Cambridge Winter Beer Festival 2005 - Beyond Chunderdome

The trouble with these events is that you obtain a programme showing the offerings, some of which aren't available, which is fine, but the main problem is the fact that there is no clue as to where the beers are located on the various floors and stalls so picking out a decent "Ale Plan" is next to impossible. Especially considering that by the time I'd acquired my second half that the hall was so full it was difficult to flit about seeking the exact tipple required. The popularity of the event also led to my inevitable downfall for reasons that will become apparent.

The ginger beer was very nice, and could in fact be drunk by transexuals as well as normal women. I gave it 9/10 due to its clean taste and refreshing qualities. Side effects included a desire to talk to the other people on my table. So I ventured off to carefully select my next beer, I was seeking a mild, but accidently stumbling into the "strong ale room" I decided to seek out my original 3rd selection ahead of schedule. So I returned to my new friends who had kept my seat for me. Here, whilst supping the Elgood's Wenceslas Winter Warmer 7.5%, a rating of 6-7/10, that my non-imaginary friends arrived, Hall, Chenepan, Hamgray and the Artist all sporting different amusing T-shirts. We had arranged to all wear various simian related clothing. At this point I revealed my trump card, a XXL T-shirt with a particularly amusing picture of Mr Ongar on it, bearing his mouth down on the camera with hideously stretched lips, the words "Bite My Monkey" were clearly visible from 30 feet away. This caused much amusement in the NOFEAR camp and I was treated to buying the first round of the evening.

The 3rd half was in fact a mild, and it only took me 5 minutes to locate, it was the St Peter's brewery "Mild" (at 3.7%) and I was happy to give it 8/10 due to its lack of over the top hopps (so prevalent in pretentious beers) and dark, chocolate.overtones When I returned with the other drinks I was greeted by another swathe of friends including Chenepan's new girlfriend - she doesn't know it yet - Sally. We quaffed our ale and marvelled at the rush of people attempting to gain entry before the entrance charges started. Hall, in the meantime, was ranting about the fact that all the women he fancied were either lesbians or insane, the Artist pointed out quite rightly that neither of these were reasons to select them out of the equation and in some circumstances could be considered definite advantages.

I retired to try another fruit beer, much to the amusement of the serving staff. Therefore ale number 4 was a half of Hanby Cherry Bomb - a surprisingly nasty 6% with not a great taste 3/10.

Beer #5 was supplied by the fair hand of Hamgray who informed me that due to the large amounts of people he had found the shortest queues in the "strong ale room" and hence had supplied all our beers from here. It was Archers' "Marley's Ghost" and was a cracking 7% with a score of 8/10, it did not taste strong at all, more like a dark-mild. After finishing I reconnoitred (probably not a real word) the plumbing facilities of the establishment, finding an unbelievably intimate room off the corridor to the strong ale room. Much relieved I returned to the fray to discover a half Liquid Lobotomy Stout, 8% from Garton's brewery, awaiting me. It was okay 5/10, designed for Rugby players and mole catchers I figured. Side effects of this included a repeated (and unrestrained) desire to run up to Chenepan, Sally and Hall shouting "Have you ever seen 'Third Rock from the Sun'?" and then retreating back to my seat. By this time the crusties had left the seats next to us, being replaced by some University drones.

At this point "The Founder" arrived, he is always in Cambridge in February and his picture is actually listed next to the dictionary entry of Scavver. He was sporting newly dyed black hair and no doubt looking forward to kicking over more chairs at the Picturehouse Bar and insulting the patrons there whilst claiming to be the founder of the Cambridge Film Festival. We'll see if he starts busking with his guitar later in the month.

At this point I lost my pen during a dare involving a large cleavage and various writing implements. Hence I can only report from memory the next beer, Old Ale from Burton Bridge a whopping 10%, reputedly a reduction from its original 11%. Shouts of "that's a wine" did not deter me from drinking this down in eight large gulps. It was good, but by now my palette, such as it is, could probably not tell the difference in taste between a polo mint and a Big Mac.

For some reason I thought it would be a good idea at this juncture to buy another glass and make a double purchase for my next venture into the strong ale room. My reasoning was that I'd only have to take half the number of trips, the rooms were now so full as to require more grace than was capable from my poisoned chassis.

This time my trip to the conveniences was more successful as I discovered a lavish downstairs room with many stalls and cubicles. This facilitated the now swelling masses more opportunity to relive themselves, both downward or upward - depending on their state, in relative comfort. The floor was a swill of piss and puke in one of the cubicles I noticed and there were some interesting retching noises from behind one of the doors.

Another couple of plus 7% halves later I found myself talking at great length about the relative merits of caravans to camper vans for touring the hostelries of this great land. I managed to escape this encounter when the man farted outrageously, and excused himself. I suspected he might have followed through, but thought I would not venture a slap on the arse on this occasion. All in all the crowd were good natured, even "The Founder" was behaving himself and even the appearance of a "Blue" team from one of the colleges was not enough to rattle the demeanour of the evening.

Reaching my friends I discovered that my seat had been taken by Chenepan who was looking decidedly peaky and wibbling about the simian gene or something. I requested that he buy a round and to shut the hell up as we were in company. When he left I took my seat back without a second thought. The two halves he kindly brought back for me with the other drinks were totally different in style, one black, the other brown and I was sure that they would not mix well. The brown one had the interesting effect on me that I started speaking in Carribbean patois and making like one of the Cambridge Massive. Oh dear. I returned to the smallest room in order to cleanse my body. Whilst I was there concentrating on my business a beardy-weirdy kept going on at me about how this was "the real Cambridge", and asking me "true or false, your Mum is your best friend?". I appeased him and pissed on his leg when he wasn't looking. I fled the scene to find Sally, large and immobile as ever, sitting on my seat. The Artist was drawing frantically in his notebook and was alternately giggling and repeating the word "classic" to himself over and over again. Chenepan was working his magic on the elusive Sally and Hall had broken his promise of only talking to women in comfortable shoes or ladies of restricted intellect (aka Americans).

The room was swimming now and the remaining part of my brain told me that it was time to head back to base. Hailing several cabs I soon realised that this was not London and staggered alone to the taxi rank on Sidney Street. I was back at my own personal chunderdome half an hour later.