdriver and fuse wire and opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs. I could see the appropriate fuse carrying a slight brown stain. It confirmed it. The fuse had blown. Been there before, earlier in the last decade the lights’ fuse went through a phase of blowing. The trouble was, then I wasn’t as well organised as I am now. I did have the right screwdriver and the fuse wire but not in an easily (or indeed known) assessable place.

I took hold of the offending fuse and within split-second of its removal, it fell to bits in my hand.

I wasn’t happy, hence I said out loud: “How terribly inconvenient.” Or words meaning more or less the same thing.

After a few minutes, after the pain in my toe died down – I kicked something which hadn’t seemed all that hard but had been – I decided to take stock. What was the worse thing about the situation?

No Cooker. No fridge. Hmm, well, no cooker wasn’t the end of the world short term. But the fridge was a problem. This fuse problem had hit just after I had filled it up with food and now it would slowly defrost.

Even my capacious appetite would have a problem shovelling that lot down within a few days.

Then of course a touch of common sense intruded on the blind panic. Whereas the cooker was part of the socket itself, the ‘fridge plugged into the socket. So, all I needed to do was plug it into another socket. And as luck would have it , there was a double socket a less than eighteen inches away. Only one plug in use and that was for the microwave.

So, I unplugged the ‘fridge and tried to plug it into the other socket. The lead wasn’t long enough.

A glance to the heavens; thwarted again!

I thought for a few seconds and came up with another solution. I got a spare extension lead. It wasn’t ideal, but I plugged the ‘fridge in and smiled as I waited for the ‘fridge to burst into life…

It didn’t.

I listened but the fridge didn’t make a sound. Great. So the ‘fridge was screwed now as well.

I swore, decided to do the washing at the laundrette, I couldn’t be bothered to deal with it now. Not that I was sure I knew how to deal with it.

I got two paces inside the dining room and there was a shudder and the fridge kicked into action. It must have been trying to piss me off even more than I was already pissed off.

So, a little relieved I went to the laundrette, which seemed more packed out than usual and so it took a record two hours to get the washing done.

I was still in a bit of a mood when I got in, very hungry. So, I decided I’d have to microwave the fish and microwave oven chips instead of the other vegetables I’d intended to have. It was either that or crunch my way through frozen fish and chips.

I was sure that the Pink Lady recommended a nice hot bath to relieve stress. I usually did the bath thing in the evening on a Sunday but decided late afternoon was ok.

So upstairs I toddled and switched on the emersion heater, then went downstairs and looked up the route to the place I’d be working at on 28th November.
I went back forty minutes later and started to run the hot tap, which after five minutes was still pumping out cold water. Oh great! Had the fuse gone on that as well? I opened the cupboard and looked at the light near the switch. It was on so the fuse couldn’t have gone.

The only other cause I could think of was that the element had gone. It would be the fourth in the twenty-five years I’d lived in the house. The water being hard, tends to clog them up, or so I’ve been told.

OK. No bath. Kettle on and a body wash. Oh fun.

Before that another pressing need had to be taken care of. I sat on the thrown (for want of a politer term) and reflected on the day. It hadn’t been one of my best and I was hoping this was the end of it.

I’d just finished the paperwork (being polite again), when the toilet seat broke. It was leaning that did it…

I got up from my undignified position – being on the floor, trousers around your ankles and your arm through a toilet seat – and felt like throwing the toilet seat. The only trouble was, with my luck at the moment, I’d throw it at the inside wall and it would bounce back and go through the double-glazed windows!
I’ve never been must of a DIY enthusiast, I’m more of a GSE person – Get Someone Else…

However, when I mentioned my predicament to Neatentidy, he offered to come to the rescue.

Of course, being without a cooker wasn’t an idea situation. The amount of times I was forced to consume takeaway curries or Chinese…well, it was just torture.

93 comments on “22: Nuisance Value

  1. Sorry, GloomLaden; my mistake. It was, in fact, Ronald Reagan who said it. When Hart asked “How does it smell?”, and waited politely for the familiar punchline, Reagan explained that he really did have a dog with no nose.

  2. You really are a man who ticks none of the boxes, GloomLaden. No imagination, and now no sense of humour. Is there no hope for you? It’s time you gave your bladder an airing.

