It's Never the Beer's Fault.

She spotted the gigantic black-blue-and-purple bruise on my ass the first night I was back from London. I was equally disturbed. There, in the bathroom mirror, was the first time I'd bothered to look at it myself. Well, it was impressive.

Officially I blame it on Farringdon station's wet stairs, roughly half the size of my gargantuan, snow-booted feet. It's unfair to blame the series of pints enjoyed that afternoon in the Clerkenwell area. It's not their fault. The upshot is that local authorities must have hilarious CCTV footage of my dramatic and fully airborne ass-plant. One lady near me saw it happen and gasped, covering her mouth. She clearly feared for my life.

Sadly I forgot to snap a photo of the bruise for you. It's nearly healed now. You'll have to make due with this shot of my tasty cod and fries from Stonch's pub, the Gunmakers, where my afternoon began. I just said "fries" to be annoying. I know they're chips. I also like to say "soccer" over and over in front of sensitive British people.

On that day I experienced the publican's art firsthand. The Timothy Taylor Landlord at Stonch's place was fresh and grapefruit-zesty and I couldn't get enough of it. Later that night I met my friend Joel at a nice-looking pub elsewhere in town, pleased to see they also had Landlord. But it was not the same beer. Dead and stale. I had known in theory that whatever it is landlords do down there in their cellar with their casks and their tasting glasses, that it matters. Now I know it in reality. The difference was not subtle.