Glasgow Belongs to Me. And E. And a Downpour.

On Monday, we had planned to visit Glasgow for a few beers, some footwear shopping (E of course) and a meal at a recommended restaurant. Fate, family and fecklessness moved it to our last full day of our break, which, as it turned out, was either just as well, or a bad thing. I can't make up my mind.

As these things do, it all started off rather well. A pleasant breakfast and a walk round Helensburgh in warm sunshine was rather nice. Once again, I scanned the Gare Loch unsuccessfully for naval activity from or to HMNB Clyde. Nothing. Our submarines were nowhere to be seen, though of course, they may have slipped in when I wasn't looking. Or out for that matter. In fact, the only clue that this is a Navy town (of sorts) was three rather noisy Navy lads, the previous night at chucking out time, waiting at the taxi rank and singing loudly, while awaiting their ride back to the base.  Under our rented flat window as it happens, but whatever, I digress.

We set off about noon. The train to Glasgow takes about 50 odd minutes, passing through both my home town of Dumbarton and the site of the house I lived in for the first 13 years of my life. The house, above Dalreoch Station, has long gone, being replaced by a utilitarian prefab kind of thing, for the sale of rail tickets. And so to Glasgow.

It was warm. Muggy warm, and we'd passed by some rather rainy bits on the way there. We kidded ourselves that the rain had likely been and gone in the centre of the city. It hadn't as we were to find out. Still, mission number one was easily completed. Eileen's sports shoes were purchased with the minimum of fuss, and we went for a wander, checking out the rather attractive centre. I wanted to look at phones in 3 as my contract was up. Very helpful staff showed me what was what, but I demurred, as my choice was only available in pink or purple, and they clash with my complexion. Or rather, matched it a bit too closely. Maybe Rochdale will have one more suited?

 It was looking gloomy when we left, looking for liquid sustenance.  A pint in Blane Valley - it was handy -  was our first under reduced Covid regs. It looked normal. An old guy sat at the bar with a large goldie and a half pint chaser; we bought at the bar - a pint and a half of Heverlee - is it brewed by Tennents or, as implied, in Belgium? Don't know. The staff were fab, and we eyed the outside through the open door. It looked brighter, so we decided to go to an old haunt of mine, the Rhoderick Dhu, by Central Station. Bearing in mind it was a Monday, the pub was reasonably busy. It is deceptively large, a Belhaven house, with a large selection of lagers and a Greene King keg beer.  And Guinness, which ran out, much to the consternation of locals. Delivery issues, apparently. Locals were at the bar and few were complying with mask wearing? Confusion or mutiny? I don't know.

Then it rained. I don't just mean a spit. It bounced back to knee height as we watched passers-by run for cover. A group of builders rapidly revised their plans, getting another round in. We did too, until it eased a bit. We were halfway through our drinks, but before we could leave, the monsoon retuned with a vengeance. The whole pub was kind of marooned in a stand-off with the weather. Now this is fine when you are swooping cask, but tedious when it is St Mungo and Tennents. And we had a dinner reservation in Partick, which required a Subway trip. Nothing for it. It had eased off to a solid downpour as we legged it to Buchanan Street and our underground train to Kelvinhall and round the corner, slightly damp, to a lovely meal, again with great service at nearby No16 Byres Road. Have a look at the reviews. I recommend it highly.

I'd like to say our journey back to Helensburgh was uneventful, but cancelled trains and a two and a quarter-hour journey back, due to flooded lines, was a pain. We arrived in time for a pint in the Royal Bar, just under our flat. Alas, that cunning plan was vetoed by one half of the party and the other half knew better than to argue.

The Manager in the Rhoderick Dhu was a star. He was obviously training a couple of new staff, but ran the place with consummate ease. A master class in fact. 

Oddly, and we've all been there I'm sure, I was glad the next morning that proposed nightcap didn't take place.

London Again

We spent about a week in London following our trip to check out the flat in late May. This time we had a better reason, with two "dos" to attend. Firstly, Eileen's small company's delayed Christmas Lunch and, secondly, our nephew's wedding.  It also coincided with weather which could probably best be described as "scorchio".