    So, Phillip Miller Crane says to Gary Warren Hart: “My dog’s got no nose…”

  3. To be honest, Blameworthy, I wouldn’t recognise one of your jokes as a joke if it were not for all that bullhorn sounding and bladder on stick waving you go in for. The jokes themselves invariably elude me, like gags about Presidential running mates circa 1978 on some bygone American satire shows.

  4. It’s the way I tell ’em!

    Jokes about the pathos of being are all well and good, Gloomers, but they don’t make life any less pathetic. Whereas, I think I can safely say that my jokes add to the pathos considerably. It’s all about making a difference, you see.

  5. There was one time, in the early days of the Blameworthy & Fitrambler drinking sessions that I pointed out Uncles and Aunts. Over the course of the years this must’ve been quite frequent, for one day, on the way to the pub, I pointed out an uncle riding a bike down Beatrice Street as we strolled towards the Bakers.

    “Are you related to everyone in the town?” Blameworthy remarked.

  6. I – indeed, we – are alive, Blamers, sandwiched between the infinite period when we didn’t exist and the infinite period when we won’t exist again. And since, paraphrasing Douglas Adams, any number divided by infinity is as near to nothing as makes no odds, I’m not sure this ‘being alive’ of yours counts for much.

    Almost time to start drinking again, methinks.

  7. I am sorry you object to my melancholy tone, Blameworthy, but peoole are dead. Can you not change the subject else pause respectfully? No. For you, everything is a joke. And not a witty, Woody Allen kind of joke which acknowledges the pathos of being, but a Frank Carson one liner, loud, childish and frankly unfunny, probably punctuated by the sounding of a bullhorn. Grow up.

  8. Oh joy! We’re all getting older, our loved ones are dying, one by one, with ever increasing frequency; soon we shall all be dead. Just when we needed cheering up a little, GloomLaden has, once again, summoned up his huge intelligence, cobbled together a mountainous pile of melancholy words, and produced yet another long-winded, miserable statement of the bleeding’ obvious. It reminds me of Mrs. Sunshine…

    …actually, most things remind me of Mrs. Sunshine…

    …sorry; what was I saying again?

  9. I, too, was sad to hear of Uncle Fitrambler’s death. Having recently had my own ‘favourite Uncle’ die, I know how it is. What is it about Uncles, I wonder? I suppose they offer some sort of male role model other than that of the father. Father / son relationships often being complex and fraught with difficulty, I think the Uncles get the best of it, being able to relate to nephews (or neices, if you must) in a more friendly and casual manner.

    We’re none of us getting any younger – Blameworthy’s pitiable attempts to clean up at least the alcoholic strand of his act notwithstanding – and there are going to be a lot more such moments for all of us. Low level bereavement is a condition of middle age and beyond and there is no getting away from it short of ourselves succumbing.

  10. Thanks for that. He was really. He wasn’t a big conversationalist really, not like most people I associate with. But from wen I was born through to starting school he, along with Gran and Gramp Fitrambler lived with us at Ripon Way. The first house I remember, although not the first house I lived in.

    I suppose, me being me, and I am, he being the only Uncle who took the time to visit me when I got a place of my own and the fact that he was the only Uncle I went out of my way to keep in contact with, must say something.

    Dad Fitrambler was really upset, as far as we know, he’s the only one left on the Fitrambler side.

    And John, Uncle’s son, and myself are the only Fitramblers left. Neither of us looks like passing on the Fitrambler name to another generation.

    I have to say I’m very much more affected by it than I thought he would be.

    He would have been 86 in May.

    A good innings, some might say, but we always want more, don’t we?

  11. Very sorry to hear about your uncle, Fitters. The blog post which you wrote about him some time ago was one of your best, and he sounded like a thoroughly decent old boy. GloomLaden has also lost a much loved uncle recently so I’m sure he knows how you must feel. Of the three uncles I knew as a boy, two have long since died, but one remains. I believe he now lives in a care home in Wroughton, and must be approaching 100 now. I haven’t seen him for years, but I’m starting to feel I should pay him a visit soon. It would be nice to wheel him up the hill to the Carter’s Rest for a few pints, but I wouldn’t want to be blamed if anything should go wrong.

