You know your Christmas experience is incomplete. Turkey, pudding, presents, New Year party, pools of vomit and bitter recrimination. You've had all that but you haven't had the awards ceremony that really matters. It's the Scoopies!









No obvious order, no cogent process, just me and my beers and the occasional ASBO-inducing memory.



The 'It's Just Gone' Award for Pissing Off Scoopers - Derby CAMRA

For the beer choice in the Darwin Room; if its name isn't up on the washing line it ain't on and you can't have none. Make 'em sweat! Make 'em wait! And mucho kudos for putting the Brewdog beers on for the Thursday night at last year's winter fest. Saw them, drank them, had interesting sick in my glass all along the Morledge.

The 'Aintchasickofit' award for Stupid Drinking In A Decent Ale Pub - every twonk who ordered Landlord instead of a 'house-brewed' beer at the Brunswick or the Royal Standard in Derby.

Like lager, buy lager, no problem. Like cask beer, have up to eleven other beers to choose from, still order Landlord? Please report to Pork Farms immediately - your brain has been reserved for sausagemeat.

The Jobsworth Award For Services To Ruining A Good Day On The Ale - Trent Barton Buses

OK, not Trent per se, just the grumbly bogger who NEVER drops us off by the bus garage on the way into Derby - the garage that's next to the Smithfield pub. "I'm not supposed to stop there," he says, despite there's a bus stop / a fecking BUS GARAGE / no-one on the bus would give two shits if you stopped. May the erotic itch you experience late at night turn out to be chlamydia.

Pork Pie of the Year - Lanes of Leicester

A real shock, this one. Walter Smith's proved to be uneven, Bailey and Sons of Upper Broughton was almost superb, but Lanes takes the Scoopy for that combination of squidgy flat top and sumptuous jelly. Easily the best food at the Leicester beer festival.

Landlord of the Year - Timothy Taylor.

Only joking. It has to be Graham Yates of the Brunswick Inn, Derby. For being grumpy, engaging, caring and curmudgeonly. Usually all in the space of ten minutes. And for staying out of the brewery and letting James get on with it.

The 'OhMyGodILoveBeer!!!' Moment of the Year

Nottingham CAMRA 1st Robin Hood beer festival. Sat by the castle wall, looking out over the southern shire, drinking Potbelly Crazy Daze whilst the Castle's Union flag snapped in the sharp breeze.

Ratebeer Moment of the Year - At The Bear, Oxford Crawl

The smallest pub ever, already rammed full of diners debating whether to have peas with their sausage and mash, when a dozen or so Ratebeerians turn up. A line to the bar and out of the door was formed, pints of Hooky passed over heads already scraping against the ceiling, out into the street where we then sat by the bins as tourists took photos.

Surprisingly Good Pub of the Year - The Star, Godalming

I washed up into Guildford on a training course, a town stuffed with tepid continental lager and hilarious WAG-wannabe bars. Taking the train down to the next stop one night was a calculated gamble but, boy, did it pay off. The Star has it all; candlelight and bustle and a local's bar they didn't mind me invading. Proper perry and decent ales and the best pint of Harvey's Best that I've ever had. And those in the know drank that 'til the barrel ran dry.

Pointless Bar Snack Of The Year - Pickled Onions.

Barman! I'll have a pint of your finest balanced IPA.... and a vinegar-infused bull's gonad to complement it. There's a time and a place for pickled onions - the twelfth of never, over the nearest event horizon.

Best CAMRA festival of the year - Nottingham.

I still can't believe there was a better fest than Worcester with its paella and Blue Bear Uproar and Pictish Corn Dolly and Oz & James and Olivers Blakeney Red. But there was. The first Robin Hood Festival was - wow. I know some people had issues with the hot food, the queues, the beer availability on Saturday. But I had hot food in town, got there early and didn't go on Saturday. The full write-up is here but let's just say this: an A-Z of fantastic cask beers, fresh seafood, stunning vistas, good friends and the unalloyed joy of all those things segueing together.

Best non-CAMRA festival of the year - Barrow Hill Rail Ale.

