27th March 1999

Another box arrived this morning.

Carling again.

They sponsor the Premiership, of course — have done for a while now — and for reasons that remain entirely unclear they’ve decided to start sending me a monthly crate of their lager. Like clockwork. Brown box.

There’s always a little note inside as well, which I resent more than the beer.

“Dear Des, a few cans to keep you going after Match of the Day. Or before.”

Or before.

I’ve been staring at that line for the better part of ten minutes.

As if I’ve somehow reached this stage of my career by wandering into the studio after a skinful.

Imagine.

For the record, I don’t drink lager. Not here anyway.

Only time I’ll tolerate the stuff is on the continent — and even then it has to be hot weather, a frosted glass, and something I can't pronounce. 

Otherwise it’s Guinness.

And never — under any circumstances — out of a can.

If the situation calls for something lighter I might entertain a Caffreys. Possibly a Smithwick’s if the occasion warrants it. But lager sent through the post with a jokey note attached is not going to win me over.

Still.

The Carling people seem determined to keep trying.

Anyway, I should probably have a glance at today’s games. 

— Des