Canny Coont*

My good friend John has pointed out that my arithmetic was wrong in my previous piece here about Wetherspoons. In that article I managed to convert 2.5 megalitres into 45,000 nines of beer when actually it should be 60,000, or, to be precise 61,736. Or, in pints, 4,445,000.

Now many of you will not know that in my native Scotland, when I was a lad, we had both Mathematics and Arithmetic O Levels. These were back in the days when you either got a "Pass" or a "Fail". Yes they used that word. "Fail". You'll be amazed to know I have both - for all the good they did me. So how did this error come about? Put simply, I failed to correctly multiply 4 by 15 and get the right answer. My old teachers would no doubt have given me a quick tap on the wrist with a strap to point out the error of my ways. They did that sort of thing then to make it harder to forget things. But these are more enlightened times, so Dear Reader, you are now aware that Wetherspoons sell even more beer than I told you and its importance to British brewing is even more than I indicated.

It really is a lot of beer, though I don't know how much of it is real ale.  That's a pity.

Didn't stop me being a bit dissatisfied with the choice in the Regal Moon last night though.

* Can't count  - as my old Supplementary Benefits trainer once told me.

Where's That Brewery Again?

I was gratified to see the British Beer and Pub Association doing something useful for a change.  They have produced a comprehensive report of every parliamentary constituency, showing the impact the number of breweries and pubs in each has on jobs and wages, with details of numbers employed etc.

Great stuff I thought turning to three of my local constituencies.  All three have the number of breweries, not just wrong, but very wrong. Breweries surely aren't that hard to place in the right area? Plenty of stuff about that on line. I don't know about the pubs - that's doubtless harder - but inaccuracy doesn't fill me with confidence about any of the rest of it.  

Not sure whether to blame arithmetic or geography here.

 Problem is not much (if anything) else aligns with parliamentary constituencies, so I actually  have some sympathyfor them.

Baby It's Cold Inside

As this winter drags on and on, one place of solace ought to be the pub.  Excellent beer, a cheery welcome and a warm fug of heat as you enter, makes the winter blues dissipate somewhat does it not?  One problem I have found recently though in that otherwise cheerful picture I've drawn, is that far too many pubs are at the moment, not to put too fine a point on it, bloody freezing.

On Saturday, our trip to Magic Rock having taken the knock due to appalling weather, a brave band of us went for a few pints in Manchester.  It wasn't all plain sailing. On one of the coldest days of the year, it wouldn't be unfair to say that two well known pubs in the Northern Quarter, both in the Rochdale Road area, were as cold as a sheep on Arran.

 Times is hard I know and fuel bloody expensive, but you don't go to the pub as an endurance test.  A small coal fire in one room will not heat a large pub on a very cold day.  This really is a case of speculating to accumulate, because customers will simply not sit about drinking beer when the temperature inside would make a yak shiver.

Put another couple of pennies on a pint - I don't care -  but heat the pub up please.

It has to be said that the three, shall we say, less traditional pubs we visited, were lovely and warm. Even if the beer was icy.

The Jolly Butchers

Surprisingly, to me anyway, there is a bus a five minute walk away from home number 2 in London E1, direct to the door of the Jolly Butchers in Stoke Newington. Stoke Newington sounds far away and exotic, but despite the half hour plus on the bus, it is only two or three miles away from the City and is a posher pause on a cosmopolitan journey which takes you from a war damaged and never repaired East End, through to Vietnam and Turkey all on the same straight road. From the top of the 67 you could see the changing environment, with so many pubs that are no more, but once populated every corner. A lost world and a reminder that fings ain't wot they used to be.

Pete Brown wrote about the Jolly Butchers here and we thought it worth a visit despite the somewhat ambivalent remarks in some pub comment sites. To me, it seemed to be trying to do something right and different. We arrived at around 15.30 and Sunday lunch was still in full swing. The pub seemed populated by Observer subscribing couples, studiously reading the unreadable, while ignoring each other and a plethora of young people drinking coloured cider. It was an anthropologist's wet dream. We were singularly disconcerted to find ourselves the oldest there by a good 20 years.

The beer choice was good. Two from Dark Star, one each from Thornbridge, Brew Dog, Crouch Vale and Brodies. I started on the Brew Dog Trashy Blonde which was tired really, with diactetyl and wet dog - no pun intended. E had Crouch Vale Brewer's Gold which was as good as it always is. Then a couple of Dark Star American Pale which didn't disappoint. But we both knew that the real draw was yet to be sampled. Jaipur. That's your man. It was full of condition and so very tasty.

We had a great spot from which to observe proceedings and you know, we both liked the place enormously. It was buzzing and pleasant, light and airy. The food looked good, the place was clean and well looked after and the staff were unremittingly pleasant and helpful. You could tell the intentions are good. It is a big space though and it may not be so conducive on a wet Monday night, but putting that thought aside, we'll certainly go back.

Of course there has to be a down side. Stupid, handled, dimpled glasses do nothing for the presentation of modern beer and of course we come to temperature. All the beers varied between 17 and nearly 19 degrees C. What is all that all about? Getting the cellar and dispense temperature so wrong is spoiling a good ship for a hap'orth of tar. This is a good place. It should be great. Sort it out.

