Following on from a previous
post, where I had to admit to an unwarranted criticism of my aged employee, this one is thoroughly justified.
During another self-induced illness absence of old Scrotum, I had cause to make a second excursion into
le chateau du braconnier's extensive underground network and discovered another interesting cache, presumably hidden and the forgotten by the wrinkled retainer.
He was taken into employment by my grandfather in gratitude for dragging him unconscious from a blazing brothel during the Normandy offensive, and until now I've been loath to dismiss him, but I shall have to reconsider this in view of this latest revelation.
Dammit, the most recent bottle dates from 2002, and the oldest is from 1973! The Thomas Hardy ales, whatever they are, would be celebrating their 42nd birthday this year. Needless to say, I'll have to pour them away, but I'll await Scrotum's return and pour them over his prone, whimpering torso before I show him the door.
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