You can tell we live in the country because last night in the pub the conversation turned to chicken shit. Chickens really do produce an awful lot of it. This was the general gist of the small talk.
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| Some Chickens |
I was also talking of an interesting little-known fact. When reading a regency-time draper's catalogue (don't we all?) one of the colours listed in fabrics was
goose-turd. From my personal experience of goose turds, I would hazard a guess that they were talking about green and white speckled fabric. It did amuse me that all these Downton Abbey fans who think that the past, especially in Jane Austen times, was so refined are all wrong. There I've proved it, anyone who watches any programme by Julian Fellowes is just wrong. And probably a secret southron too.
Talk then turned to drinks which used to be our regular drink in times long past. Aimo remembered Mann's Brown Ale, which he thought was served in Vaux pubs in Sunderland many moons ago. Mark said how years could go by now without him even thinking about Newcastle Brown Ale, whereas once anybody drinking anything other than
a bottle of dog would routinely get their head kicked in for being some kind of chicken-shit southron. So long ago...
Yet we wandered down the booze aisle at Morrisons today, and there Mann's Brown Ale was. It had never gone away, it was just sat there waiting to be bought.
We didn't buy any.
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