“No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space.
“No one could have dreamed we were being scrutinised, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.“
When HG Wells penned his novel, The War of the Worlds, he envisaged a threat from without; a Martian invasion bringing mankind low, routing civilisation by use of advanced technology. Ultimately, mankind’s fate rested on an invisible ally, earthly pathogens doing what humanity could not and laying waste to all those Martian plans. HG Wells may well not have envisaged that renowned thespian, rugby fan and bon viveur, Richard Burton, would narrate Wells’ words to Jeff Wayne’s epic music less than a century later, but the suspicion is that he could not have predicted that those same earth-liberating pathogens, filtered through the lens of the humble pangolin and crepuscular bat, would turn their powers against us.
And yet, your humble reporter found himself setting forth to Heidelberg, the foreboding cloud of Covid-19 only beginning to make its presence felt, hindsight allowing that valour was most definitely the better part of discretion on this occasion. We came together, a pack of eight, and though we may not have looked quite the beefy, gnarled and grizzly part that number usually represents – can one grizzle in a scarf? – but over the course of two nights we put in a shift of ale-drinking an international pack would be proud of.
To Vetter’s, and our pack was drawn together in a local brewery serving dunkelbiers and plates of meat and sautéed potatoes stacked perilously high. Serious discussion took place as to what a group of rugby-loving bloggites would do now that two of the three final-day 6 Nations matches were postponed; the news that two postponements were now three only served to harden our resolve: we, the good people of AOD, would have a good time. And that is exactly what your intrepid reporter did – a foray to the Drugstore, a speakeasy where the schnapps was fast and the talk was faster; bonded by our common purpose and strengthened in the face of adversity. This reporter staggered back to his humble abode at a relatively sane hour, leaving an unnamed few to head off to a subterranean nightclub aptly called The Cave, and, much like Joe Marler, they were went on down to see what mischief they could cause, and, again like Marler, they could happily take a ban – it would have little consequence in this day and age.
The dawn of a second day, then, and a stroll along Heidelberg’s Hauptstraße served to emphasise the impact Coronavirus was having – not a single soul was seen for some hours. But as the day drew on and venues opened, this reporter was joined by Meades, emerging from the morning’s Stygian gloom like Roland Bertranne, cutting a dash in Yorkshire brogues and dazzling white trews that even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. The obligatory cultural touristic opportunities were availed upon; a trip to a wonderful bookstore where this reporter picked up a small piece by Wells contemporary Mark Twain, on his trip through Heidelberg by means of raft; a handy comparator for our own weekend, perhaps. Joined subsequently by Boanova (worryingly sporting a Leinster jersey) and SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman (equally worryingly, wearing a Munster top), gelatos were consumed, coffees were discussed and downed, and impressively steep hikes were had.
Sufficiently exercised, and in need of strong libation, we repaired to the venue-that-was-to-be-the-venue, The Dubliner. Joining Thaum and Mr Thaum, talk turned to our common love of rugby, and arms were chanced by suggesting to staff that they avail of YouTube’s wealthy repository of rugby matches for us all to enjoy, given the absence of any matches. Sadly, even Iks’ eloquent pleas fell on deaf ears, and instead we set about reviewing the season that never ended, remarking on standout players (Stuart McCloskey appears to have Thaum on a retainer for PR work*), and into the gap where our attention would have usually fallen, stories were exchanged, witticisms were slung and the occasional train refund form was completed. But that is another story for another time.
As Thaum has already elaborated, we moved on the Bar Centrale and thence to its restaurant neighbour Dorfschaenke, for pleasingly filling food and even more pleasingly outsized wine bottles. As the night began to wind down, several of our pack went separate ways; Thaum and Mr Thaum returned to the Bar Centrale to investigate the gin options, MrsIks went home to rest her weary hosting head, Boa had hit his limits and made good his escape. A round of beer and schnapps, and we remaining few parted ways, handshakes, hugs and backslaps abound.
