Bijou it was not. A tatty farmhouse where the bar only opened for two hours a night – The Manor. One balmy summer evening we set out across the fields on a mission to break the Manor Record. Previous attempts had been foiled by drunkenness and beer throwing. Tonight was going to be different. Pints on the bar and we were off. We needed a pace setter. Lackey was our man. He opened his throat and took an early lead. Racing ahead of the pack, he stumbled and we slowly reeled him in. Max looked in fine form – clean lipped and reeking of quality. He downed pint after pint of delicious Mansfield Bitter, spurring the chasing pack onto greater heights. The last pint was quaffed even before towel time. Whisky chasers all round and the Manor Record was ours. We stumbled home with dolphins in our trousers.