A Tale of Afternoon Refreshment
Manchester, Northwest England, what do you think of? Manchester United? Oasis? Semi-permanent low grey cloud and torrential drizzle? The Didsbury dozen? The what I hear you ask? Let me enlighten you...
Didsbury, a small, leafy, inner-city suburb in Manchester. The kind of area that has a touch of sophistication but doesn't forget that it's in an industrial town in northern England. As such it's a mixture of classes. The houses are a mish-mash of Shakespearian style and the standard Lancashire red bricks, whilst the locals don't blink at the fact that one driveway contains a BMW and the neighbour settles for a Russian Lada.
The centre of this little corner of English suburbia is Didsbury village, a collection of shops, restaurants & pubs from which comes the legend of the Didsbury dozen pub crawl. A quick google search on the crawl reveals a plethora of websites with possible routes, advice, photos and expressions such as "pure carnage."
One of my favourite snippets of advice from these websites is, "if your going to try and do 12 (the full dozen) then you may want to start around 12 noon to make it even remotely possible." These people want you to succeed!
My own venture with the dozen didn't kick off until 2pm, leaving me a little concerned that I might not make all twelve. I have however since been told that I did manage the full dozen and apparently I was in good form by the end of it, although my memory would say otherwise.
Our team of drinkers started in The Didsbury, a popular place to start the crawl and it's not difficult to see why. A cavernous establishment with enough local ales and rustic beams to keep even the keenest traditionalist happy. Our next public house was Ye Olde Cock Inn, which despite the name is a far more modern affair but still a fine venue for some more local ale and with large comfy sofas it was an excellent spot for the afternoons rugby. The rest of the afternoon/evening went much the same as this, alternating between rustic inns packed with ale swilling locals to funky new bars filled with trendy chardonnay quaffers.
However, at some point in the proceedings, when everything was at its blurriest, I became an official dozener. To celebrate, the disco fingers came out! It's true to say that British men are generally bad dancers but after a dozen drinks everyone thinks they're Patrick Swayze, I'm afraid to say I'm no exception...
Although as an official dozener your dodgy disco moves can be forgiven as you are part of an elite band of drinkers. So go on, now you know of the legend make yourself special, become a dozener in the Didsbury sense!