Billothewisp Returns from the Dead

My dear deranged and desperate English pals.

Billothewisp is not dead. He just smells funny.

A new list of topical and contentious blogging items for beration and derision are being prepared.

In the mean time, Billothewisp has been on tour, or, at least, to the Cambridge Folk festival.

Here among the dreaming spires (or is that Oxford?) you find an interesting and eclectic mix of individuals from the far flung frontiers of our nation. From the Mung bean eating classes through to our tattoo bedecked shaven headed brethren. You know, those who always give you the urge to look at your shoes when they pass by.

This year the festival was, well, so-so. But hey! that is only my view.

What I do wish to impart is a tale of stunning achievement performed by one of our young and delightful English female patriots at the festival.

The venue was the main beer tent.

At that time Billothewisp was sticking to the Bishops Tipple, a fine brew.

However there are those who would consider Bishops tipple a mere Nancy boys drink compared to the main item.

The drink of champions.

The nectar of the gods (of war).

Of course I refer to Old Rosie (7.2% ABV).

Old Rosie is cloudy. This may be due to its apple heritage or possibly because it is dissolving the glass.

Anyway, I digress.

Let us call our English champion Tracy.

Tracy is 5 foot nothing and weighs about 7 stone. She has a charming English rose tattoo on her upper left arm. Her hair auburn with blonde streaks. There are two pints of Old Rosie on the bar.

Tracy lifts the first pint and puts the glass to her lips. The pint of Old Rosie vanishes in less than 5 seconds.

She is still standing. A hush descends on the bar.

Then (Oh Mother of God!) she lifts the second pint of Old Rosie.

It vanishes. Tracy smacks her lips and saunters off into the night (in a straight line)

I think even Boudicca herself (Warrior Queen of the Iceni) would have quaked at such a feat.

Believe me. As long as we have girls like Tracy, England is safe.