Henry was in my class at Newark Grammar School. He's been a friend for yonks.
Miserable were the hours I picked spuds, when his family still owned potato killing fields.
He's recently set up a brewery on his hereditary estate. And he's been brewing some of my recipes. The firkin of Watney's Red Barrel he dropped off at my brother's for my last visit is the main reason I'm still talking to him.
"If you aren't going to cough up any dosh, at least provide beer for my kids." I told him.
And he did.
The kids were surprisingly happy with their Watneys. Bastards. At least it was cask and not evil keg.
Cat Asylum, it's called. And he's finally got a website.