For you poor unfortunates who haven't heard - this is a beer festival in an engine shed. You get to buy beer and go take a train ride. You get to be almost run over by reversing locos. How could it not be fun? You get to watch tickers cum in their corduroys at the sight of steaming engines and rare beers. OK, that's not exactly a ringing endorsement. This is - Abbeydale Black Mass. Bottle Brook Imperial Russian Stout. Falstaff Wilko. White Shield No.1 and P2 Imperial Stout. Those last two in the same glass. Cheers, Mes :-) For a fest chock full of high ABV beers and trip hazards, there was none better.

Best cider or perry as judged by Mrs Reluctant - Severn Sider Whisky Cask Perry Or Something Like That.

Let's face it, you can't even take what the cask end says as gospel. But my little nest of vipers loved the subtle whiskyness and the easy going perry nature - Blakeney Red, perhaps? Whatever, it made Burton Spring fest a whole lotta whiskyperry fun. (FWIW I thought Whin Hill's Browns, their blushing rose cider, was gobsmackingly wonderful. But let's not kick off a domestic)

Best bottled beer - Mikkeller Beer Geek Breakfast

So good that I've dared not write about it yet. Oats and coffee and chocolate doesn't even come close to describing how effortlessly superb this beer is. A proper write-up will feature in the next few weeks - when I first tried it, I was as excited as a schoolboy who'd just been touched in the gentlemen's area for the first time. Don't believe it could be this pant-expandingly good? Then don't visit beermerchants.com to see if they have any left.

Best cask beer - Thornbridge Katipo.

I thought picking a best bottled beer was tough. There's been some WORLD CLASS cask down my gullet in 2008 - I say WORLD CLASS because sometimes we forget in Merrie England that we brew some of the best, freshest, flavoursome beers that can be had. Hobson's Mild, Bottle Bridge Double Chocolate Porter, McGivern Mild, Potbelly Crazy Daze, Pictish, Headless, Marble, Hopshackle....

But there was only one beer that made me thoroughly Reluctant and insisted that I drank it at every given opportunity. Katipo was one of those rare beers where I felt glad to be in a pub just because it was on; to buy it for total strangers, to feel my heart flutter at the sight of a pumpclip, to be evangelical with glass in hand, to sit with eyes closed and let raspberries dance on my tongue.

And the pronunciation. Car-Tea-Paw. I want a half of Car-Tea-Paw. No, Car-Tea-Paw. Well, actually, NO, its NOT called Catty-po, Cart-Heep-Pow or Katy-Poo. Honest, the brewer told me it's called.... ah, sod it. Give me half of number 344. Yes, the Catty Paws one...

To Kelly 'Tigger' Ryan - brew more. Just Brew More. Beer this good has earned the right to be brewed and drank until it bleeds out of the eyeballs of acolytes.



So, there you go. Winners are entitled to hand-inked certificates. Let me know if you want one, all you have to do is gurn for the camera and buy me beer.

And, for everyone who didn't have a pint of the unusual last year - I salute you.



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So, I say... Oxford. And you think of.... dreaming spires, Inspector Morse, Tolkien, ruddy tourists and the blue hue cast by the gown around town. But did you think of beer?

Probably not (and this is a beer blog! Sheesh! You just can't get the readers nowadays).



To be honest, it wasn't my first choice for a Midlands pub crawl. Truth be told, it wasn't even in my top tweleve choices of rambles on the beer. But it was the chosen venue for the second Midlands ratebeer.com crawl and with over a dozen members set to meet up there, it was too good to miss out on.

Now, I've travelled cattle class on this Cross Country line before and had no intention if doing so again. So, it was hoi polloi class for me and a dozen or so maiden aunts and far-too-well-off football fans. Shame, then, that to claim the complimentary beverages you had to claw your way to the other end of the train across sprawling students and feral families. Having marginally avoided kneeing a few toddlers in the head, it's then another let-down to be given not a crusty bacon roll but a 'snack-pack' which had some strange, squidgy stuff in it that smelt a bit like a Belgian beer. I think they call it "fruit"; I tried it once and didn't like it. At least they also gave you a Kit-Kat to dunk in your hot chocolate.

A pleasant journey, then. Having met up with our Glen, our esteemed leader for the day, and some of his mates we set off for the short stroll to the first pub of the day. Arriving there at 1130 gave us half an hours advantage on the rest of the mob who were due around 12.... shame then that the St Aldates Tavern wasn't open. So - Glen put Plan B into action, a walk across the city to the Three Goat Heads. Delightfully art deco on the outside and possibly on the inside to... but as this was shut as well, I'll never know.

