Only connect

The culture of denial.

That festers on the underside of a ticking, scooping, scoring life.

That I don't need to chase.

That I don't need to demand.

That I don't need to seek.

That I don't need to.

That I don't need to brew.

But what if you do?

What if you actually get on your knees and grind the malt, finger out the spent mashtun, weigh out hops on a scale that's good for measuring cocaine?

What if you look at three hacked kegs that are piped together and the contents are poured into a plastic bucket for yeast to have sex in?

What if you realise half-way through this blogpost that you've been listening to the Brewing Network Sunday Session for years for the shits and giggles but have secretly harboured that hard-on for Brewing Your Own?

What if you turfed out the garage tomorrow and found someone who can weld and could place an all-grain brewkit into the corner by which you'd have a kegerator and a cheeseboard and a dartboard and a skittle alley?

What if that fingerful of sweet, sweet wort actually turned you into a home brewer?

I went brewing today. Not standing around taking photos. OK, I took loads of photos.

But I got something more.

I felt something else.

I cared.

I've brewed with bigger boys before.

But this is different.

I wish I could be there every day, checking and peeking and just being close.

It sits in Tideswell.

I perch thirty miles away, uneasy.

I've waxed lyrical before about being part of the process. About tasting and smelling and tweeting and spilling hot malt on your thin hipster Cons.

Today was different.

Today... scared me.

Today scared me in a good way.

Today I actually found myself saying to strangers... I want to do this.

Tomorrow, you can remind me. That there's a whole world of pain residing behind such an idea.

Right here, right now? It makes me itch in my special places.


Dear reader, I've 'brewed' before in a host of places and abused a host of brewers.

Today, 'it' actually happened.

I connected.

Me and a fingerful of wort.