The Session 70: Don't Believe The Hype

This month's Session on the topic of "Don't Believe The Hype" is curated by David J Bascombe at Good Morning...

As always, no apologies for length. But many apologies to Hans Christian Andersen.

Many, many years ago lived a beer blogger who thought so much of new beers that he spent all his money in order to obtain them; his only ambition was to be always the top blogger. He did not care for his fellow topers and the pubs did not amuse him; the only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to go on the internet and blog about a new bottle of beer. He had a bottle for every hour of the day; and as one would say of a king “He is in his cabinet,” so one could say of him, “The blogger is in his blogging-room.”

The great website where he resided was very SEOd; every day many strangers from all parts of the internets arrived. One day two swindlers came to his hovel; they made people believe that they were brewers and declared they could brew the finest beer to be imagined. Their malt and hops they said, were not only exceptionally awesome, but the beer made of these materials possessed the wonderful quality of tasting like piss to any man who was unfit to read beer blogs or was unpardonably stupid.

“That must be wonderful beer,” thought the blogger. “If I were to blog of this beer I should be able to find out which visitors to my site were unfit for their places, and I could distinguish the clever from the stupid. I must have this beer brewed for me without delay.” And he gave a large sum of money to the brewers, in advance, that they should set to brew without any loss of time.

They set up two buckets, and pretended to be very hard at work, but they did nothing whatever in the buckets apart from piss into them. They asked for the finest malt and the most precious hops; all they got they did away with on eBay, and pissed into the empty buckets till late at night.

“I should very much like to know how they are getting on with the brew,” thought the blogger. But he felt rather uneasy when he remembered that he who was not fit for his blog would think it tasted of piss. Personally, he was of opinion that he had nothing to fear, yet he thought it advisable to send somebody else first to see how matters stood. Every visitor to his site knew what a remarkable quality the beer possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or stupid their neighbours were.

“I shall send my honest young acolyte to the brewers,” thought the blogger. “He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he is intelligent, and nobody understands his office better than he.” The good young acolyte went into the room where the brewers sat before the piss-filled buckets.

“Heaven preserve us!” he thought, and opened his eyes wide, “I cannot see anything at all, apart from lukewarm piss” but he did not say so. Both brewers requested him to come near, and asked him if he did not admire the exquisite flavour and the beautiful aroma, pointing to the piss-filled buckets. The poor young acolyte tried his very best, but he could taste nothing but piss, for there was nothing but piss to be tasted.

“Oh dear,” he thought, “can I be so stupid? I should never have thought so, and nobody must know it! Is it possible that I am not fit for my office? No, no, I cannot say that I was unable to taste anything but piss.”

“Now, have you got nothing to say?” said one of the brewers, while he pretended to be busily brewing. But was actually on Facebook.“Oh, it is very awesome, totally craft!" replied the young acolyte looking through his sunglasses. “What a beautiful flavour, what brilliant aroma! I shall tell the blogger that I like the beer very much.”

“We are pleased to hear that,” said the two brewers, and described to him the aroma and explained the curious flavour. The young acolyte listened attentively, that he might relate to the blogger what they said; and so he did.

Now the brewers asked for more money, hops and some purple steam, which they required for brewing. They kept everything for themselves, and not a cone came near the buckets, but they continued, as hitherto, to piss into the buckets.

Soon afterwards the blogger sent another honest toady to the brewers to see how they were getting on, and if the beer was nearly finished. Like the young acolyte, he sniffed and sipped but could taste nothing but piss, as there was nothing but piss to be seen.

“Is it not a beautiful beer?” asked the two brewers, describing and explaining the magnificent flavour, which, however, did not exist. “I am not stupid,” said the man. “It is therefore my good appointment for which I am not fit. It is very strange, but I must not let any one know it;” and he praised the beer, which he could not taste, and expressed his joy at the beautiful aroma and the fine flavour. “It is very awesomeballs,” he said to the blogger.

Everybody in the whole interweb talked about the precious beer. At last the blogger wished to taste it himself, while it was still in the buckets. With a number of toadys, including the two who had already been there, he went to the two finagling brewers, who now brewed as hard as they could, but without using any malt or hops.

“Is it not magnificent?” said the two suck-ups who had been there before. “You must admire the flavours and the aroma.” And then they pointed to the piss-filled buckets, for they imagined the others could see the beer.

“What is this?” thought the blogger, “I do not see any beer at all. Just cold piss. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be a blogger? That would indeed be the most dreadful thing that could happen to me.”

“Really,” he said, turning to the brewers, “your beer has my most gracious approval;” and nodding contentedly he looked at the piss-filled buckets, for he did not like to say that he saw nothing but widdle. All his acolytes, who were with him, looked and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they said, like the blogger, “It is very craft.”

And all advised him to drink the new magnificent beer at a great festival which was soon to take place. “It is awesome, amazeballs, mahoosive,” one heard them say; everybody seemed to be delighted, and the blogger appointed the two swindlers “Officially Craftmungous Brewers.”

The whole night previous to the day on which the festival was to take place, the brewers pretended to work, and burned more than sixteen joints. People should see that they were busy to finish the blogger’s new beer. They pretended to take the beer from the bucket, and worked about with ornate bottles, and randalled with filters without hops, and said at last: “The blogger’s new beer is ready now.”

The blogger and all his followers then came to the hall; the brewers held their arms up as if the ornate bottle held something not piss-related in their hands and said: “This is the shizzle!" “This is the future of craft brewing!” and “The revolution starts here!” and so on, ad nauesum. “It is as light as a helles, and one must feel as if there is nothing at all in the body; but that is just the awesomeness of the beer.”

“Indeed!” said all the followers; but they could not see anything but piss, for there was nothing else to be seen. “Does it please your Bloggerness now to graciously pour the beer,” said the brewers, “that we may assist your Bloggerness in pouring the new beer in this large tasting-glass?”

The blogger poured, and the brewers pretended to flatter him; and the blogger looked at the liquid in the glass from every side. “How great it looks! How well it shines!” said all. “What a beautiful flavour! What fine aroma! That is a magnificent beer!”

The master of the ceremonies announced that the bearers of the ornate bottle which was to be served at the festival were ready. “I am ready,” said the blogger. “Does not my beer suit me marvellously?” Then he turned once more to the tasting glass, that people should think he admired his beer.

The followers, who were to carry the ornate bottle, stretched their hands to the ground as if they lifted up a precious thing, and pretended to hold something in their hands that was borne of skill and precision and experience; they did not like people to know that they could not see anything but old piss.

The blogger marched in the procession by the ornate bottle, and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows were given a sample and then exclaimed: “Indeed, the blogger’s new beer is incomparable! What a long barnyard finish it has! How well it suits him!” Nobody wished to let others know they tasted nothing but piss, for then they would have been unfit for their office or too stupid. Never a blogger’s beer was more admired.

“But it has no beer in at all,” said a rookie tweeter at last. "It tastes of piss".

“Good heavens! Listen to the voice of that grumpy twat,” said a hipster wearing glasses with no glass in them, and one whispered to the other what the tweeter had said.

“But it has no beer in at all,” cried at last the whole people. "We're just drinking manky old piss out of a fancy bottle!"

That made a deep impression upon the blogger, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought to himself, “Now I must bear up to the end.” And the followers walked with still greater dignity, as if they carried the beer which did not exist.


  1. Did they all live happily ever after?

  2. If the piss had been yeasty, I'd have ventured you were describing White Birch beer... ;-)

  3. Dan, only if your reality involves a fairly hefty ingestion of non-prescreption drugs.