Today, at some point, I will go into a nice pub* and drink delicious beer. Proper beer, made by men with beards and hops in their underwear. My favourite thing about the modern world is that appreciating good beer is no longer a slightly fusty and risible pursuit liable to make you a social pariah. Of course, market forces have responded to this, making good ale more and more readily available.
Eleven years ago, when I was 18, I went into a pub and got a pint of Marston's Pedigree. The two men stood at the bar, who were probably about the age I am now, snickered away to themselves at the throwback spotty teen, drinking real ale. I like to think that now they realise that I was, as ever, right - a prophet without honour in my own country - as they enjoy pint after delicious pint of foamy real ale. If they aren't, I like to think they have AIDS. Plain and simple, crippling, AIDS. It helps me sleep at night.
I'm not one to make sweeping comments about society based on such observations, but I think it's safe to assume that society is now healing itself and everything is going to be alright, all thanks to real ale.
* Anyone reading this who knows me is welcome to come along and hold my hand, of course.