MY GRANDMOTHER in Bristol had an Irish lodger, and when we went to stay there, we grandchildren all knew him as Mick.

Mick worked as a porter at the university. He got up early and by the time we came downstairs he would be already there, sitting in front of the open fire in his shirt sleeves with his braces down, drinking tea and smoking a roll-up, ready to set off for work.

He was from somewhere in the deep south of Ireland, and we understood maybe about half of what he said.

The house, in neatly-manicured Sea Mills, smelled slightly of cats and camphor, and a lot of toast and cooking. It was in a street which saw hardly any traffic, and it was often completely silent apart from the heavy ticking of a huge grandfather clock, which was made in Avonmouth and had a little dial that predicted the tides in the Severn Estuary.

It was a lovely, warm, happy place to stay.

On Sunday mornings Mick would go missing, and sometimes my dad would go missing with him.

They've gone to church, my grandmother used to say. They've gone to worship where the prayer books have handles.

It was a kind of worship that came to mind the other night when my mate Barrie called those two magic little words 'Beer Festival'.

It was like the church bells calling us to prayer.

All over Paignton, the Guidelines beer tasting panel heard the words drifting in on the breeze, like the twilight barking in 101 Dalmatians.

"What's that you say? Some puppies have been kidnapped?

"Oh no, it's all right. It's just Barrie calling us to our beer."

Undelivered junk mail fluttered in the breeze* as the Caerphilly Kid hot-footed it to the meeting place. Paint glugged on to DIY Dave's floor as he knocked a pot over in his haste to get there.

Mr Fangio, who is a medical man, fortunately took a few moments to make sure all his patients were in safe hands before legging it out of the door.

Barrie and I buttoned up our coats against the chill winter wind and made our way on foot (of course) to our meeting place.

The occasion was a beer festival organised by a national pub chain which has branches in most of our local towns.

It differs from an actual beer festival in many ways, but principally it differs in having no massive queues to get in, no massive queues for toilets and no massive queues for the bar.

You don't have to acquire paper tokens that get lost in among all the paper debris in your pockets, and you don't have the agony of waiting for 20 minutes for someone to come and serve you, only to discover that the beer on which you have set your heart is 100 yards away at the far end of the racks and the last pint has just gone to some weirdo with half a steak and kidney pie stuck in his beard.

This is a festival in the sense that a number of local breweries have their beers old and new featured along the bar, and frankly it would be churlish not to go along and give them a whirl, so to speak.

To be fair, it was amazing that we got started at all. Faced with a baffling array of ales from which to choose, it took us about 10 minutes to make our minds up for the first round. Bar staff had time to wander away, do some cleaning and wander back before DIY Dave made the decisive move and ordered a pint of his chosen brew.

This duly arrived — an inky-looking porter with an ominous aroma that said handle with care. DIY Dave quaffed deeply and bravely, smiling through the discomfort although we knew that deep inside his tastebuds were crying.

It reminded me of a similar night just before Barrie's son emigrated to Australia when we gathered for a farewell drink and I chose a pint of mild as my farewell gift of beer to him.

It was ghastly. It looked like six-year-old sump oil. It tasted of rust, and pepper, the inside of a damp Hillman Imp and old training shoes. It was the kind of drink that actually made people emigrate to Australia.

I had tried to do something nice but I had done a terrible thing, and everyone knew it. I was like the man in the crisps advert who puts Puppy Love on the jukebox by mistake and has to forfeit his manly snacks before being ejected from the premises in a vacuum tube.

I could hardly have felt any worse, but it was too late to take back the gift.

Barrie's son took a sip. He smiled politely but his eyes gave him away, and we both knew that a little of our friendship had died that night as a result of me choosing that pint of mild for him.

DIY Dave manfully downed the rest of his inky porter, though. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

We moved on, working our way up and down the pumps as round followed round. We passed glasses from drinker to drinker, nodding sagely and murmuring approvingly. No one else tried the inky porter.

At one stage the Caerphilly Kid was so overcome with generosity that he offered his glass to a complete stranger who has been standing in front of the pumps, unable to make up his mind. Like a child gazing up at an ice cream van with a shiny sixpence in his hand, this poor fellow was close to tears, such was his bewilderment at all the bright pictures and descriptions in front of him.

The Caerphilly Kid reached out the hand of friendship, with a glass of ale clutched in its fingers. The unknown stranger took a sip. His little face lit up. His quest was over and he was able to make his choice.

England were losing to Egypt at this point, but we paid little attention to the TV screen hanging on the wall.

We covered music and politics, the generous and giving nature of the womenfolk of Somerset, and famous people we have encountered.

This resulted in a draw between the Caerphilly Kid, who as a child had his broken arm reset by rugby legend Dr JPR Williams, and Barrie, who once dined at a table next to one of the major players in the Watergate burglary saga, G Gordon Liddy.

In days gone by, this gathering may have gone on into the small hours, with curries and kebabs to boot, but we are older men now. There was work to do in the morning — more junk mail to deliver, more paint to be painted, and more patients to tend.

It was still well before the witching hour when we got home, and England had overcome the odds to vanquish mighty Egypt by then.

But it was a reminder that when you feel the need of a little light refreshment and a lot of cheerfully idiotic conversation, you can't do much better than a night with your mates in the church where the prayer books have handles.

*In case the Caerphilly Kid's boss reads this, I made that bit up. He always delivers all of his junk mail and none of it was left fluttering in the breeze at all. I can't vouch for DIY Dave's paint.

DON'T forget you can get the Guidelines experience on the radio every Friday night.

JP Hedge and I are on Torbay's new community radio station Riviera FM between 7pm and 9pm. Log in to listen, at www.riviera.fm