Thank you so much @Mik_Bennett
My little brother used to drink something called “feeling foul” and, until now, I’ve not known what it was really called.
He’s been dead nearly ten years now and I still miss him… but you’ve brought back some lovely memories of times he and we shared at the Woolwich Tram Shed in those mad days when we were all a good deal younger. 
EDIT: Just “googled” Hale and Pace… 'cos we saw their debut at WTShed and Wiki tells me it was in 1982 .. happy days
We also drank Vale of Neath ales renamed Vale of Death ales in recognition of the hangovers it induced.
Was the regular Welsh bitter when I lived in Wales in the 80’s. Was actually very good compared to the competition (Brains anyone ?) available. Yes, we called it “feelin foul” (no ‘g’) but it’s “velin voyl” (almost).
Iechyd da for that HB. I forgot about Brains
So many people do. 
This by Kate Reardon in The Times gave me a wistful smile
“I did once hear of someone who wrote: “I will be on holiday until the 24th. Any email received until that date will automatically be deleted. If it’s important, please get back to me from the 25th.” Can you imagine the luxury of having the balls to write that?”
Sadly, some of the Dinosaurs are still around, merely camouflaged as Humans 
Barry Cryer, via the Oldie again:
A priest isn’t feeling well and so he calls in a doctor.
The doctor says, ‘Oh yes, Father, I’ve had several priests with the same symptoms and I’ve prescribed something very effective.’
‘Oh yes?’ says the priest. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Father, it’s sex with a woman,’ the doctor says.
‘Oh, OK, if you insist,’ says the priest. ‘But there must be three conditions.’
‘Of course,’ says the doctor.
‘First, she must be blind, so she can’t see that I’m a man of the cloth.’
‘Of course,’ says the doctor.
‘Secondly, she must be dumb, so she can’t tell anyone about this,’ says the priest.
‘Certainly,’ says the doctor. ‘And the third request?’
'Big knockers.
A man was driving far too fast round narrow country lanes when a cockerel flew out of a garden gate in front of the car meeting its demise in a cloud of blood, bone and feathers.
The driver, full of remorse, knocked on the door of the cottage to explain and apologise. He was met by an angry glare from an old lady who opened the door.
The man launched into a rambling explanation and babbling apology while the old lady kept up her angry unblinking stare.
Feeling that he was not making the situation any better the man reassured the old lady that he was more than willing to replace the cockerel.
The old lady continued to glare for a good few moment more and then said “please yourself, the hens are round the back”, then slammed the door.
A post was merged into an existing topic: That political discussion with occasional humour thread
I would refer you to post 7814, Mr Potts 
