‘I’ve had better Tram Drivers,’ opened Mo.

‘I’ve had worse,’ countered Tom N.

‘She has a nice delivery but I’d worry about her legs,’ said Billy Stroud, shrewdly.

‘You wouldn’t be having more than a couple,’ said John Mosely.

‘Not a skinful beer,’ I concurred.

All eyes turned to Everett Bell. He held a hand aloft, wavered it.

‘A five would be generous, a six insane,’ he said.

‘Give her the five,’ said Big John, dismissively.

I made the note. This was as smoothly as a beer was ever scored. There had been some world-historical ructions in our day. There was the time Billy Stroud and Mo hadn’t talked for a month over an eight handed out to a Belhaven Bombardier.

Alewards we followed our noses. We walked by the throng of the beach – the shrieks of the sun-crazed kids made our stomachs loop. We made towards the Prom View Hotel. We’d had word of a new landlord there an ale-fancier. It was dogs-dying-in-parked-cars weather. The Prom View’s ample lounge was a blessed reprieve. We had the place to ourselves, the rest of Llandudno apparently being content with summer, sea and life. John Mosely nodded towards a smashing row of hand pumps for the casks. Low whistles sounded. The landlord, hot-faced and jovial, came through from the hotel’s reception.

‘Another tactic,’ he said, ‘would be stay home and have a nice sauna.’

‘Same difference,’ sighed John Mosely.

‘Could be looking at 37.2 now,’ said the landlord, taking a flop of sweat from his brow.

Billy Stroud sensed a kindred spirit:

‘Gone up again, has it?’

‘And up,’ said the landlord. ‘My money’s on a 38 before we’re out.’

‘Record won’t go,’ said Billy.

‘Nobody’s said record,’ said the landlord. ‘We’re not going to see a 38.5, that’s for sure.’

‘Brogdale in Kent,’ said Billy. ‘August 10th, 2003.’

‘2.05 p.m.,’ said the landlord. ‘I wasn’t five miles distant that same day.’

Billy was beaten.

‘Loading a van for a divorced sister,’ said the landlord, ramming home his advantage. ‘Lugging sofas in the piggin’ heat. And wardrobes!’

We bowed our heads to the man.

‘What’ll I fetch you, gents?’

A round of Cornish Lightning was requested.

‘Taking the sun?’ enquired the landlord.

‘Taking the ale.’

‘After me own heart,’ he said. ‘’Course ’round here, it’s lagers they’re after mostly. Bloody Welsh.’

‘Can’t beat sense into them,’ said John Mosely.

‘If I could, I would,’ said the landlord, and he danced as a young featherweight might, he raised his clammy dukes. Then he skipped and turned.

‘I’ll pop along on my errands, boys,’ he said. ‘There are rows to hoe and socks for the wash. You’d go through pair after pair this weather.’

He pinched his nostrils closed: what-a-pong.

‘Soon as you’re ready for more, ring that bell and my good wife will oblige. So adieu, adieu …’

He skipped away. We raised eyes. The shade of the lounge was pleasant, the Cornish Lightning in decent nick.

‘Call it a six?’ said Tom N.