Rather a lot of it. Some of it was Taylor's Landlord, brewed magnificently in my home town and the reason of my rounded silhouette. It doesn't travel well, even though the brewery have reputedly invested in a special cushioned dray for taking the beer 'down south'. Education is the key to keeping this tricky brew well - they should send missionaries down to convert the cellarmen of the south to the joy of the Sparkler. Taylor's has changed over the last decade or so. It's not that long since the old boss, Lord Ingrow refused to have anything as flibbertygibbet as a fax machine. Now Madonna drinks it. I tried London Pride, which was better, and then after returning a soupy pint I ended up drinking licenced-brewed Staropramen, talking war films and VC heroes with my colleagues. Well, one of them.
And I had a kebab on the way home. A chicken one. It was disgusting. There are two kebab shops practically next door to each other. One uses prime chicken wrapped in bread they bake in their own tandoor. The other shop might be the reason for all the missing cat posters around here. I chose the wrong one.