'blue sky drinking' - having a beer outdoors where fresh air can lead to fresh thoughts.
'drinking outside the box' - not settling for the usual pick & mix selection from the wholesalers
'run it up the cellar steps and see who salutes it' - presenting a new beer to your fellow topers to garner their opinion
'picking the low hanging fruit' - settling for a Mongozo on a hot day
'don't bring me problems, bring me solutions' - of myrcene
'Craft Beer 2.0' - Like Craft Beer but with even more pointless video clips. And +1s in the G+ tumbleweed
The next time I cascade availability intelligence about resource deliverables and you want to become an active contributor in a shared experiential brainstorming session, we'll pre-prepare and go forward together to touch base about it offline.
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Just how influential are beer blogs in Google search? Here's a wholly unscientific experiment.
I just Googled the brand names of five lagers to see what links make the first results page.
A major UK brand of lager achieves an even split (5-5) between links to the brewer and to retailers.
A major international brand of lager has three brewery links, two retailers, two beer rating sites, a Wiki page, a blog and a video review.
A regional UK lager counts four retailer links, two to the brewery, two to bloggers and one each to a beer rating site and their web designers.
A local, dare I say craft, brewer garners three links each to bars and what I'll call 'beer directories' (simple listing sites of brewer, beer and ABV). The brewer themselves gets a link as does a blogger, a video reviewer, and a news site.
Bloggers make twenty percent of the links at best. None in the top five.
These are my results. Your mileage may vary.
For the record, the fifth brand was Pilsner Urquell. They recently sponsored part of the European Beer Bloggers Conference. The first mention of that event in a Google search for 'Pilsner Urquell UK' appears on page four. I don't normally read that far down the results. How about you?
Is a beer blogger's influence over-estimated? Mainly by bloggers themselves?
Or are Google rankings not part of the brand's engagement metric?
If not, what do brands hope to gain by engaging bloggers?
I'm not sure what to make of this. I've got questions but my bag of answers is threadbare. Let me know if you have any insights.
It's hard to describe in short sentences just how influential he was to English brewing. I could fill this blog post with tales of how this academic, publican, brewery owner, entrepreneur and Blades fan quietly revolutionised the beer scene in Sheffield.
He was a can-do character. Sheffield stands testament to both his direct intervention and his near-invisible guiding hand. Beyond the city there are bars and breweries, academic courses and exchange schemes, here in the UK and over in the US, that are all part of his legacy. Because he encouraged others to do likewise.
Dave Wickett died today. But his spirit lives on. Not only through pub brick and brewery stainless, but in so many people who took on new challenges and broke boundaries because of how he inspired them.
I've never sat inside at the Lord Nelson in Southwold. As a pub in a cul-de-sac by the sea, it feels right to be stood outside in the ebbing light as the rising tide tickles the beach beneath. A bloke will lose his footing on the kerb and spill bitter down his all-too-new fishermen's jumper, one that's only ever been close to the tilapia fillets at Waitrose. Someone's cousin will discover that pashmina isn't as warm as she thought. The chink of empty glasses on window ledges and pavements counterpoints the braying conversations.
Standing outside there last summer with Adnams' head brewer, Fergus Fitzgerald, we enjoyed a pint or two of what was then a seasonal special.
Ghost Ship had something about it that I just couldn't put my finger on at the time. Something greater than its ingredients. I'll let Fergus tell you about those:
My scribbled tasting notes from the next day had one word underlined: moreish. Yes, it used the hop du jour - Citra - but the aroma wasn't like snogging a bowl of fruit salad. Yes, there was rye crystal and Caramalt but they didn't stick sweetly in your clack. It really was moreish: it was a beer that stopped my inner geek from over-analysing and wanting to pester its brewer about fermentation statistics and... just have another one. To enjoy the balance.
Balance. Seen by some vociferous beer enthusiasts as A Bad Thing. By the ones who mistake balance for blandness. Well, I'm not sure I could spend all night excoriating my tastebuds with hop-bombs or coating them into a malty slumber. Whereas I'd have happily stood in the street for much longer, sipping on a pint that was just-so.
So I was sad to leave Southwold and that beer behind. It was brewed for a few more months more, but I never saw it again. Until now. Ghost Ship has been added to Adnams' permanent portfolio on cask and in bottle, one of which I've just been enjoying courtesy of the brewery. Out of the bottle, to be fair, I found it akin to a panoramic postcard; something that looked lovely and reminded you of a wonderful holiday experience but still lacked a certain dimension.
Maybe it's hard to recapture the spirit of alfresco drinking on a Southwold summer night when I'm sat in front of a laptop on a wet and windy May day, waiting for the bubbles to settle. Maybe I ought to pick up some of the minicasks, pull on some chunky knitwear and share the beer with my neighbours.
Maybe I've just worked out what I can contribute to the Jubilee street party...
Adnams beers can be bought online from their store, Cellar & Kitchen. And the video below is from the beer's recent relaunch. The building being projected onto is the brewery - and I've got to say, for a regional brewer this is stunning marketing.
1) Go to a beer festival and drink the same beer four times
Yes, I used to plan festival attendance as if it were a campaign. Highlighted beer lists, a ranked order of imbibation, pencil, bottle of water, pencil sharpener, spare halfpint glass, spare pencil. Then I became reluctant. Nowadays, I'm louche to the point of insouciance. The Organ Grinder in Nottingham had a stack of beers on for the elongated weekend; I went, without a clue of what to do when I got there.