Drinking a Pint of Cask is Like Making Love to a Beautiful Woman*

There is a fair degree of agreement that when cask beer is served at its best, that it is an unbeatable way of serving draught beer. Cool, but not cold, bursting with condition, clear, a tight creamy head - and yes it is better that way - full bodied, clean in aroma and so easy to drink. Of course your first mouthful in any beer is so important. It sets all your senses on red alert. "Is this going to be good?" is the silent question. In cask beer it tends to tell you so much more than keg beers. It is a is a much more nuanced product. Having done the visual inspection and the nose test, you are already forming an opinion, building up the anticipation, getting ready for that first mouthful that will confirm whether it is as good as it looks. Or, unfortunately as bad. Sometimes it isn't that good. Too often you can tell by that visual and olfactory inspection that things just aren't going to be as good as you'd like. Here's where the making love analogy starts. I think you'll be getting my drift by now.

Any cask ale drinker knows one simple fact of life. You aren't always going to get a good pint. Unlike the lager or smooth drinker, who knows what to expect and is delivered with it every time, the cask drinker is an uncertain soul. He is hopeful that the heights that only cask can reach will be in that pint. He knows one thing though. He will sometimes - quite often actually - get a duff pint. It is the the elephant in the public bar. Like death and taxes, the dodgy pint is always with us. Too often cask beer isn't served as it should be. It is ordinary or it is bad. It is middling or damned by that phrase, " It was OK". That usually means it was poor, but you could just about choke it down without real enjoyment and for this writer, not to enjoy beer defeats its purpose. Making love analogy again!

There is a way to mitigate this of course. You drink in pubs you trust. You drink beer from breweries you trust. (There is a long list of breweries whose beer I wouldn't touch with a bargepole and they are almost all micros). You use the GBG. You check for Cask Marque signs. You ask ahead (of fellow customers) "What's the beer like today?" This doesn't help the casual drinker of course. He or she is as likely to be a loser in the lottery as a winner. I don't believe many will disagree that the possibility of bad beer is the biggest enemy of cask . It puts more people off than anything else. Nor should you expect redress at the bar. You will be told in all probability that "Everyone else is drinking it", "it is just new on today", "that's the way it's meant to taste" etc. etc. And this won't just happen in dodgy pubs either. It will happen with a straight face in pubs that are considered the best of breed and about beer from breweries that are worshipped here in the blogosphere and in the real world. In short, over your drinking career, you will be taken for a mug time after time. An inconvenient truth if ever there was one.

What's prompted this introspection? After all I'm a cask man through and through. The other day a trip to the edge of my CAMRA Branch area, gave me some poor beer. Poor beer in Good Beer Guide pubs is irritating enough, but poor beer in pubs that usually sell it in tip top condition, is both puzzling and annoying. But sadly this isn't atypical. When some in the trade call for cask beer to be sold at a premium price, my response is along the lines of "Bugger off, I already pay a premium in that at least one in five of the pints I buy, will be poor and quite a number of them won't be as good as the brewer intended."

Why drink cask beer then? Simply because when it is right, when you hit that cask in peak of condition, when you have the taste experience which has you mentally cancelling the next few hours as the first pint slides down, it is the best beer experience you are likely to get. So when that perfect pint caresses your lips and sets your senses all aglow, do savour it, but then get stuck right in, get it down and get yourself back up to the bar, because then you really do have the beautiful woman in your arms and a night (or day) of true passion ahead of you. No unsatisfying bonk against the wall with the pub slapper round the back of the pub for you. You have the real thing. She is yours for the night and she may not come along again any time soon. Fill your boots!

So there you have it. Flirtation can be fun, but ultimately true love gives you what you really need. And one more thing. The memory of good and bad will each remain in your mind for a long time. If you are a publican, please make these memories good.

* If you are gay or a female, feel free to substitute gender as required.

Just a Quick Pint

I didn't have much time for blogging in the latter part of last week. On Thursday, meeting up with fellow blogger the Beer Nut took me to central Manchester for a quick pint. We met at four and full of good intentions. Well I was anyway. It didn't work out that way and somehow I found myself on the last bus home at 23.20. We had good beer and bad beer. Disappointingly some of the beer was shockingly warm which I find frustrating. In this era of temperature controlled cellars, there really is no need for it. I didn't take notes though the BN did, so maybe he'll post something in detail.


I will though mention our first pint for a specific reason. I wrote here about a very constructive note I received from a local brewer, agreeing that at times their beer wasn't striking a particularly high or consistent level. I was therefore pleased to try what the BN was already supping, Allgates Groundhop Day. It was just what was needed on a hot day. Hoppy, cool, good bodied and for me, probably, the best beer of the night. So well done Allgates.

There is a footnote to this. I had meant to take the BN a bottle of Lees Moonaker as a present, but in my rush to meet him, forgot it. We agreed to meet up at the Marble Arch next morning while I was on the way to a retirement do and he was awaiting the arrival of Mrs BN. It was very wet and the BN was like a drowned rat. I had a brolly at least. Me and two mates, suited and booted for the "do", knocked at the door of the MA at regular intervals after its advertised opening hour of 11.30 came and went. The staff inside ignored us until we gave up. Bad show. If they were running late, surely they could just have opened the door and told us that?

Wrong Again

If you want to know the Champion Winter Beer of Britain, Look at Maeib's blog, not mine. It links to CAMRA HQ.

I could just delete the wrong reference and gloss over it of course, but that wouldn't be right would it?