Stupid and ridiculous things I’ve done in beer gardens …

It strikes me as I sit here in my Editorial Management uni class in north Berlin, that this is probably the first time I’ve actually used my time productively in a beer garden. We’re learning WordPress and it occurred to me that oftentimes when drinking beers outside in the sunshine, in contrast to today, I teeter along a tightrope walk of adventure and disaster.

That time behind the henhouse, somewhere in the Hertfordshire countryside …

Chicken representation of what happened.

In my teenage years, I had the misfortune to live in a tiny village somewhere in the depths of the English countryside. Nothing happened. People gossiped, men cheated on their wives, the denizens of the Pelhams filled their time with blasting pheasants out of the sky and delighting in ripping foxes to shreds whilst participating in the local hunt. As a slightly goth vegetarian, who was just beginning to exhibit signs of emerging feminism, obviously i didn’t really fit in. I worked at the local pub as a waitress, and a terrible one at that. I’d carry out plates of carnivorous slop and merrily announce to bemused customers, “A plate of some kind of white meat with potatoes on the side”, before dumping them on the table, invariably knocking random condiments flying. One time I was exceptionally bored, having lost contact with the guy I met at a bible camp, who would post me acid from Birmingham, which meant Sundays were as dull as ditchwater. In a bid to make the day a little more interesting, I decided to drink five shots of sambuca, flaming, natch. I ended up – to my eternal shame – kissing the tory-voting son of the local huntmaster behind the henhouse in the pub beer garden. I chose the venue because I didn’t want anyone to know about my dalliance with the right-wing and my lack of principles in terms of animal rights, hastily left by the wayside when the chance of what could be very loosely termed as romance. The chickens must have known about my betrayal as one of them pecked me really hard on the leg until I bled.

 

Of course my paramour told everyone and I had to endure months of being clucked at every time I went to the pub …

Peggy Whitfield: Chatting shit in beer gardens, globally.

 

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