"What have you got worth drinking amongst this muck?", I enquired of the ever-patient Chris Sherratt. He poured me Sunlander by Stonehouse Brewery, so riven with passion-fruity goodness from a Galaxy hop addition that I had to drink it another three times. Just to be sure it was as gob-smackingly gorgeous as I first thought. It was. I was glad.
2) Sit at the back, attempt the crossword and people-watch
Hipsters play Guess Who ("Does the person wear glasses with no glass in them? Do they wear purple leggings? Is their name Tarquin?"). Couples aged fifty-something go from bemused to keg-curious to second-round-satiated within twenty minutes. Lads with wide teeth and hungover egos may or may not be off to the station to catch or not catch their train, depending on many factors but in particular whether one of them does or doesn't remember to pick his jacket up.
I'm installed on a long table at the back of Brewdog Nottingham with a pint of Punk IPA, another half-scrawled crossword and a wandering eye. The glint in the hipster's eye suggests he wants more this afternoon than a game of CSI: Cartoonface with the sylph-like lady in the Laura Ashley dress who smells of Refreshers. The couples are now eagerly sampling singled hopped IPAs, when they came in and were asked what they usually drink, one said, "um.... bitter?". The Man With The Unfeasibly Large Teeth forgets his jacket then comes back to pick it up. I drank more Punk and struggle with "Light ale brewed at that place inside (8)".
3) Watch the football
You walk into this pub and you're at the bar. Well, you're behind the bloke and his dog who are stood at the bar. His dog nuzzles me in a way that suggests that it's only a slight chemical imbalance away from attempting to detach my gentleman vegetables. Other blokes, with or without unstable dogs, clutter the bar around both sides. I break out my Grobbelaar spaghetti legs to duck and dart around the pumpclips before ordering a pint of Whim Arbor Light.
As the second half has just started, I'm fairly sure that no-one is sat at the only empty table and I can sit there without being stared down. Particularly by the double-denim clad rat-tail next to me. Who may or may not have Lov and Hat tattooed on knuckles. Who may or may not have lost fingers to an industrial injury or a bet that went too far. Any which way, she's happy to let me sit down.
Manchester City exhibit brooding confidence. Newcastle United exemplify nervy optimism. Thirty-ish drinkers of varying ages, genders, waistlines and medication requirements spend forty-five minutes sucking teeth, waving at the screen dismissively, uttering oaths and downing tip-top ale. Yaya Toure scores the kind of goal that marks out champions from also-rans. Mancini is on his feet. "Sit down, teaboy!", gruffs the salt-and-pepper haired curmudgeon on the far side of the bar. The final whistle blows. Pints are drained. Rounds are bought. Man U are on next. I tiptoe past a now-sleeping dog, knowing where I'll be watching Sunday matches next season.
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This month's Session on the topic of 'The Beer Moment' is hosted by Pete Brown.
Doesn't matter what beer, where I am, when I'm drinking, why I want one, how I'm feeling, who I'm with; the first time I pull that glass away from my lips and let a beer past my teeth and I... stop thinking so much. And then start thinking about something else.
It's this:
You know how to have a beer moment, don't you, reader? You just put your lips together and swallow.
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The venue where I saw The Stone Roses for the first time has certainly changed. Back in the day, Byron House was home to your typical sweaty-polytechnic-student union. Today, it's all more open plan. As in, a pile of rubble being ridden by a JCB. Students of Nottingham Trent University are looking forward to a new, improved union building. I bet they won't stand for sticky snakebite on the dancefloor anymore.
Cities evolve. Show me a city without a crane on its skyline and I'll show you a city that lacks ambition. I was back in Nottingham to visit two places in particular, ones that have been instrumental to my upbringing. One of those was just around the corner from where Byron House once stood. That place had changed, too, although I don't remember anything of it from the first time around.
On Peel Street stood the Nottingham Women's Hospital, better known to locals by the name of the street it stood on. Like thousands of others from the city and its suburbs, I was born here. New generations are now hatched down at the Queen's Medical Centre; Peel Street closed in 1981. Part of the site was cleared and, fronting the street, there's now a pub. The Gooseberry Bush.
It's a comfortable and comforting place. Low ceilinged but still feeling airy thanks to skylights and picture windows, there's a warmth to the wood around the bar. Throughout the long room, knots of people find their own space to enjoy a late breakfast or an early drink. It's by far and away the best Wetherspoons I've visited, more like a hotel bar than a bargain beer hall. I supped my Thornbridge Jaipur slowly and tried not to think too hard about waters breaking.
Rather than hotfoot it to the next planned pub, I fancied a bimble about. Through the Arboretum, with its rescue bird aviary and the cannons captured from Sebastopol. To the Lincolnshire Poacher, ensconced in a corner with a quiet pint of Adnams Lighthouse before the lunchtime rush. Shopping for a spork. Lunching at the Kean's Head with a sublime goat's cheese, Nottingham asparagus and Parma ham turnover. Afternooning in Brewdog for the likes of Stone Oaked Arrogant Bastard, which I may have described on Twitter as "a big fat spicy jockstrap of a beer".
