Pickled Onions and Cheddar Cheese,
So strong that they can burn your teeth,
Don't give me Roquefort, Gouda or Brie,
Forget the Branston and Piccalilli.
Wash it down with an IPA,
With Malt, hops and yeast, I pray,
Not cider, lager or Chardonnay,
Just proper beer to end my day.
Don't give me all your gastropubs,
with a plethora of fancy grubs,
Ladies dressed like well pruned shrubs,
Despising all us beery chubs.
Recall the days of flock and darts,
Jukebox, smoke and drunken tarts,
Stagger home in fits and starts,
Too drunk to cry for broken hearts.
I fear the day of pubs has gone,
Outdated like a mastodon,
Crumbling like the Parthenon,
Yes my friend, our day has gone.
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Copyright 2017 - Roger Tichborne
I felt it was high time I wrote a poem celebrating the pub culture of my teenage years. There are still decent traditional pubs in Central London. Landlords like Emily at the Chandos in Colindale and Senan at The Bohemia in Finchley do a great job reinventing the suburban pub. But the days of smoke, darts, flock wallpaper and a proper cheese ploughmans have gone forever. As part of the research for this, I googled IPA recipes. To my horror, most are American and most are sacreligiois to an old fart like me!
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