Bags packed, Lady Jay leaves her crude, provincial homeland, where the sun never stops shining and ice-cold lager flows (and drinks) like water to quench the burn of mountains of extra-spicy chicken wings consumed in front of seemingly-endless football.
How will she survive in ye olde London-town? How many pints of warm ale, pots of jellied eels, and days of fog and rain can one woman slog through before returning home, soggy, pale, and malnourished? And what about the seemingly-endless football?
Stay tuned for the next installment of “An Alehead Abroad” for the answers.
ALEHEADS 
Godspeed….
With some good fortune you might be able to get your hands on a properly refrigerated New Country (a.k.a. American) Strong Ale like a Double Bastard to pair with those jellied eels. Not so sure a cask-borne Boddingtons would do the plate justice.
Cheers!
I absolutely refuse to eat any non-jellied eels.
My dear old departed Nanna – born and raised in Bow, East London – was the only person I’ve ever known to actually eat jellied eels. Nobody else in the family would even go near them. She also used to eat whelks on trips to the seaside, rather than ice-cream. None of this did her any harm…