Eventually, I ended up in a cave. Just as I'd intended. Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem may or may not be the oldest pub in the world, the beer range may or may not be exciting, the tourist quotient may or may not be high (clue: it's always high). But... I love it. I love the cool sandstone walls in the bar. I love people watching as old boys vie with hipsters for space at the bar. I love the babble of overlapping languages; the almond-eyed Spanish girls drinking pints of bitter, the Americans playing cards and declaring one beer to taste of ass, the Hungarian doctor melding technology by Googling places on his iPhone and then inking details onto a glossy paper map.
It's where I came to skulk as a sixthformer after buying a clutch of vinyl from Selectadisc. To play Ring The Bull with random beery people. To fit in a sneaky lunchtime pint when I worked at an office down the road. And it's where my maternal grandparents met. I often sit by the front door and try to picture a lady with a cold and a man who offered to buy her a medicinal whisky. How chance encounters set the roots of a new family tree.
On Twitter that day; someone said "Nottingham, City Of Surprises! The Castle isn't a castle, The Park isn't a park, The Forest isn't a forest, The Meadows aren't meadows". I'll tell you what, though. Even when they used to be hospitals or factories or caves, Nottingham's pubs are most definitely pubs to love.
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We're in a picturesque village, the kind where gabled cottages nestle beneath a tall church spire. A babbling brook runs through, taking with it most of the mobile phone signal. The side door to the only pub is stubbornly shut. Mrs Scoop looks at me.
"No, really, it's closed," I say. "I'll check round the other side".
Curtains in the rooms facing the road are drawn firmly, even though it's now past noon. Yellowing paper stuck to the inside of the glazed front door carries apologies for the lack of credit card facilities. And no food 'til further notice. That door is locked too.
In hindsight, the huge "To Let" sign hanging off the side of the building should have been a give-away.
The idea is to meet up with friends at a dog-friendly pub. This is - was - a dog friendly pub according to a website they'd consulted. Fortunately, they knew of another pub in the next village. With phone signals steady just long enough to swap texts, the rendezvous is re-arranged.
Ten minutes later, we're in an even-more picturesque village. Solid Georgian brick. Neatly trimmed privet. St George flag flying from the church tower. And a statuesque, timber-framed pub that was most certainly open.
Walking into the bar of The Goat's Head in Abbots Bromley, I drop down through my mental gears. There's something just-so about it; eclectic seating on the right side of comfy, music assertively in the background, a floor almost evenly uneven whose boards show the scuffs of customers long since passed.
Pump clips adorn the walls, whole sets from those brewers clearly favoured by the owners. On the bar, there's reliable bitter immaculately kept. St Austell Tribute couldn't be finer balanced if it were shod in ballet shoes. Timothy Taylor Landlord is in fine form for an exiled Tyke. And the local beer is Marston's Pedigree, whose red-bricked tower brewery is only ten miles away eastwards.
Our friends master their sat-nav and arrive. Their dog, an English pointer, enjoys bounding off the walls and tables and anything else it can find. Old boys read the newspaper at the bar and drink Stella out of chalices. When our food arrives, the table groans a little. Chips are as thick as your thumb. Proper pie, made in a tray in the kitchen from scratch. Service is motherly; "clean plates....good! Now, what are you having for dessert?"
We clearly have the mien of pudding eaters. One portion of sticky toffee pudding and warm toffee sauce later - all home-made, of course - and I'm firmly into Mr Creosote territory. Although I do manage a Drambuie. Which is almost inexplicably the right thing to do: the last drops knocked into my pint, honey and malts and toffee and citrics caress each other in sybaritic fashion.
The bar is filling with locals as we drink up. A framed page on the wall explains the Horn Dance and how Dick Turpin stayed here after stealing Black Bess from the horsefair at nearby Rugeley. There's adverts for their St George's Day quiz with fish and chips served out of newspaper, for a beer festival over the Diamond Jubilee weekend. Everything about the place is effortlessly English.
Our friends are wondering why they didn't phone the first pub to make sure they were actually open. I'm really glad that they didn't.
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Somewhere near here, a Gran has dropped her glasses in the gravy. Kids are arguing about ice cream. Mum thinks the pork is too fatty. Dad really wants to go home & have a kip before the F1 highlights come on.
I don't do Sunday lunch, so I rarely do Sunday lunch pubs. A pint or two, perhaps a bag of ready salted. Banter at the bar; crossword in a quiet corner.
On the week's cusp; reflect on what's gone on before, prepare for what's about to let slip and create havoc.
A moreishly-hopped Amber Ales Dambusters in Derby's Alexandra. The inky liqoriceness of Father Mike's, up the pointy end of the Brunswick next door. Conversation or not. But no roasts required.
The aroma of hops pervading the air the instant when the brewer opens the mylar bag.
The dull clang of unattached pipework hitting the painted floor. The satisfying snap of valves twisted and fixed into position. The deep-set rumble of hot liquids forcing their way between tanks.
The sweet steam belching from the mash tun as you pull out another spade-load of spent malt.
The feel of said spent malt between your fingers. Ditto for sticky whole cone Simcoe.
The strained ggrruuuuh of an incontinent pump.
The silent, nodded approval as a beer is sipped and passed around the table.
The chatter about final gravities, chased invoices, upcoming festivals, pallet packaging.
Brewers do this every day. For barflys like me, it's a privilege to sit in the corner sometimes.
