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On being told to stop drinking even beer all summer long.


As Old Bastard Time takes his toll, you learn to dread visiting the doctor, given that for every illness you own up to he'll almost certainly discover a brace more. So it was that having cured a stomach problem, my GP discovered my cholesterol was peaking and my liver was a touch inflamed. I didn't mind being put on a diet that would have depressed a fruitarian, but balked at the executive order not to touch any alcohol for the entire summer, no, not so much as a freezer-chilled beer served in a glass opaque with frost under the sultry Barcelonan sky.
Now, an alcoholic I am not. This I know because way back when, I was checked into a psychiatric hospital many of whose patients were bona fide dipsomaniacs whose confessions have kept the living daylights scared out of me to this day. But I do enjoy a beer or five, especially when the ups and downs of work leave my brain feeling like a trodden-on biscuit.
That notwithstanding, I clambered obediently onto the wagon, replacing beer with soft drinks (above all the insipid squash ambitiously called Aquarius). After just eight days I was tired, wired and bloated with cheap pop. I realised that without beer, I was going to get very sick indeed. I duly cracked a few, enjoying every aspect of the little beauties, from their discreet fizz through to the blissful way they massaged my tauter thoughts. Duly healed, the following Sunday I hoisted myself back onto the wagon and I am riding in it still and will continue to do so throughout the summer, much as the doctor ordered. After all, any desert can be crossed if it has a few oases - liquid first-aid kits, so to speak - lurking here and there.

- Textos i contingut: Matthew Tree - Disseny i programació: Nac -