  12. If Robert Robinson should come back to life, surely that would be cause for celebration rather than crying off. Or do you plan to rush off to view his badly decomposed body stumbling through the streets of London on its way back to Chelsea? The comb-over should still be intact, though. If the resurrection should take place, I am prepared to voluntarily leap off the wagon in order to mark the occasion with you, failing that, I may decide to continue my alcohol-free spell into March and beyond. I find myself becoming rather passionate about the temperance cause and may even sign the pledge for life. To that end, I shall finish the evening with a well known temperance hymn, in the hope that it may persuade you all to join me in the fight against drunkenness…….altogether now:

    I’ve thrown the bowl aside,
    For me no more shall flow
    Its ruddy stream or sparkling tide
    How bright so’er it glow.
    I’ve seen extending wide
    It’s devastating sway,
    Seen reason yield its power to guide.
    I’ve cast the bowl away

    My days of revelry
    Oh gladly I give up,
    They’re but the masks of misery
    Which still lurk in the cup.
    While indolence and want
    And poverty display
    Themselves in every drunkards haunt,
    I’ve cast the bowl away

    A drunkards gloomy grave
    Shall ne’er be made for me,
    Oh rather let the rushing wave
    Engulf me in the sea.
    And may it be my lot
    To die ‘neath reason’s ray,
    Remembered by my friends, or not,
    I’ve cast the bowl away.

  13. No, but I will join you in the pub any day after March 1st, if my liver holds out until then. Of course, I may have to cry off if, for instance, Robert Robinson comes back alive again.

  14. I have no need to drown my sorrows, GloomLaden, or to swim with them. Having taken the pledge and forsaken the evils of drink, my sorrows have risen lightly to the surface and been scattered upon the four winds. Life is now full of hope. Perhaps you would care to join me at the temperance meeting next week.

  15. So what we now have is a sort of Blameworthy Lite brand, with all the alcohol taken out. Guh, sounds disgusting! At least the GloomLaden brand remains awash with drink, appealing to that section of the population who know how bad life is and what little can be done about it. I can drown my sorrows, you have to swim with yours!

  16. May I remind you that one of the major features of the much sought-after latest edition of the Blameworthy brand is a total abstinence from alcohol. Henceforth, I shall be unable to enter into discussions involving the demon drink. The GloomLaden brand is still saddled with a reputation for booze-sodden bleakness which, in marketing terms, is sounding the death knell for its future prosperity. The clued-up consumers of today will, wisely, avoid him like the plague. For Blameworthy however, the future looks bright; the future is orange juice.

  17. I concede the point that CANRA did not set out to preserve pub culture – I’d have been with them all the way had that been their intent. CAMRA wongly sought only to save real ale. Even Blameworthy knows that it is no good having the one without the other.
    Anyway, the Blameworthy brand goes from strength to weakness as it is corporatised from the attributes and prejudices of a particular personage to a set of vague Values at an international PowerPoint presentation. Soon, Blameworthy will be a mere logo, franchised out to the despeate entrepreneurial underclass of Britain to abuse as they will.

  18. Stuff and nonsense, GloomLaden. You should restrict yourself to the narrow range of topics on which you are qualified to comment, albeit in a limited capacity. CAMRA never set out to preserve pub culture, but has helped to secure the future of good quality draught beer. English pub culture is alive and well, even though you choose not to participate in it, preferring to remain indoors counting your pennies. Oh, and the real Blameworthy lives on, albeit in a limited capacity.

  19. In opposing the brand and in essence suggesting a Campaign for Real Blameworthy you are signing the death warrant of the character as surely as the establishment of CAMRA marked the (admitedly protracted) end of the very pub culture it sought to protect. When you have to have a flag day for something, that thing is surely doomed. Funnier yet, CAMRA behaves just like the brands it would once have held in contempt, banning beerguts from its promo literature and voting a Welsh pub – Welsh, mark you! – best of the year. The triumph of brand is inevitable because those who oppose it do in brand terms!

    And because I know there are those who visit these comment pages exclusively for such bulletins, Robert Robinson is still dead.

  20. Things are coming to a sorry pass when the highly individual, original character that was the former Blameworthy can be ruthlessly manipulated and redeveloped out of all recognition to become the gargantuan, corporate global brand which we see in our midst today. The shareholders at GloomLaden PLC should be ashamed of their cynical, grasping tactics which have besmirched the good name of a once loved personality and turned him into a monster. We have seen it happen on our High Streets when the little sweet shop with glass jars of mint imperials and sherbet bon-bons becomes another soulless branch of Costa Coffee, or the tiny kiosk – which once housed a tobacconist’s with a selection of clay pipes and rough shag tobacco behind the leaded stained-glass windows – that is turned, overnight, into a Wetherspoon’s super-boozer, with 25,000 square metres of vertical drinking space. It’s all getting completely out of proportion.This has got to stop; it can’t go on; something must be done. Blameworthy is part of our national heritage and should be restored to his former glory for future generations to appreciate.