And, in it all, Wells prose kept returning to my mind; MisterIks as the astronomer Ogilvy, assuring us that the chances of anyone getting a fine, were a million to one; only to then explain that for feeding ducks, he was served a 55 euro penalty notice (he still has no regrets and post-lockdown will continue his campaign in the face of teutonic adversity); SoYouThinkYou’reaWaffleman as Wells’ artilleryman, slowly losing his sanity as his left-handed passing fell to pieces and suggesting that a return to that subterranean life in The Cave may be the best solution for humanity; and the sight of Boa stood atop the Thingstätte, an arena built in Nazi-era Germany, dressed all in black whilst wearing a Leinster jersey, is one which will live long in the memory, if only for the nexus of humorous corollaries it brings together. And through it all, through the fantastic hosts, the pints, the ball-throwing and the brilliant company, there was the sense that from the madness, something beautiful had grown, or rather, something we had all known had been reinforced; that our blog-meets are something to be cherished. Not so much a case of à la recherche du temps perdu, more a case of à la prochaîne.
But the boss don’t like these dizzy heights
We’re busted in the blinding lights
Of closing time
As experienced by DropTheClaw.
Ovally Balls 
I just ordered two 5l “kegs” of beer from Dark Star brewery, even with the large delivery charge (over a tenner) it comes in at around £2.80 a pint and I don’t have to risk going out.
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I’ll drink to that Thauma!
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This is … is … is … wonderful:
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TomP – not what I was expecting, but a shit load better than some of the insipid Simon Cowell versions that have done the rounds.
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We discussed this a few weeks back I think, but Morrison was a magical singer in a magical band at a time in history that simply begged for the Doors. Ray Manzerak, Robbie Krieger and John Densmore were superb musicians who got the most out of Morisson’s wayward character before he burned out.
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Do you know Steptoe and Son, Deebee? It’s very very good.
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Good man, Keith Earls:
https://www.the42.ie/keith-earls-jersey-raffle-barnardos-5063576-Apr2020/
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call me an old codger but i was never a great fan of the doors – they tended to get too self-indulgent and long-winded for me……………………………………………
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Almost like an English Big Lebowski Sladey.
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Ticht – I haven’t brewed since my house burnt down but I’m getting the itch to do a Dark Star clone at some point.
That’ll be even cheaper.
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The Housatonic has good sized trout, catch and release only. Tips appreciated.
I really know nothing about fly fishing in that part of the world. Everywhere is different depending on seasons, hatches, insect species etc. My best suggestion would be to track down the local Trout Unlimited chapter – I’m sure they’d be a wealth of knowledge.
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AVs – local knowledge is always key. I always try to have a nice long chat with the people in the tackle shops when I go on holiday.
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The Doors – moments of sublimity – LA Woman, Backdoor Man – with periods of self-indulgent long-windedness…..
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“Christ, people are saying ‘isolated’ a lot on the news. They might not be Squeaky, but you have to drink anyway.”
I’ll drink myself into oblivion if Laura Kuenssberg tells the country to Go Left.
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Haven’t listened to The Doors for a very long time. Seem to remember that one of their shit albums is very funny if you can achieve the right state of mind.
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“I haven’t brewed since my house burnt down but I’m getting the itch to do a Dark Star clone at some point.”
This is my favourite sentence I’ve read in a long time.
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I want to say that Doors album was The Soft Parade, but whatever it was having achieved said state of mind things went to another level with what followed. A friend of mine’s father was a time and motion man in an underpants factory in Scunthorpe and had a colleague who every year recorded a cassette for his workmates at Christmas. Typically this would be interminable versions of Christmas carols played on a cheap Casio keyboard with no sense of timing whatsoever. He rejoiced in the name of Preston Dove and my first listen was one of the great musical experiences of my life.
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I would go on, but I fear a period of self-indulgent long-windedness.
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I do agree with Avs about ‘Trout Unlimited’ though. Definitely one of The Doors’ best songs.
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CMW – I might do a Death Star clone as well.
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@Craigs – we’ve got the killer line, just need to write the rest of the film now.
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For all you Covid 19 preppers out there, Dark Star Hophead clone recipe :
Ingredients
Amount Item Type % or IBU
3.70 kg Maris Otter (5.9 EBC) Grain 94.87 %
0.20 kg Caramalt (26.0 EBC) Grain 5.13 %
45.00 gm Cascade [5.65 %] (20 min) Hops 16.0 IBU
60.00 gm Cascade [5.65 %] (10 min) Hops 12.8 IBU
60.00 gm Cascade [5.65 %] (0 min) Hops –
1 Pkgs California Ale (White Labs #WLP001) Yeast-Ale
Beer Profile
Measured Original Gravity: 1.037 SG
Measured Final Gravity: 1.008 SG
Actual Alcohol by Vol: 3.77 %
Bitterness: 28.8 IBU
Est Color: 8.8 EBC
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“I really know nothing about fly fishing in that part of the world.”