Plan C then - hang around outside the Aldates 'til opening time. By now, a few more Ratebeerians had joined the hubble - Hughie, Chris O and Mark (complete with baguette in gob. Though, as he was bringing me Westvleteren, I'll be nice to him just this once.). As we watched what seemed to be every bus in Oxford try to force their way down the street, Gazza's arrival was heralded by scooping acolytes scattering hop flowers before his feet.

Eventually the door latch was slipped, havoc cried and the Aldates invaded. This is a non-nonsense single-room pub, utilitarian furniture, pump clips on the ceiling, rugby shirts on the walls and some juicy looking White Horse beers on the bar. As I tucked into a pint of White Horse Bitter, the rest of the gang began to pile in - Ian "Kippers" Harrison, Merton BF's Fin, Steve and Casey looking unnervingly like father and son. And that veritable rating combo (but a crap hand at Scrabble), Mes & Sim and Ang.

This was a bubbly little place, felt like a community pub beached in the city, with some excellent White Horse beers (their aforementioned Bitter and Giant were in great nick). A surreptitious slurp of Hair of the Dog's Adam, courtesy of Hughie, was greatly appreciated (by far the best- and almost only- dark beer of the day). Just a hint of surly landlord on glass collection, a service level incomparable to the indifference yet to be encountered...

No rest for the beer crawler - the next stop was but a bus-defying dash across the street and down an alley to the Bear. Glen was saying we wouldn't all get in; my stomach alone took up the room normally occupied by four diners. And it was those sausage eaters, with their tables and chairs, that took up precious room that could have been better served by cramming in a dozen vertical drinkers. So, with Old Hooky Bitter bought, we repaired to the 'beer garden' - a stupendously euphemistic term for a line of picnic tables next to the bins. Which didn't stop a steady line of tourists taking photos - though probably not of the bins. Unless they're on ratebin.com. And how *sad* would that be... the Hooky was fine, would have been disappointing not to have any during the day. Every county needs a solid, local-brewed bitter - just that I much preferred the cleaner taste of the White Horse one.

Glen then seemed hell-bent on finding even narrower alleyways to lose us down - I half expected to round a corner and hear "They lured him here to bugger him senseless, Lewis!". But, as Endeavour inevitably found, there was a pub at the end of the alley. And not just *a* pub - the hallowed Turf Tavern.
I forgot to take a photo here, so here's one purloined from t'internet.

A ramble of rooms, a sizable beer garden (one with plants and roofs and everything), a tiny bar and Oxford's representative in the Surliest Put-Upon Barman competition. Though, to be fair, if I was trying to serve fifteen punters in a pub that's bristling with students and tourists, I'd have been reaching for the machete rather than pleading with people to keep his hatch area clear. Little pleader.

Loads of room outside though, highlighting the peccadilloes of prime ministers and presidents during their time at the Turf. The beer was educational as well; I tried another White Horse beer brewed for the pub, Turf Tavern Summer Ale, which was a clean and refreshing drop.

Sitting outside, to be honest, was like drinking in the outdoor section of B&Q, with more decking than Charlie Dimmock can swing her things at. Inside was fairly cool, quaint in a 'Greene King Survivor' way, with some individuality not totally snuffed out by the suits from East Angular. I should have spent more time inside musing around; I may have enjoyed the pub more.

From here, then, on to the White Horse. Sadly, not a brewery tap but an engaging single room pub just down the way from the Bodleian. It reminded me of some old market town boozers that I know, stepping down from the street into a bare-boarded bar with a hub-bub of conversation. Having taken a few minutes to scare off the locals, we commandeered half the pub and drank White Horse Wayland Smithy. Apart from Ang, that is, who had Hoegaarden and Lemsip. Allegedly.

Time for nosebag and Glen had recommended the next pub as a suitable scoffing point. Far From The Madding Crowd was a Ronseal pub - does exactly what it says on the sign. Away from the main drag, busy but not crammed with be-scarfed loons and camera-addled visitors. Swift table-arranging allowed us to set up dining for twelve with King Gazza promoted to the sofa. I swapped Derby tales with Fin, whose Dad is lucky enough to live within staggering distance of the Old Oak in Horsley Woodhouse, the brewery bar for Leadmill and Bottle Brook.

