Having a meh

International donut: Ich will
nicht ein Berliner

The French have a phrase for it. Well, French cycling commentators at any rate. A way to describe an otherwise indescribable day that sees a cyclist previously in contention for victory put in a performance so dire it all but derails their campaign. 

Jour sans. Literally a 'day without'. It's been one of those days. Nothing doing. A great big fat duck egg of nowt. And as it draws to a close, I'm struggling to think of much I've really managed to get done today, save this update. And even then, that's not much is it? As I'm sure you'll agree by the end of it.

It's not that anything's gone wrong or that I've lost interest or inspiration. On the face of it, I'm still pretty chipper, especially so for this time of year. It's usually around about now I get crises of confidence due to plummeting hit counts, but I've given up bothering with the analytics this year. It's nice to see where people have visited from, but the numbers are pretty irrelevant to me these days.

But some days are just meant to be grey. This is one. If I'd been at home, I'd have spent the entire day in bed, punctuating it with visits to the lavatory, the odd raid on the larder or fridge and the occasional cup of tea or glass of water. Much television would have been watched, possibly not all of it particularly educational.

I can't say the weather's helped, unless its purpose today was to ensure I cowered indoors away from the elements. It's the kind of weather the Scots have more than 70 words for, I expect. All the wrong conditions and in completely the wrong order. Not even dramatic enough to at least go out into to see what all the fuss was about (though I realise that's not always desireable too, Cumbrian readers).

Despite doing next to nothing all day - the Everyman crossword notwithstanding - I still feel utterly wiped out. Stricken with the kind of torpor only large meals and the stuffiness of constant central heating can bring about. I've absolutely no energy at all. My get-up-and-go got up and went.

Can this beer help? Well possibly. It's a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool German Berliner Weiss to which the good burghers of that city would usually add a flavoured sweet syrup. I shan't be doing that; no siree. But knowing my luck, it'll work only too well, exciting my tastebuds and injecting enthusiasm in to the evening with the result I'll doubtless be unable to get off to sleep later on.

This post was brought to you by Unlucky Alf.

Beer: Berliner Kindl Weiss
Strength: An utterly ineffectual 3%
Smell: The fur of a cat that's fallen into the loo.
Tasting notes: I can tell why the Berliners put syrup in this. Rarely have I had a beer so completely lacking in body it makes a stick insect look a little on the portly side. There is absolutely nothing to this except a fleeting sharpness that doesn't even have the legs to make it all the way through to the finish. It's the beer equivalent of a pamphlet printed on 40gsm paper, so devoid is it of substance. If it has anything about it at all, it's that at least it has the decency to be of modest alcohol content so it won't take up too much of your time. You could pass the most strict drink-driving tests after several of these, without doubt. Shrinking violets are positively loudmouth in comparison to this beer. It's almost an anti-beer.
Session factor: You could drink a bathful of this without realising you were in any way consuming alcohol. But you wouldn't want to.
Arbitrary score: 7