Our evening of arrival was however dull and overcast, though warm enough, so we set off for a wander, heading towards the Gherkin with the intention of having a pint at the nearby  Craft pub and thence on to the Liverpool St area and home via Pizza Union in Leman Street. Craft had several inside tables booked, so we sat outside on very uncomfortable stools, with our beers. This was a pale ale from Kent Brewery which seems to be a house beer - see below.  It was okayish, but lacked that peak of cask conditioning that might have set it above ordinary. But as the only cask ale of the trip, I thought it worth mentioning as it is fair to say, it didn't inspire me to repeat the experiment.  

We then had a couple (Camden Hells for me) in the rather attractive Kings Stores, a place we've been to before, then on to another haunt, the Castle on Commercial Road. This is an attractive pub, described on Google Maps as "Sophisticated Old World Pub". Well, sort of. We had Portobello Lager here in unetched tulip ale glasses, which did nothing for an otherwise very ordinary lager of little distinction. I should add,  in its dog days, the application of Covid 19 regulations here, was less than assiduous,  but we checked in and sat in a well ventilated area, between two open doors, so all was well.

Thursday saw another trip to Craft, this time on my own and this time to the Leather Lane one to meet my GBBF BSF colleagues, Jonathan and Stan. That's where I noticed the same Kent Brewery Pale Ale, so possibly it is common to all Craft pubs. 

As befitted our BSF credentials, we all supped imported beers while catching up.

The "Christmas" meal in the posh Charlotte Street restaurant The Ninth,  was excellent and open air, but you could see a lot of closed businesses around. Hopefully temporarily. A subsequent walk to a rammed Soho, was a bit abortive, as not only were outside areas filled, but people were hanging around hoping someone would leave.

We retreated to another old haunt, Sam Smith's Bricklayers Arms, just off  Soho in Gresse Street, and some excellent Nitro Stout and a most informative chat with the landlady who had been there for years. Sadly the pub was pretty empty. For those interested, a pint of nitro stout and a half of Pure Brewed was £8.45. Cards accepted.

Next Up: Richmond on Thames and the East End.

Holden My Own in Bridgnorth

 I had a little trip to Bridgnorth last week accompanied by E.  We had arranged to meet friends there and of course, travelled separately, ensuring as much as we could in these confusing and restrictive Covid-19 times, that we obeyed the spirit and hopefully the letter of the Government's decrees/ rules/law, as we (more or less) understood them at the time. This did cause us a little soul-searching coming as we did from an area that has a lot of infection, to an area that had hardly any, but as we were all well and trips away have been few and far between and likely to become even fewer and lot further between, we thought "Bugger it" and went anyway. 

I was the only one that had been to Bridgnorth before, but my tales of Black Country beer, cheese and onion cobs the size of a baby's head and pork pies convinced them that this fine market town in Shropshire was the place to be.  To sweeten the deal we stayed at the Golden Lion, run by Holdens Brewery, so what could possibly go wrong?  Well, nothing actually. This is a tale of more or less unfettered joy. Of ale supped and food scoffed.

The advantage of the Golden Lion is that it is on the High Street and therefore bang in the middle of town. The other advantage is that it has a car park with space dedicated to each of the letting rooms, though it did take a couple of sweeps round the one way system before we worked out how to actually access our berth.  Our friends arrived more or less at the same time and after checking in, we generously gave them the nicer room. Theirs was designed by Jay Blades of Repair shop no less. Ours was Platform 3 and was railway themed, but big and comfortable. We chucked our stuff down and a few milliseconds later, we were in the bar, where rules were quickly explained, hands sanitised and pints procured.  Now the thing is about Black Country beer is that one tends to see it through rose-tinted glasses. My first sip rapidly turned into a gulp, as did those of my companions. Suffice to say that Holdens Bitter lived up to my memories (though in fairness, it wasn't that long ago I last had some).  Needless to say we had a second before exploring on a gloriously sunny afternoon. 

Bridgnorth is a thriving place we noted, as we wandered aimlessly along. Local shops abounded. A baker and a butcher set the tone, but we needed food.  The White Lion promised home-brewed ales, pies, cobs and Scotch eggs, but on a Tuesday lunchtime, was rather understocked.  John had the last pie, while we settled on rather untraditional soft rolls with cheese and onion. Sadly too, the local ales were a tad underwhelming, but the sun was out as we sat in the pub garden, so all was well.