To make that connection between the beer in your glass and the process - part art, part science: part craft, part industry; part predicable, part curveball - that conjures it there in the first place.
It's not a dirty secret. It's not incompatible with my love of other beers. It's not an attempt at being 'post-ironic'.
It's what I drink when I'm at Morley Hayes golf club. Somewhere that I've eating burgers, drinking lagers and not playing golf at for almost twenty years.
It's what I associate with a place where I come to relax, celebrate & commiserate. Where I've attended business meetings and family greetings. Weddings and wakes.
The menu has changed along with my hopes, ambitions and waistline. But Stella has been my constant companion.
It may not be the beer for you. But you won't think anything less of me for declaring my love of it. Will you?
The short version goes: be under threat of redundancy for fifteen months, try to carry on being my ebullient beery self and almost succeed, flirt with the idea of working in the beer industry but get mixed messages, finally be made redundant last Thursday night, get a job offer a little later that same night.
Which is why I'm spending today doing three things:
- reading up on the illustrious history of my new employer, Derby County Football Club
- having a couple of lagers
- planning an onslaught of blog posts, both here and at my mostly-non-beery blog
I'll be catching up on all the stuff I've been meaning to write about and trying to kickstart some (hopefully) exciting projects. Over the next two weeks, I'll try to get around to a few pubs and breweries for, ahem, networking opportunities with occasional cellar work / mash tun digging as required.
Rumours that my new role is as Derby's mascot, Rammie (pictured above) are unsubstantiated. Although if I get the offer to dress up in my lunch hour and at weekends, who knows...
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When I wor a lad, when television was sometimes black & white, when petrol cost less than a pound Sterling for an Imperial gallon, when cross-country running over the clay pits was still an option for afternoon games rather than certifiable child abuse, I knew this much.
I wanted to write.
My junior school was what is now called 'progressive'. Which is shorthand for what happens when idealistic Oxbridge graduates take on the 'challenge' of a soon-to-be-ex-mining-town new school and decide that Beatles songs sang in the round and maths taught using Cuisinaire rods would take us to places that academia could only dream of.
Well, they were right there. It took me to to a prefab classroom at North Staffordshire Polytechnic.
But in the meantime, they let me write. Lots.
One day, we had to write a short story of no more than a hundred words. I wrote a chapter. And a synopsis for the rest of the novel.
And they let me carry on. Once a week, for two terms, until I'd spilt myself and a huge dash of Ian Fleming / Alistair MacLean inspiration over my jotter.
At the same time, we also had a weekly newspaper to prepare.
Individually.
The idea was that you brought in newspapers from home, took the key stories, summarised them on pieces of lined A5, cut & pasted in bits of the paper for photos etc and presented a four-page newspaper.
My first copy ran to sixteen pages. When I was told it was cheating to cut and paste crosswords and cartoons in, I designed my own crosswords instead. And got Chris Markham to draw cartoons that I'd then narrate.
And so it goes.
The sixth form magazine - my first editorial post - which I fucked up to such a degree that I am eternally grateful that there was no such thing as the Internet to record it. The great thing about bander copy is that it burned quickly.
The poetry magazines - oh, my, the poetry. Because wearing a pastel yellow cardigan and a paisley yellow shirt was nothing without un-rhyming a shit ton of teenage angst into a fifth-rate magazine driven by whoever you were forced to study for English A level.
The fanzines. The days of sniffing glue as you cut and pasted. The mornings when you sent postcards to bands with interview questions and they posted it back to you with crayon answers. The afternoons when you bunked off to go to Selectadisc to meet a band, only to find the lead singer was fucked up on brandy somewhere else. As a teenage muso, this was infuriating. Later in life, you realised this behaviour was laudatory.
And now; this. Blogging. Where me and every other arsehole can pass an opinion.
Where so many say so little to so few followers.
So why do I write about beer?
I used to kid myself that it was all about the Reithian values of being able to educate, inform and entertain.
Probably I do. In parts. But that's after-effect, not intention.
But writing for me is a baser need than all that jazz.
I write for me. For no-one else.
What drives me is the occasional compunction to spill stuff out my head and put it to bed somewhere. Sometimes, it's here.
You really want to know why it's here?
Reader, it's not for you. It's for me.
I have to write, when I need to write. If you read it, it's a bonus. If you comment... I'm sorry, I really don't care.
All I know is that I spill my occasionally splenetic frenetic heart out here. It's not in hope that you get a warm fuzzy feeling from it. It's for my release.
Anyone who wants a refund, please queue by the back door.
Something drives me. Sometimes it's beer. Sometimes it's architecture or pottery or archery or orchids or recalcitrant trout or Roger McGough.
Most times it's the beating of a heart that sounds like a fucked clock. A ticking that forgets to tock.
*I* drive me. Over the cliff singing ho-de-doo-dah-dey. I play to the wings. If you happen to be sat in the stalls and take in the full enchilada, bully for you.
1) Today's Session was brought to you by Brewpublic. Cheers and beers to them for actually making me stop and think about a Session blog.
2 What literally drives me is the Little Blue Beer Taxi, driven by Mrs Scoop. Actually, it's what picks me up when I fuck up and get lost some place. The Little Blue Beer Taxi is about to become the Little Mars Red Beer Taxi. We'll need a better name than that. Thinking caps on...
Plenty of harrumphing going on at the moment as it's reported that James Bond will be drinking Heineken in Skyfall, the next instalment of the interminable franchise.
