In news uninteresting enough that even the Hereford Times would refuse to run it*, we’ve had to spend so much money on a new fridge/freezer there is no cash left to fill it. Finally though, my beer fridge has been released from a two year captivity where it was forced to freeze dangerous vegetables . I had taken to calling it Terry Waite, while fighting a losing battle to locate even a single micron of non brocolli’d space being available to cool a much needed beer.
The new fridge is a bit of a loomer. First Carol insisted on the blitzkrieg washing machine and now we have a floor to ceiling nightmare blocking out most of the available light, and intimating it is somehow more intelligent that me. Yes, this latter day HAL must be at least partially sentient with the instruction manual having a similar page count and level of technical detail as the operating procedures for a Boeing 737.**
Anyway the vastness of the words is mirrored by an internal space that’d easily “ and happily if I’m any judge of its evil fridgey face “ swallow a small child. Not having one to hand, I was forced to poke my head into the snow white abyss to get a first hand experience of the latest cold storage technology. Immediately obvious were TWO separate compartments to house stuff that’s meant to be green. And I’m not talking beer bottles here.
One of these hated vegetable repositories “ in the words of those knowledgeable in fridge-speak “ is a humidity controlled ˜crisper˜. Now that is indeed clever, and to prove I’m not some five-a-day denier, it is now brim full of the finest King Edward tubers and a shaker of salt. The curmudgeon of doubt shall only raise his voice should the promised cripsing not deliver my favourite beer accompaniment first thing tomorrow. I’m not even asking it to put them into a packet.
Anyway back to the point “ or in this case bottle “ in hand. Having been deprived of the beer fridge for all this time, not only has entirely necessary repository for ice cold beverages been cast adrift, the cultural*** loss of performance art in an entirely new media genre could be even more significant.
I was working in the vanguard of a previously under-represented fusion of history and moist glass re-enacting great historical battles through the medium of domestic appliances. I know, when laid out in such simple terms, it’s hard to believe that even with all the internet hosted shit nowadays, no one else is inspired by such a beautiful juxtaposition.
For example my Dunkirk had the plucky British beers retreating rapidly but steadfastly to the rear of the fridge being pushed hard by hard charging Becks lagers. Artfully placed were the occasional 25cl French beer lying on their side with a little white flag on the cap, while a couple of Budweisers’ were torn on which side to fight for. As for the Belgium beers they were nowhere to be seen, and a crate of Kronenbergs could be seen loitering in the salad tray changing their labels to something with umlauts.
Even better was my Yalta Summit which had a complex distribution of all the major European beers. Sadly I decimated the Polish section one night after a particularly thirsty ride. Art imitating Life eh?
Worryingly even on receiving the freedom of the fridge, I’ve nothing but nasty lagers to celebrate its return to a proper purpose. All my liquid therapy nowadays seems to be grape related with occasional forays into warm beer generally with organic in the title.
I’ve thought about this for a bit. Wondered if maybe there’s something deep and meaningful in matching drinking preferences to mental states. Statistically grouping the poison you imbibe to make some kind of sense of the world. But, after due consideration, there is only one conclusion I can draw from this disinterest in gassy lagers.
I am getting old. In fact I may already be there.
* While exposure to the banality of local papers partially prepared me for this fine weekly publication, it was still shocking to read Old Person Dies. After Illness. I kid you not.
** This stuff is beginning to worry me. Where will it end? No sir that’s not a radiator, it’s a personality enhanced heating system augmented with the latest AI, and for a small upgrade the on board raconteur chip can gurgle like Peter Ustinov
*** I cannot call it art. My friend Dave “ who is a proper galleriest – tells me art can be anything you like. Most of the engineers I know insist it is only art if it includes colouring something in