I'd promised everyone they'd like the Railwayman's Arms at Bridgnorth Station, home to the Severn Valley Railway. The beer was fine, but inside had been so Covid sanitised as to have lost its charm for me, so we sat outside while a steam locomotive, chuffed away, providing the classic steam smells I grew up with. On the way back into town we popped into the Joules owned Shakespeare, where the beer wasn't brilliant to be honest, but the pub was rather nice. Incidentally, I'd been warned Joules beers aren't going through a good patch. Make of that what you will.

I won't continue to bore this pub crawl as it were into evening or the next day. Suffice to say we visited a horrible Marston's pub in Ironbridge and recovered at leisure in the splendid Old Robin Hood, which is another of Holdens small number of pubs. On a wet afternoon it was warm, welcoming and Covid-19 compliant. The bitter and Golden Glow were on top form. And they had proper cheese and onion cobs at £1.50 a pop.  The two and a half hours until the next bus flew by and the beer flew down eager throats.

So what's the point of this? It's a kind of good news thing really. It is about Holden's Brewery, their splendid beer and their safe and hospitable offering. In these very difficult times the way they ensured safety while minimising the negative effects was outstanding. And the beer really hit the spot.

We also met the most helpful bus driver ever, who not only left her break to show us the needlessly complicated Ironbridge bus stops by personally walking round the corner with us and confirming the next bus time.  Arriva, you have a great asset there.

I have been to Ironbridge a few times. It is always pissing wet.  And dead. I'd forgotten that. We'd have gone to the Coalbrookdale Inn, but it didn't open until four. We were in the Robin Hood on the outskirts by then.

To Helensburgh and Back

Given that our summer holidays are put on the back burner - assuming they are even on the cooker - I decided some time ago to go and see my family and friends in Scotland.  Now my sister, who lives in my home town, Dumbarton, is immune system compromised, so I turned down her invitation to stay and instead, last week, with the lovely E, booked into the Travelodge in nearby Helensburgh. This is a town where a much younger me spent quite a lot of time, mostly on a Sunday night, drinking beer in the Cairndhu Hotel which we reckoned then had a better class of young ladies to (unsuccessfully for the most part) chase after. It was also not so popular with the Royal Navy lads from round the corner in Faslane, or indeed, then, the US Navy whose sailors swarmed over from Dunoon and helped make the town a tad lively.

Alas, the Cairndhu Hotel, while still standing, is no longer licensed premises - or indeed a hotel - and while Helensburgh is a delightful little town, options for staying overnight are somewhat limited.  The Travelodge is in the upper parts of what was the Commodore Hotel, the lower part being, now, the Commodore Inn, though you can actually enter both from either. The Commodore Inn has an excellent aspect on the Clyde River front and our room provided us with a basic, but comfortable enough abode. It is fair to say though, that it is in need of some updating.

Now how would Scotland's much stricter rules on the pandemic manifest themselves? Well, firstly, at check-in, the desk is sealed behind plastic. We were informed we'd have to make our own beds and bring towels for changing down  to reception. Not a big deal really. Face masks were compulsory inside the hotel and this was complied with by and large, though sometimes we and others forgot, as we went directly down the stairs to the outside without going elsewhere.

After a long drive, a pint was in order. We went through their extensive  beer garden to the Commodore Inn. At the door we were greeted and a note taken of our names and phone numbers. Hand sanitisers were everywhere. We were given a table outside in the no smoking area and drinks were brought to our table. It was quick, cheerful and easy. Refills were by flagging down a server. Tabs were offered, or you could pay as you went. Now of course, as details were being handed over, I scanned the bar. Cask offerings, perhaps oddly, were London Pride and Doom Bar. No Scottish cask beer was a disappointment, but hey ho. The Pride, served in a Williams Bros Glass, was at most a 2.5 in CAMRA NBSS parlance, but the second scraped into a 3. Just needed drinking I think.

That night we dined at the Sugar Boat, a lovely little restaurant on the main Colquhoun Square. Again we were accosted at the door and even though we'd booked, names were taken and we sat outside in the sunshine with others, all socially distant, as was the case inside.  So far so compliant.

The next day, we had breakfast at another old haunt, but from more recent years, the Henry Bell.  Would JDW let the side down? Not a bit of it. We were stopped at the door, forms were filled in, we were asked to sanitise our hands and the modus operandi inside explained. Clean cups for coffee refills, one socially distant queue for all service and tables were sanitised. We returned again that night to meet my pal and of course, it was much busier, but the same high standards were maintained. It remained so, until the Royal Navy arrived and things got a tad more boisterous, but the system did work, though the young sailors, finally let loose after a long submarine patrol, were perhaps a bit louder that you'd want, but who could blame them?