Lest we forget:
- Product placement has been ever present in the world of Bond, both books and films.
- Heineken have been involved with the Bond franchise for fifteen years.
- Bond does actually drink beer in the novels.
Let's take those one at a time.
It may not have been an explicit tactic of Ian Fleming to use the name of luxury goods in his novels for the purposes of marketing placement or financial reward. He may have just been following the lead of Dennis Wheatley in that regard. Fleming certainly followed Wheatley's work in many ways. But product placement has been ever-present in the Bond movie adaptations and franchised scripts. It makes money for the film company. Films cost money to make. Simple maths.
Placement seems to have grown at a pace during the Pierce Brosnan / Daniel Craig era. Heineken have been involved in five films so far and have great plans for Skyfall, including Craig's direct involvement. As Alexis Nasard, Chief Commercial Officer of Heineken says so eloquently; "We are confident our activation plan will ignite the conversation with our consumers and film viewers".
But Bond and beer? That can't be right?
Wrong.
I had vague memories of Bond drinking beer on the odd occasion; thankfully, someone has already documented the where-and-what's. Step forward Jay Brooks, who wrote about this back in 2006 when there was a similar kerfuffle over the reports of Bond to drink Heineken in Casino Royale.
- Miller High Life in Saratoga, Diamonds Are Forever
- Löwenbräu in Geneva, Goldfinger
- Red Stripe in Jamaica, The Man With The Golden Gun
- Franziskaner (four steins, no less) in Munich, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
So Bond is not only a beer drinker but also a lager drinker.
Would he be a Heineken drinker, though? It seems that he prefers to drink something local/regional to wherever he is at the time. But Heineken is a global brand and Bond is a global player.
Frankly if I'd spent the day killing double agents by the most circuitous method possible followed by a bout of athletic shagging, I'd rather reach for a lager than a Martini.
And as far as I know, the rumours that previous films are to be re-made with a beery angle are false. So there will be no Double Diamonds Are Forever, The Man With The Golden Ale nor For Your IPAs Only...
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Not my usual style, perhaps, but I wanted to mention several events and happenings.
First up, a beer festival at a pub over the Easter holiday. OK, there's slightly more to it. Amber Ales are holding a Derbyshire Dozen festival at their pub, the Talbot Taphouse. The lineup features new brews such as Ginger Blond (with fresh root ginger), Damson Porter (with locally grown fruit), Honey Rye, Breakfast Stout (with espresso) and a Braggot (50/50 honey and barley, matured in cask for a year). Plus a bunch of collaboration brews and new beers from other brewers in the county. Starts at noon on Good Friday. If you snooze, you lose...
Advance warning now of a summer festival. The General Havelock in Ilkeston is practically an all-year-round festival anyway with anything up to forty beers and ciders available some weekends. But between the first and fifth of June, there will be over a hundred casks on offer along with the promise of keg beer that isn't the usual smooth, if you see what I mean...
Next, three cheers for one of my favourite breweries. Thornbridge have come a long way since the days of a brewkit shoehorned into an outbuilding at the Hall. They've been developing steadily as a pub operator as well in venues such as the renowned Coach & Horses in Dronfield and the arts bar DAda in Sheffield city centre. Another two places have now been added to the estate; the Stag on Psalter Lane and the Beauchief Hotel in conjunction with their sister company, Brewkitchen. Further investment in communities and their pubs - and I for one want to be first in the queue if they announce a grand beer & food banquet to be held in the Beauchief's ballroom. And in recognition of their achievements so far, Thornbridge were awarded the Best Pub Operating Microbrewer at the 2012 Publican Awards.
And one last observation. Over the weekend, CAMRA's Tom Stainer did a sterling job by tweeting progress of the AGM to all those followers who didn't fancy a weekend in Torquay. Where even the shop windows are bifocal. So I note that Motion 15 was carried. Said motion stated: "This Conference believes that CAMRA policy should recognise that “Craft Beer” is beer with a distinctive flavour brewed by artisans". When a consumer group of 100,000+ members passes a definition of the seemingly undefinable, has the tag of 'craft beer' finally come of age? Or is this a crafty reverse ferret?
Truth be told, the lawns don't seem to need that much mowing.
But that first cut is the deepest. Raking out the moss and leaf crap. Running down that stubborn stuff with the Flymo. Seemingly endless trips to the recycle bin with yet another bucket of cuttings.
Gardeners have a word for it. Bastard.
Yet, when it's done... the foldy chair comes out the garage and a chilled bottle and fluted glass come out the fridge. To sit back, relax and enjoy the First Geuze Of Spring.
Somewhere on the rear lawn, there's the caged cork from a Boon Oude Geuze Mariage Parfait 2005. Somewhere, in the back of a stable, a lemon got stabbed and dragged through an apple-ridden hay bale before out-funking James Brown. And ending up in this bottle.
The sun's dipping below the fence. Time to head inside and savour the last drops. There's a tuft of grass lurking due North-North-East.
On the several shelves of beer books in my study, one stands out. It's a different shape to its neighbours. It sits almost awkwardly amongst the others. But it's well-thumbed with page corners turned, marginalia scrawled.