This is complete nonsense of course. I really know nothing about fly fishing in that part of the world if that’s what you want.
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Think I have most of that in my garage. Gonna bust the lockdown to get it.
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Take one 8lb otter and cascade until bitter…
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If your butcher can’t get otter then beaver will work just as well.
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“Think I have most of that in my garage. ”
My garage is roughly 3.77% alcohol by volume as well. Not for much longer with this lockdown though.
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A friend of mine’s father was a time and motion man in an underpants factory in Scunthorpe and had a colleague who every year recorded a cassette for his workmates at Christmas.
This is one of my favourite sentences.
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CMW – I hear that the killer line is running wild and free in Scandinavia.
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It’s a very short boil in that recipe, I might look for an alternative.
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Ever sat in a strange bar in a strange town at a quiet time of day looking for company?
Can’t beat this one.
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Much of the rest can leave me cold tho, accomplished musically, but too self indulgent.
Cleaner and just as effective with a certain age group, (mine).
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Craigs, Hophead was my Darkstar beer of choice, well since they stopped making Spiced Vice anyway. Lately I’ve been finding it a wee bit hoppy for my changing taste so I ordered a keg of Best and one on the APA as I remember that being very good.
When this is all over the pub in Brighton where Dark Star started is going to get a lot of love from me, it is about 5 minutes from our old flat and about 2 minutes from the front of the train station
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Things can’t get worse, can they? Oh, wait, this just in …
“President Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner, has emerged as perhaps the most pivotal figure in the national fight against the coronavirus pandemic”
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Do you know Steptoe and Son, Deebee?
Know them well, although haven’t seen it since the 80s when the Equity boycott kicked in. Many of my generation had British parents or relatives and we grew up with reruns of Benny Hill, Steptoe, Monty Python, The Goon Show (my favourite) and all those other wonderful shows. After the Equity ban, we were suddenly being exposed to the dross of 80s US sitcoms. We’ve never really recovered and even a half-generation after mine, British humour was lost. For shame.
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SBT – pissing with rain here in Jo’burg, cold and grey. Thanks for the Doors link. Now listening to Riders on the Storm whihc seems appropriate at every level in these times!
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@Deebee
The Goon Show was some weird shit. My dad used to play it on long car journeys when I was small.
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Also just pissed with rain here.
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Yup. Also wet and windy here. The cat ( not The Cat) is yowling on the windowsill wanting to be let it. Not my cat though – belongs next door.
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The original pilot episode – The Offer – is tragic in many, if not most ways. It became more broad-brush slapstick towards its end.
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Chimpie, I think if my Dad hadn’t listened to it and loved it so much, I probably wouldn’t have got into The Goons quite as much as I did. He grew up with the Goons listening to them on the ‘English Service’ of SABC radio, with his uncle and dad in their little flat on Sunday afternoons. We carried on this tradition, with one of the Goons, Hancock’s Half Hour, Round the Horn and others on the radio just after we’d finished Sunday lunch – a perfect way to relax after lunch.
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Jones with an extension to 2023 with England.
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Trisk, it’s been called Beckettian. And there can be no higher praise.
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Vinyl update: Boston, Boston. What a great album! Kicking off with the classic More than a Feeling, leading into Peace of Mind, before the slightly self-indulgent Foreplay (did I just type that???). Rock ‘n Roll Band about to start as soon I realise I can’t play the other side using a remote…
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Round the Horne is my favourite, the BBC reissued a lot on cassette/CD in the early 90s and even a special Julian and Sandy compilation, which is gold.
Hancock is also good. We had some on vinyl when I was a kid. The Blood Donor is grand. The Radio Ham is absolute genius.
The Hancock films are pretty good too, especially The Rebel. But that stretch to 90 minutes doesn’t quite work.
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I’m not really a fan – and certainly the Blood Donor has been worn to a thread but the Sunday afternoon one is brilliant (can’t recall name and even though it would be quicker to Google than write this). I can recall the deathly longueurs of Sunday in the ’60s as a small child – even in London. My dad waiting for the pub to open again at 7pm….
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My brother has a nice joke about the current situation:
Never in a month of Sundays did he imagine how boring a month of Sundays would be.
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Trisk, when the Sunday licencing laws changed in the UK in 1994(?) we cancelled our Sunday cricket match just to go sit in the pub all afternoon.
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