Cold Beer and Hot Politics. Chapter 3.

John was roused from his usual Nytol-induced stupor by the ringing of the bedside telephone. Blearily he lifted the receiver, surprised to hear his old mate Eddie chatting enthusiastically on the other end. There was to be a village fête in Elvington that weekend, their childhood home. Eddie insisted John join him there to reminisce about the good old days over a few pints. After a moment's hesitation, John agreed.

That Saturday John rode the train out to the Yorkshire village, the landscape of his boyhood coming into view as the station approached - rolling green hills dotted with sheep, the quaint high street lined with stone cottages. Flowers overflowed from window boxes, giving the village a burst of long-absent colour in John's eyes. His steps quickened as he walked the familiar road toward the village green.

The fête was already in full swing when John arrived, with children laughing merrily on the carousel and a brass band playing near the main stage. But it was the makeshift beer tent that drew John, a pint of bitter ale soon thrust into his hand by a smiling Eddie. They found a table with other old mates from school, the men raising their glasses in hearty cheers of reunion.

As the sun sank low in the sky and the fairy lights came on, John felt the years slip away. There he stood, a young lad once more, encircled by irreplaceable friends who knew and understood him. The beer flowed freely, and soon John was reminiscing loudly with the others about their shared antics - sneaking cigarettes behind the cricket pavilion, their first trip alone to London, chasing local girls across the moors. Each tale unfurled to raucous laughter and calls for another round.

In the golden haze of the tent, with his friends' warm smiles and the old village green just beyond, John was transported back to simpler, happier times. A time when Britain felt steadfast and right. For the first time in forever, hope and joy stirred within his breast. The past wasn't dead after all! It lived on in the hearts of people like him who remembered the noble decency England once embodied.

As closing time neared, John exchanged hearty handshakes with his mates, promising to stay in touch. Weaving slightly from the drink, he made his way alone down the twilit high street until he reached the train station. Settling into his seat aboard the London-bound train, John gazed back at the village as it receded into the distance. The fading fairy lights twinkled like happy memories within him. For one shining day, he had glimpsed England's former glory in the present. There was still magic to be found if you knew where to look.