Michael Jackson's Great Beer Guide was my first beery book. Red dots in the top corner of pages indicate the beers I've tried; Adnams Broadside in a pub down the road, Jever Pils from the father-in-law's stash, Tripel Karmeleit after my first boozy Belgium stag trip. And it got me thinking about the idea of beer style, not simply gold (Tennents), black (Guinness) or brown (Newcastle).
Did Jackson invent the concept of beer styles? I believe he did more than that. He helped shape the syntax of how brewers could express themselves and how they could be interpreted by others.
In some cases, that interpretation has become too prescriptive. And somewhere along the way, many have forgotten that style isn't borne overnight. Style is classic. Fashion is contemporary.
Michael Jackson said "understanding beer starts with understanding style".
On what would have been his seventieth birthday today, I'll raise a glass to understanding. One beer at a time.
I enjoy staring out of windows. Particularly in pubs. Staring out the window gives a drinker a contemplative mein; staring at the wall worries the staff, staring at the staff can get you barred.
There's many pub windows I love to stare out from. Here's one of them:
It's at the Exeter Arms in Derby. Outside is the ring road and Darwin Place, an inelegant loop to take eastbound traffic down to the A52. Just down the road there's a bus depot and a car park. So there's fun to be had watching all manner of clueless / arrogant / misguided drivers swap lanes at random and without indication. Whilst you're ensconced away from it all. With a pint.
But today my stare was drawn to the building you can barely see: on the left, in the middle, just above the parked cars. Because I'd just been there. Here it is:
The Peacock used to be one of those Marston's pubs that was renowned for a great pint of Pedigree. The Ped's still there but there's now much more; run by Roger and Penny, formerly of the now-closed Smithfield, they've brought over their love of hoppy beers and no-nonsense food. So I enjoyed a couple of pints - a ruggedly brambly-citric Cluster Bomb from Whim and the gooseberry-ish Scarlet Macaw by Oakham.
And then I fancied a trip to the Exeter. Which you can see from the front door of the Peacock:
It's the redbrick building behind the red car. So I wandered down into the underpass, below the A52, and round past several car parks and slots of wasteground. And here's the other side of that window:
It's the bay on the right in the rather carbuncled white extension.
So there I was, sat with a pint of the excellent Dark Drake by Dancing Duck. Beautifully smooth as an oatmeal stout should be. Staring out the window towards the pub I'd just been in. Past car parks and slip roads and dual carriageways and underpasses. And thought: I wonder what the area used to be like? Before the walk between the two pubs was shaped by the demands of the car?
I looked into it. And not so long ago, the walk was shaped by the demands of the canal barge.
Derby used to have a canal running through it. In from the east, close to where I live now, spurring off to serve various industries before crossing the River Derwent and heading south to Swarkestone. And that canal shaped the area between these two pubs. Let's take a walk through history.
From the Exeter Arms - which brewed its own beer - I could have made my way down Exeter Street. At the junction with Derwent Row, opposite the Long Bridge over the Derwent, there was a pub. The White Bear brewed its own beer too, served in brown and white striped mugs. I might have had landlord William Beckett tell me about the three hundred people he's said to have saved from drowning in the canal and river.
Turning off Derwent Row into Erasmus Street, the canal now behind the houses to my left, I'd pass by where William Hazlewood made pickles and jams in a shed on his way to building a convenience food empire. I'd certainly stop at the Hare and Hounds for a pint. Carrying on up the street, the canal turns right and I'd cross it on Pegg's Bridge before walking up Nottingham Road to the Peacock. Maybe I'd look back over the canal basin and that knot of housing and industry on what they called Canary Island, over and away to the Exeter Arms.
The canal and bridges have gone. Erasmus Street too. An area of foundries and coalyards, of budding entrepreneurs and time-served licensees, all cleared for an imperfect ring road.
So the next time I stare out of the window at the Exeter Arms, I'll see more than seething motorists. And every time I see another slip road or shopping centre, I'll wonder what was there before. And the tales that the now-flattened pubs could tell.
"I have no further changes to make to the duty rates set out by my predecessor".
And with those words the Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osbourne, managed to avoid announcing that alcohol duty would actually rise by 2% plus inflation.
Those rates were first set by Alistair Darling in the Labour government in 2008 and then extended by him in 2010 to run until 2015. The Coalition seem loathe to hit the escalator's emergency stop, though. Indeed, why should they? If figures show that, since 2008, beer consumption has fallen but beer duty revenue has increased, why lose a revenue stream?
Today there will be many calls to scrap the beer duty escalator. Many such calls have been made before. All the way back to 2008.
Think of three things you could do to actively campaign against the escalator.
Do those things. Or at least get the wheels in motion.
Then sign the petition.
Don't be an armchair warrior. An angry blogger with a spittle-flecked screen.
Don't rely on another 83,000 people signing a petition that may or may not spark a debate that may or may not turn out the way you want it to (hint: the Coalition kept the tax that Labour introduced. Do the maths).
Do something.
A number of people have told me that signing the e-petiton is better than doing nothing.
I'm almost ready to have the fingers clicked and be back in the blogging room.
I want to say how much I love Marks & Spencer for their attributable beers and how damn fine their Southwold Winter IPA is (brewed by Adnams, natch).
I want to review a couple of books that I've actually enjoyed reading cover to cover, rather than just doing the speed-read thing. And how beer writing could be about to have its seismic shift.
I want to chuck my twopennethworth into the ring on the duty escalator, the inefficacy of e-petitions and the over-estimation of beer blogging's influence.
