My pticheval was grey. And marroon, too. And it did get me to Paris. Where I now sit, sad hotel desk before me.
A bottle of Andechs Doppelbock smiles at me from the left of my keyboard. "Stop being such a tart, Andechs." She doesn't answer. Unsurprisingly. Few bottles of beer possess lips, much less the power of speech.
We'll be becoming much more intinately involved shortly. If I can get her to pop her top. These German birds.
C'est l'heure de dire bonsoir. Priez pour moi. Demain, il me faut faire quelquechose difficile. En utilisant mon pauvre Francais. Je suis perdu.
Tetley’s Post War ‘Estate’ Pubs in The North - We’ve just acquired a couple of editions of Tetley’s in-house magazine from the 1960s and thought we’d share some pictures of the then state-of-the-art m...
9 hours ago