  21. I think Mr Fitrambler meant Tailor ad sleeves not straps in his last comment. The poor chap hs been under some strain lately. But I have things under control now….

    Dr B. Calm

  22. Blameworthy, a work of fiction….doesn’t exist….Gloom-Laden a imagined character….Nay,Ay, and thrice Nay I say. They’re real, real as Me, Fitrambler himself. I know theyrereal. Met, them, I have, I really have. I commit their adventure to paper from my white walled room. It isn’t easy typing with your feet; when you’ve found out some idiot tailo had made your nice white evening jacket without straps.

    No, no, they’re real, very real I tell you!

  23. Pah, Blameworthy, and again Pah! I ask you merely to concede the point that Blameworhy is not the sole creation of the man – if that is what you are – writing him. That conceded, I ask you further to concede that the rest of us have had at least a hand in the fashioning of the Blameworthy brand. Dance, Blameworthy, caper to the tune of which you thought you were master but of which you are merely once of the less harmonious voices.

  24. It seems unlikely that there might be any readers – avid or otherwise – with sufficient intelligence to decipher those last two GloomLaden comments. They come across as the rantings of a demented loon. Are there any Fitrambler fanatics who spend their spare moments, when not reading the blog, working as psychoanalysts?

    It strikes me that GloomLaden has created the blog caricatures by selecting all the personal characteristics which he believes to be the best and most worthy, and superimposing them upon his own flimsy personality. The character traits which remained in the box were then cobbled together to become the complex work of fiction that is Blameworthy. This explains why the GloomLaden brand is so dull and unimaginative, whereas the colourful, man-of-the-people celebrity persona that is the matured Blameworthy has resulted in readers logging on in droves in order to follow his latest adventures. GloomLaden needs to develop a better understanding of his readership and, if not get a life, at least get a better caricature.

  25. The Deaf Bloke writes: As neither a regular nor avid reader of this blog, I must interject as one who has been fabricated from GloomLaden’s somewhat stunted imagination. I have no biographical context beyond those now bygone anecdotes about falling trees and forests, no physical characteristics – I might not even have ears, for all I know, making my deafness somehow doubly unpleasant and the wearing of spectacles (should I need them) impossible. I am even complled to utilise his word-clogged literary style, denied my own vernacular. At least Fitrambler, Blameworthy, GloomLaden and the others have been the result of some sort of collaborative effort: I have less distinctive identity than the chicken in the Why did the chicken cross the road? joke. Or, come to that, the road.

  26. Regular, avid readers of this blog are of no concern to me. Intelligent readers are another matter, however, and one wonders whether avidity or regularity are qualities which can run alongside intelligence in this context: they alone can settle that little matter, if their customary reticence can be overcome. Anyway, itelligent readers of this blog will be aware that the characteristics of Blameworthy and I are caricatures of the ‘real’ people by whom they have been instructed. But, for example, the Blameworthy character has not been caricatured by what we might call the macroBlameworthy but by the other characters and meta characters. So that when I say Blameworthy stands for a certain kind of bucolic hedonism, I am entitled to do so on the grounds that I have, at least in part, created him.

  27. Regular, avid readers of this blog will be too intelligent not to see through GloomLaden’s cynical ploy in manufacturing the bucolic hedonistic characteristics, which he attributes to my character with his verbal machinations, purely to make his own brand of intellectualisme seem more authentique in comparison. Both are illusory fabrications notwithstanding.

    I am, nonetheless, grateful to him for apparently manfully imbibing sufficient alcohol for both of us this month, thus allowing me to persevere through my current dry spell with little remorse.

  28. I do hope I have managed to topple Blameworthy from his wagon wtth my pernickety prognostications.

    Having run out of wine – don’t worry, there is some arriving Tuesday – I will on the Scotch tonight, probably with a little ginger wine thrown in for good measure.

  29. But I only appear to stand for a brand of bucolic hedonism in contrast to YOU. In comparison to everyone else I stand for nothing of the sort.