I want to talk about the sheer beery fun that is the General Havelock in Ilkeston, Derbyshire. The reasons why I only stop for chocolate brownies at the Rutland, Sheffield. Why drinking Bitburger in the Kean's Head and Broadway Cafe Bar in Nottingham have been some of the best beery moments of my recent weeks.
I want to post that picture of how I segmented the beer market into a Venn diagram-of-sorts that may or may not have resembled a cock and balls.
So, consider this a kickstart. Or a marker. A line in the sand to be clodded across. Before I forget again.
Although I've been trying to think about beer, the word 'kickstart' reminds me of two things:
Last week, Brewdog Nottingham opened. I ought to write about it. And not just because they gave me free beer and cheese. So, here goes:
Location:
Broad Street, Nottingham. Which is a five-minute stagger from the Lace Market tram stop. Or a fifteen-ish minute stagger from Victoria Bus Station (time depends on whether you pop to John Lewis for a pee on the way). And next door to the Broadway Cinema which has free wifi, bigger toilets and cheaper lager. In case you need to satiate your desires in those directions.
Ambience:
Understated urban warehouse cool. Exposed brick. Surprise mirror. Those lights that look that those lights in an old IKEA catalogue that you nearly bought for your living room until you remembered that you don't live in a Manhattan studio loft. In 1986. Tables and stools that purposely annoy the middle-aged. Some walls covered in recycled school-gym laminate, complete with basketball lines and teenage knee-graze bloodstains.
Facilities:
Bar. The Smallest Toilets In The World Ever. Jenga.
Beer:
The freshest Brewdog draft I've ever tasted: , Blitz, 77 Lager, Punk, 5AM, Hardcore. Paradox Jura at 15%. Guest kegs were decent; three visits took in the likes of Mikkeller, Hitachino Nest, Stone, Cigar City. Bottles were excellent; Port, Cantillon, Ballast Point, The Kernel. It costs - practically £4 for a pint of 77 Lager, £3 for 2/3rds of Punk, maybe £5 for a third of import / strong Brewdog.
But, ask yourself this question. Do you want to drink 15% Paradox? Fresh-as-you-fancy Ballast Point? Japanese keg? I do. And I'm happy to pay that price to drink them practically on my doorstep in a fun venue.
Food:
Platters of cheese & meat. You can't believe how happy I am to see this approach taking off. So-so meat but the cheeses - including decent Stilton and Brie - are nibble-mongous. And I hear they've started stocking Mrs Kings pork pies too.
Parts of an old school literally meets new school brewing. Can be loud and brash. Which, I believe, is the idea.
Thanks to the bar scamps for feeding and watering me on press night and to the usual Twitter suspects for Technology Corner shenanigans. Special thanks to @alcofrolicchap and @brewdogbecca for the photos.
I'm drinking a beer. I have drank this beer many times. It's a fridge regular at Scoop Towers. It's available in supermarkets and chain restaurants. Which is why I drink it often.
Until sixty seconds ago, I had no idea what exactly went into it. I could guess.
But, you know what? To me, it doesn't matter.
I now know it's full of two-row, Hallertauer Mittelfrueh, Vanguard and Cascade. 33 IBU. 170 kcal.
Big diff. It tasted great before that knowledge; it tastes the same great right now.
Some beers are defined by an obvious malt bill, hop addition or yeast strain. It's good to know in those cases; you like the effect, you can find more beers that express themselves in a similar way. Or run an avoidance play on them.
If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, quacks and shags and scaups like a duck, then it's a duck.
Craft beer is where you find it. Where you find it depends on how you define it.
How you define it? That's your call.
There will never - never - be agreement in the UK as to what 'craft beer' really means.
So let's just drink good beer and have some fun.
The Craft Beer Manifesto started on Twitter one bored morning when I was achingly tired by the excess PR of certain mediocre brewers. You may interpret this manifesto as having a pop at particular organisations and individuals. I couldn't possibly comment.
Because if it sounds like a dick, acts like a dick, tweets and blogs and brews like a dick, then it's a dick.
THE CRAFT BEER MANIFESTO.
1: Only use distilled otter's tears
2: Use only barley that's been warmed by the breath of kindly owls
3: Craft beer cares, so only use hops that have been flown halfway around the world
4: You can have it any colour you like, as long as it's not brown. Unless its an Indian Brown Ale
5: Beards allowed only if they're ironic
6: It's not "inconsistent", it's "experimental"
7: It's not "hiding faults", it's "barrel-ageing"
8: It's not "gone off", it's "challenging preconceptions of sour beer"
9: Ensure that the branding costs more than the brewhouse
10: Collaborate every month with an international brewer, a blogger, a celebrity & a musician
11: There are only seven ingredients in Craft Beer: hops, malt, water, yeast, YouTube, Twitter & Facebook
As the sun falls into the sea. As the DJ whips tired souls into a last dance. As the fire's embers spat their last. As the coach is about to leave. As the speeches finish. As the deed has to be done. As a lounging middle finger scratches upwards towards a wobbling ceiling, the last defiance...
It's never beer, is it? Long drinks were invented to be caroused around, shared and split and eventually cradled before cajoled into another round.
Short drinks define themselves. Another bluff eraser bump in your ledger of life.
It doesn't matter if the evening doesn't begin with beer. It has to end shortly.
