Me and my partner Lynne have been invited to a piss-up in a brewery, and what could possibly go wrong with that?
The invitation is from my friend Kath, who is celebrating her 64th birthday, and the brewery is Moorhouse’s, which, to help guests who have difficulty locating themselves, is in Moorhouse Street, Burnley, Lancs.
When it comes to birthdays, 64 seems to be the new 60 or perhaps the new 65 because, despite retirement ages being constantly revised upwards, 64 still holds particular resonance to anybody who can remember the Beatles – who learned in 1967 that in the distant future, grandchildren would have names such as Vera, Chuck and Dave and that holidays would be spent on the Isle of Wight, providing it was still all right.
How exactly four young rhythm-and-blues tearaways from Liverpool, which, being heavily influenced by Wales and Ireland, is the least English city in the land, managed to create a song-picture so redolent of middle-Englishness, I don’t know. I suspect neither Lennon nor McCartney knew either, being wise enough not to question their own genius.
Incidentally, the brewery piss-up involves wearing fancy dress inspired by the Beatles. I’m working on becoming either a walrus or a hole in Blackburn, Lancashire.