Basically, I walk into a German boozer looking (right down to the Peter Schmeichel head) like a leisurewear-clad Teutonic of the late 1980s in an aqua tracky with purple and white Nike trabs, tuck into a Pork Knuckle or a plate of Nurnburgers with sauerkraut and mash, then stand in the smoking area having a bants with whoever else is there and, indeed, occasionally dispatching drinks I don’t want into the plant pot. All this is true.
However, what I will not have, Si, is the accusation that I would ever order a half or a shandy.