Iced apfelkorn from the depths of the freezer.
A clumsy martini.
Random single malt from the miniature that you forgot you bought eight years ago.
Or Somerset Cider Brandy. For me: smells like teen spirit, burns like heaven and then whispers softly in my ear..
"Thank you for enjoying me. Now please fuck off kindly and quietly to bed".
It's New Year's Eve. The awkward time in between supper and Hootenanny. Let's get pished and award the Scoopies.
The 'How Long Have We Been In This Pub?' Award - Sheffield Tap. Some say there was a grinding inevitability to this and that it had to happen one day. Well, indeed, it did. Instead of visiting the CAMRA AGM, I spent the thick end of eight hours in the Tap. The result was always going to be messy:
Thornbridge grabs a couple of Scoopies; the Most Often Read Post On This Website If You Believe Google Analytics award for the posts the attracted the most traffic, this one on their Sheffield pubs and this one on the opening of DAda bar. And DAda itself gets an award of it own for the Coolest Photography On A Table In A Bar:
This year's Top Referral Source To My Site Of Readers Who Really Ought To Know Better is once again Zak Avery at Are You Taking The Pith? Still not sure why. Perhaps he attracts people looking for good beer info and they then click through to me for a cheap knob gag or two.
The Googlefail Awards for the thirteen most obscure search terms that resulted in a visit to my site were:
- abba jansson filter
- brampton restaurants with humpty dumpty painting on the wall
- christmas cock party
- ginger merkin site:uk
- hire a keg of carling for xmas
- ilkeston slags
- is pvpp (polyvinylpolypyrrolidone) suitable for vegans
- pizza playmobil
- reluctant her first swingers party
- sue holderness cleavage
- true road racing circuits in the england
- ugly blonde train - what is the location of the lord admiral nelson pub in the uncle bens sweet and sour advert.
Nice try by Kristy McCready of Molson Coors for number 5 on that list.
The Worst Beer Photo Taken When Drunk award was a shoo-in for the 'arty' pics of Brooklyn Lager I attempted late one evening after a day on the piss with Alcofrolic Chap and Rich from Brewsters:
As for Best Beer Photo... I'd quite like it to be this:
... but it's got to be this, in honour of all those who donned the Ginger Merkin at GBBF:
This year's beer and food award is a little different. The inaugural Respecting and Disrespecting Beer And Food award goes to Adnams Solebay; drank out of a champagne flute after a stunning meal at the Crown Hotel in the company of Fergus Fitzgerald, the head brewer at Adnams. And also drank straight from the bottle, bought for £2.50, with a cheeseburger at the Brewing Industry International Awards in the company of Stoph McBride, as pictured below:
The How To Avoid Drinking Beer In A Great Pub But Do Something Else Instead award goes to the Rutland Arms in Sheffield for putting up with me staggering in late on, buying two chocolate brownies and then sodding off again. Bonus points for the time they called round to the Sheffield Tap with some because I couldn't be arsed to get up and fetch them myself.
The Shit Me, Where Did That Brewery Come From? award has to go to Magic Rock. It's been a pleasure watching these guys take the UK beer scene by storm this year. High Wire has become one of my favourite cask beers, Dark Arts is one of the finest dark beers I've ever drank - especially on keg. Stu and Rich, pictured below, are genuinely good guys in a business that has its fair share of shitheels. And Magic Rock Scott makes a damn good sandwich, propelling the brewery to my coveted Best Hospitality During A Brewday award. Although the glasses of Bearded Lady helped too.
The Sitting Up Straight On The Back Of The Bus award goes to the ratebeer.com European Summer Gathering. Breakfast at The Kernel. When I say breakfast, I mean outstanding Italian meats alongside kegged and bottled pale ale that made grown men weep. And then catching this beauty up to the King William IV in Leyton. On the way back, we drank Brodies beers from the bottle (Seven Hop was sublime) and sang 'The Wheels On The Bus'. Only in England...
Winners of the Scoopers Award For Exporting Beer From The People's Republic of South Yorkshire are the hopheaded dynamic duo Gazza and Dave Unpronounceable at Steel City. That I can pop up the road to the Old Oak at Horsely Woodhouse and drink the likes of Dark Funeral, DILLIGAF and Escafeld always tickles me.
The Blindsiding Beer Of The Year award goes to Vieille Brune by Brasserie Thiriez. Bought from a beer festival at a Derbyshire pub. Because Pete Hounsell, brewer at Amber Ales, fancied putting on something unusual at the Talbot Taphouse festival alongside his own beers. He'd picked up cases from Thieiez, including the fantastically floral Etoile Du Nord, but this stuff blew me away. People like Pete who put in the effort to source beers like this ought to be applauded by beer lovers.
Beery Person of the Year? It could be many. Brewers who grew their business in the face of straitened times and egregious taxation. Licensees who revitalised pubs and found that if you invest in the community, they pay you back in spades. Writers who have broadened my horizons. Editors who have published my work. The mad followers on Twitter who have been around to share a laugh, a cry, a joke and a bucketful of pisstaking.
But there can be only one. Mrs Scoop has been my rock, my muse and my little blue beer taxi. And so much more. Cheers me dears!
And to you rattlebag as well. Thanks for reading, for sharing a beer with me and for not setting fire to my merkin. 2011: done. 2012: come on!
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