Unlike very other pub today, the 'Madding' has little history, being a new build to fill in the gap between extended modern shops. As such, it was an opportunity to do something different- instead, it's all rather bland and boxy. Even more disappointing was the long wait for sausages that , when they finally decided to put in an appearance, had seemingly been warmed by the light from an energy-saving bulb rather than cooked in an oven. As least the beer range was diverse (although few dark beers today - surprising for the time of year) and with a new Abbeydale beer for me to try (Ephiphany) I was happy to mull over a pint. I just got the feleing that here wasa chance wasted - I wouldn't have wanted a 'ye olde' facsimile (no pint when the city is throbbing with the real thing) but it felt a little like an Ikea showroom. With tuck scoffed, Hughie bade us all farewell at this point - hope I'll catch up with him sometime for a Peak District ramble.

No rest for the scooping crawler, regardless of reluctancy. Two uber-historic pubs to knock off yet, starting with the Eagle and Child. Or Bird & Baby, or Fowl & Foetus. Anywhichway, it's an attractive place, tiny front rooms leading off a long bar, beyond which is a dining area and a fairy-light-encrusted corridor where I and a few others pitched up. The Cains Dragon Heart had just been drunk dry by the ratebeerians who weren't outside taking photos, so I settled for a more than adequate Adnams Broadside (only problem with it being that is I'm used to having a steak and mushroom pie at the same time, pie and Broadside being my staple meal at one of my locals, the Carpenters Arms in Dale Abbey). This was a pub I'd like to spend more time in, have a bite to eat and a chat with the staff. Was it the sort of place where you could imagine Tolkien and Lewis nattering away... "There's been a murder, Lewis.... it's Haldir!". Well, er, no, but it's still an atmospheric place.

Time to head over the road - well, over the unfeasibly wide urban motorway with a car park in the middle - for the pub the Inklings defected to, the Lamb and Flag. And let me get my one piece of negative criticism out of way now; the barman seemed to resent customers with every strand of his DNA, never knowing (or caring) who was next to be served but instead just shouting 'NEXT!!' whilst looking at the drink he was pouring. Never smiled, no manners... no wonder pub staff in this city get a bad rep.

But, what a pub - solid beers from Skinners and Palmers (the latter rebadging Gold providing the pub's house beer, Lamn & Flag Gold). Room to swing a cat if you fancied it, plenty of nooks for tables and chatter, room at the bar for surly service. And to sit there on a stool with a beer and chew the fat about whatever you wish - which I did with Warren Monteiro, playwright, journalist and beer drinker extrodinaire. We shared our views on Oxford's beer scene, I evangelicised about Reluctant Scooping and Warren gave me the lowdown on beers NYC style. And he helped date my Westys! Certainly a pub I'll return to.

Mark then made his way back to deepest darkest Northamptonshire - and I bet he'd written up his blog entry for the day by the time the bus got him home...

That's all the pubs I'd planned on visiting today, but with an hour and half to go I decided to be dragged along to another pub, the Gardeners Arms. This was a wee way away to the north of the city (should have been more attentive of this at the time). On the upside, I noticed a fish 'n chip van on the way and immediately began to dream of a fried supper on the way back to the station.

The Gardeners was a locals pub at the end of a row of houses (natch). A few warm and friendly rooms, Marstons beers and (apparently) a great reputation for vegetarian food. I sampled the Brains St Peters - OK stuff, underwhelming but beery enough. Cue the great 'stout versus porter' debate round the table: I personally don't think there's a spit of difference between them, but a reasoned and loquacious discussion on the style(s). Suddenly mindful of the time, I thought of heading back to the station. How long would that take? Glen thought it would be twenty minutes - Fin was convinced it woud be thirty. I had thirty five minutes but it ended up being a hard paced walk, foresaking fish and chips on the way.

An on-time train and a quiet carriage awaiting made for a blissful journey home. Even if I'd been tempted, the Westys stayed unmolested by virtue of me falling asleep on the approach to Banbury and not stirring again until I entered the nether regions of Staffordshire. Too tired even for a nightcap at the Brunswick on the way home.

All in all, a fun day; some above average beers, especially impressed by the White Horse brews. Some pubs I'd like to revisit and linger longer in (Lamb & Flag, Turf Tavern). And always good to meet up with ratebeer bods who are never backward at coming forward and telling people why stout is porter. Like, duh!

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