OK, someone asked for this so it’s there fault. I think it was JanetyJanet. Actually, I just checked. So blame her.
The first night I tried Newcastle Brown Ale. Hereafter referred to as “Brown” or “Dog” (as in “walking the…” – a popular excuse for a gentleman to wander to the local drinking establishment). It was a dark, wintery night… really. It was. Sometime around October, I think. If I was at home then I could probably confirm the exact date.
Anyway, I was meeting two friends after school. I mean, college. University. Bugger it. School. I was underage. Tut all you like. I know you lot aren’t exactly pristine. Jonny Heron and Richard Moore were awaiting my arrival at “The Legendary Yorkshire Hero”, more commonly known as “The Archer” in Jesmond, Newcastle Upon Tyne.
The first pint was supped – a simple lager, probably Fosters. Then a cider, most likely Strongbow, though possibly Woodpecker. We had a little time before we headed for the theatre to see Thunderbirds. Yes. Thunderbirds. That thing with the strings and puppets that was recently ruined by that guy who used to be in Star Trek. On stage. With actors. Two of them, to be precise.
Anyway, I get ahead of myself. I then decided to try that mysterious brown stuff in a bottle that I’d heard about. Quivering, I walked up to the bar trying to stop my teenage voice from breaking. “Bottle of Brown, please”. A fair chunk of my paper round money handed over and the bottle was opened and placed in front of me.
Mmmmmm.
It went down far too quickly. By this stage I was pissed, but didn’t know it. I bought another bottle to keep me company on the walk down to the Playhouse. When we arrived, we ordered some drinks for the interval. A bottle of Dog each.
The play began. The first half ended. I guzzled my third Dog (erm… I should rephrase that but what the hell) and Jon and Richard couldn’t manage theirs. So I downed the remaining half-bottles.
The second half of the play was brilliant. What bits I could make out through the stupidly loud laughter. That turned out to be mine. I was also the only person in the entire theatre giving the two-man troupe a standing ovation at the end. Well gone, I was.
One of the lads jumped on the Metro at Haymarket while myself and the other (I can’t to this day remember which one) wandered down Grainger Street towards Central Station. At one point, I stopped for the obligatory public pee. Unfortunately, the evil effects of the Brown Juice prevented me from using a customary shop doorway. Instead, nob oot, slap it on the edge of a rubbish bin and let loose.
Being wasted, I thought the lasses who walked past were giggling at my antics. Ages and experience now tells me it was more to do with the effects of cold weather and colder beer.
Central Station arrived at, I got the Metro to Gateshead for transfer to bus and home. Only, being pissed I’d forgotten that there was a bus strike and that the services had all finished early. I really should have got on the Metro at Haymarket…
Addled, I collapsed in one of the shelters awaiting The Bus That Would Never Appear. After a few minutes, my stomach started telling me that it wasn’t actually all that keen on this Brown Ale stuff after all. So it took it upon itself to get rid of it. A kindly gent walking past gave me the friendly advice to “get it all up son.” How nice.
Five minutes later, he walked past again and stood in the expanding pool of cooling orange vomit. Muttering swearies he wiped his show on my trouser leg. Nary a grumble could I raise in complaint. More a “pshfwglbbbb”.
Some time later my brain finally took a peak out from behind the alcohol haze and decided it was time to kickstart my legs as no sodding bus would be coming. Almost an hour later, I made it home – by what route I am still uncertain. I think I made a remarkable job of not appearing drunk at all when my mum collared me coming in the door. I don’t see what clues I could have given her anyway. I am so sneaky.
The next day on the way back from school, I could still see the huge orange stain on the pavement inside the bus shelter. Which makes you wonder what the stuff does to your inside. Like Irn Bru and Tizer.
For over a month after that I couldn’t even sniff Brown without feeling queasy. Certain mates used this to their advantage and always gave me their bottles to hold while they went to syphon the python. ********. I taught them, though. I didn’t tell them when I was fine drinking it again. It took them a while (and several mysteriously emptying bottles) to twig.
