Steve Palmer: Treasure the merciful distraction of punting while you still can

When you get to my age, most dreams have faded away if they have failed to already materialise, but I actually conjured a new one this week. I have decided I want to become a publican at some stage before I die.

My pub will be called the Effervescent Pheasant. It will be a free house, so we can serve whatever drinks we like, and on Sundays pheasant racing will take place at high noon in the beer garden. Any pheasants showing a lack of effervescence, will be culled immediately and served fresh on the lunchtime menu.

A free roast pheasant meal will go to the first patron to fluently shout “I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm the pheasant plucker's son, and I'm sitting plucking pheasants, till the pheasant plucker comes!” without blinking while standing on one leg.