he number of injured rams that have to be slaughtered is apparently minimal, but statistics suggest otherwise. Last year fourteen rams had to be fished out of a lake after an impromptu ‘ram-skating’ contest was suggested by drunken patrons. All the rams died, the riders were treated for frostbite and embarrassment. Every year people break bones falling from rams drunk, running into walls, trees or sleeping bears. It is estimated that every hour of Brewfest, ten people are trampled by rams or people trying to get served, and at least one elf chokes on a pretzel.

Also the environment suffers in silence. Each year the Dark Irons slip out of their mountain homes in poorly-engineered mole machines and attempt to make off with the Brewfest’s beer supply. Heralded by a cry of “Nobody expects the Dark Irons!” (which should perhaps be “EVERYBODY expects the Dark Irons” as you can almost set your pocketwatch by these halfwits), the moronic nere-do-wells assail the festival and are regularly sent home with their beards between their legs by drunk ‘Festers. The digging machines however have left the field where Brewfest is traditionally set up riddled with tunnels. Druid Myrae Appleblossom voiced concern last year about the festival site but was ignored by Brewfest organisers for being a ‘longeared alarmist who should really have a pint and relax’.

“I woke up in the infirmary with by backside in banadages!” Finkle sobs. “I used to be Finkle Ironspring, now I’m Fruity Finkle Two-Bums!” To add insult to injury, pictures were taken of the dresswearing incident, which eventually found their way back to Finkle’s then-fiancée. She promptly called off the wedding, not wishing to marry someone that ‘looked like her sister’.

Another story belongs to a young woman we’ll call ‘Cora’. Cora visited her first Brewfest last year, only to return home pregnant. “I really can’t remember who little Bruno’s father was,” she relates, “I had no idea you could end up in the ‘family-way’ just from letting a few guys drink shots out of your bellybutton. I used to do that all the time back home in Goldshire, and it never happened there. I wish my father had warned me about Brewfest... it’s not a place for an innocent country girl.”

Cora now faces the unenviable task of raising a child alone. Thankfully she is positive about the future, though she does not think she will be attending another Brewfest to try and track down Bruno’s father. “I have Bruno, what more do I need? He’s such a handsome boy… though I didn’t expect him to have a beard quite so soon.”

The cost of Brewfest is not just something its patrons suffer. Animals are another set of Brewfest casualties even less reported on. Each year, the annual ram-racing contests claim the lives of dozens of beasts. Ram breeder and professional racer Crom Icebrow takes a dim view of the races.

“Oh aye, every year we ha’e a ton o’ accidents,” he explains, “Morons go runnin’ rams intae trees, we havtae fish ‘em outta lakes when they fall through the ice, an’ if one ram falls an’ another hits it… ye get a pile-up o’ rams right in th’ middle o’ Kharanos! Five year ago we had such a big one we hadtae cook ‘em tae get rid o’ ‘em. We were eatin’ goat fer a month straight! I cannae look at curry-ram anymore!”

“You should see it down there!” she says, pointing at the frosty ground, “It’s like a rabbit warren, if rabbits were as big as kodo!” Druid Appleblossom has estimated that if the raids continue for another two years, the traditional ‘Fest site will collapse.

“There’ll be a massive boom and the whole thing will subside. They’ll be having their ridiculous excuse for public disorder in a pit, mark my words! These idiots will probably think its some new kegtapping ceremony!”

While this selection of stories is by no means unique, they do mark the costs of the Brewfest that go unseen by revellers. For every one story like this told, there are dozens that remain personal secrets; embarrassing tales of personal misfortune or unseen tragedy. While there has been talk this year of instituting a ‘watchfulness delegation’ to ensure the safety of ‘Festers that have imbibed too much, it may be another ten years before one is implemented. The mainly-dwarven Brewfest Committee however sees no point in officiating guardians to protect the drunk from themselves. Their official opinion? “We don’t make them drink the stuff.”

So, as a public organ, the Alliance Herald would like to offer these few words of advice for those that have suffered a ‘Brewfest  Boo-boo’: don’t go next year.

The rest of us need the room at the bar.