Ah the blessed beer jumper. The garment I can wear to every visit to a pub in a given period and have all the pungent smoke and beer smell get attached to that rather than half my wardrobe.

Before, I would come home, smell the disgusting aromas of pub upon my person, and have to chuck my clothes into my gathering of impending laundry. Thusly my choice of clean clothing would be greatly diminished. Now this isn't a problem with t-shirts, of which I own a great many, and which of course also retain that classic BO smell. Trousers strangely lose their smell. But jumpers; jumpers are a mirror for odours past and present. A rhinoceros can walk to a spot and using its nasal senses can build a mental picture of the activity there for up to two weeks previous. So it is with jumpers. I have relatively few and so such a tactic is both practical and inspiringly easy on my usage of washing powder.

Hence this week I will be wearing my dark blue Bench hoody to all my public house activities. Mmm, imagine the memories it will eventually hold.

Of course I will have to carefully explain the phenomenon to all my drinking buddies in advance should I occur any social repulsion - but once I am inside the drinking establishment, all possibilities of revulsion at my smell will evaporate, as I will reekily blend in with all around me.

This week I have already sported said hooded jumper at The Twelve Bells in Finsbury Park, and I shall go in unison with it to the pound-a-pint event that I fervently hope will be taking place on Monday night at Charing Cross Road's traveller spot Walkabout. Great will be the smell there. Half will be the number of temporarily ruined jumpers.

A curse has already been set upon my shiny raincoat that holds and steadily releases the smell of smoke for decades after use.