    Oh for fucks sake! I need a drink.

  30. By admitting that you will be taking up the grog again in March, you invalidate your giving it up at all, since far from giving it up, you are merely suspending consumption for a short time. You call me hypocrite – rightly, I concede – biut you are as bad yourself. Worse, in fact, because, even if you do not recognise it, you have long stood for a sort of bucolic hedonism that stands in conveniently marked contrast to my own brand of stay at home intellectualism – or intellectualisme, should you prefer, which you wouldn’t.

  31. If there were such things as degrees of pointlessness, GloomLaden, this blog would be even more pointless without your input. But I wasn’t aware that I apparently stood for anything at all.

    I’m taking time out from the grog during February in order to plan a series of Grogfests during March. Perhaps you should make the most of it and not risk causing me to topple from my solitary wagon. Soon I shall resume my efforts to coax you to join me in the great outdoors – and through the great inn doors – with renewed vigour.

  32. There is nothing to be achieved by going on the wagon, Blameworthy. Your doing so flies in the face of much of what you apparently stand for. INext you will be wanting the rest of us to come off the grog, I suppose. You’ll invite us on outings to posh eateries, discussing the LibDem question over dishes of lamb’s face in cloudberry coulis. Oh, and we will remember every tedious minute of the day and the Slad valley will never again resound to bad Mark E Smith impersonations. Does Mrs Blameworthy approve this teetotalism of yours, I wonder.

    I had indeed resolved not to return to the blog. It was, as we have seen, the right decision.

  33. Only the other day GloomLaden informed me he intended to make no further contribution to this blog. His vainglorious literary pretensions would no longer allow him to play any part in such mindless, repetitive drivel. So was it just an involuntary spasm that caused you to regurgitate that last comment, for the umpteenth time, Gloomers; hunched over your keyboard in the manner of an old tom-cat heaving up another fur ball?

    Only five days on the wagon so far, it’s true, but that’s four days, twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes better than your personal best since the age of twelve, I believe.

  34. The only Marlow I know is the main character in The Singing Detective and I’m certainly not going there on account of the psoriatic arthropathy, which is a very nasty beer indeed.
    And it interesting to read Blameworthy holding forth about beer while he is having an entire month off the grog for no real reason whatsoever.
    I’m still up for that trip to Slad, as soon as I have gotten over Robert Robinson’s death. See you in 2028, then!

  35. Oh what a beautiful morning,
    Oh what a beautiful day,
    I’ve got a wonderful feeling,
    Glue Pot, I’m on my way….

    Hmm. Bit too much. Remember you’re English, Fitrambler!

  36. No, I wouldn’t find it hard to believe. I was in Abingdon on 20th January this year, in a pub called the Miget. Farewell party for Smiler. Bought a special bow tie for the occasion.

    Two real ales on. The names escape me at the moment but I tried both. Ok but not brilliant…

    Glue Pot this Friday with Velocipede, Wellread can’t make it. Got my first drink in with Neatentidy last night for about ten weeks.

    No, Gloom-Laden probably won’t come, but the poor chap does have a lot to cope with at the moment….though he’d find some excuse if he didn’t..

  37. A few years ago you would often see Rebellion beers, particularly Smuggler and Mutiny, in the free trade around Oxfordshire, but I’ve not noticed them so much recently. Had a nice pint of IPA in Abingdon last summer though. Marlow is slightly off my patch, being just over the border into Buckinghamshire and, although you may find this hard to believe, there are quite a few pubs in the town which I have never visited. I wonder if GloomLaden is up for it.

  38. Rebellion, in Marlow, is just over 20 years old. The old Wethered’s brewery in Marlow High Street closed in the late 1980s after takeover by Whitbread. It was hoped that a new small brewery could be included in the redevelopment of the site, but nothing came of the plans, so the Rebellion chaps started there own brewery elsewhere in the town in protest. Hence the name. I haven’t been to Marlow for years; anyone fancy a day trip?

  39. A novice, (cough, cough) , I think not. Your wisdom in matters beer holds no equal. You are being modest. However the brewery is fairly recent.

  40. I am a mere novice when it comes to matters of beer and breweries; my knowledge is very scant. Rebellion Brewery does ring a distant bell with me though. Extra points for anyone who can tell me what they were rebelling against.

Comments are closed.