In Helensburgh itself, mask wearing in shops was compulsory and obeyed to the letter, as far as I could see, even in the large Co-op. Queues outside the butchers, fishmongers, greengrocers - it's that sort of town - distanced happily.

We didn't go to any more different pubs, but our remaining restaurant trip saw our names taken and hands sanitised.  On the way back, we waited in line to get into the supermarket where everyone was masked up.

Scotland is, it seems, in the small part of it I was in, at least complying. Compulsion obviously has an effect and it didn't seem to slow things up.

We did go to several small shops and for ice cream and again all was neat and orderly. It seemed a small price to pay for the added confidence it gave.  Helensburgh is lovely when it is sunny. In fact it was too hot at times. Never thought I'd say that.

In JDW, the Navy lads were stopped from moving the furniture about. A small number of staff did well. We also encountered many sailors wandering about looking for a late night drink. Good luck with that one, but my pal did tell me some pubs have not yet re-opened and the large John Logie Baird was closed and boarded.

Gobsmacked in Coalbrookdale

Reading this lovely post by Retired Martin about one of my favourite pubs in the UK, the Coalbrookdale Inn in, well Coalbrookdale, just up from that wonderful town of Ironbridge, I was reminded of one of the more surprising happenings in my many pub visits.

As you may have read here before, every year, three cronies and I take a couple of nights away in a pubby part of the country. The West Midlands is always a favourite, therefore we have been in the Ironbridge area more than once. I can't remember the exact date, but it was a long time ago - these events do not make recall of detail all that easy, though of course, as we all get older, the amount of beer has become almost sensible and greater clarity is assured. But these were halcyon days.

On this occasion, likely sometime in the 1980's, we had a night - or maybe two - in Coalbrookdale.  We'd all been there before, probably on a CAMRA coach trip or suchlike, but we booked into a pub opposite the Coalbrookdale Inn. It was a decent enough boozer, owned by Marstons I think, and it did rooms at a very reasonable rate.  It was fine for our needs, which essentially are to be clean and comfortable with a breakfast and car parking.  On the appointed evening, after a day no doubt boozing away (we have a designated non-drinking driver)  we had a couple of pints in the Marstons pub, then headed across the road to the bustling Coalbrookdale Inn for a wider choice of beer, before heading down to Ironbridge for more beer and eats.

After a few minutes - the pub has a more or less square bar - the landlord shouted "Phone call for Peter".  We all ignored this. Now to explain to my younger reader, back in those days - pre mobile phone - it wasn't at all unusual to call a pub and ask to speak to "whoever" if he is in.  Now nobody knew we were there we thought and therefore the call out in a busy pub could not possibly be for any of us and could be safely ignored. We carried on supping. Having got no response, the barman returned to the phone, presumably to relate the lack of success to the caller.  A few seconds later he appeared in front of us. "Any of you lads Peter Alexander?" quoth our hero. I stammered "Me" while we all looked on in astonishment. "Phone call for you" he said.

Needless to say, it was the lovely E.  But how had she tracked me down? Well simples really. She had phoned the Marstons pub and the barman there had said words to the effect of "You've just missed them. They've all gone across the road to the Coalbrookdale. Do you want their phone number?"  E then phoned and found me.

Back in these far off days, before mobile phones were widely owned,  somehow we still managed to contact each other. I have been phoned for in many pubs over the years, albeit long ago, but that for me, was a bit of a record.

The Coalbrookdale Inn has, I think been a bit gentrified since those days, but is still a cracker.

I remember that night cramming into a local's car and careering off to Ironbridge. God know how many were in it, but I can still hear the clang as the arse end of the car banged the road from time to time. 

The lost art of the "Is he in the pub?" phone call, is a great subject too from the past.

Home Drinking Starts to Pall

Those who know me well, know that I don't really drink at home. I presumably thought I did at one time, but the large number of undrunk bottles going back years that lie languishing in my garage, suggests I do not. Well certainly not enough.

Until this pandemic swiped more or less everything sideways, this cosy arrangement was fine. I went into the garage, looked at a beer, shook my head and decided not to bother. Or to go to the pub. Now things have changed. Our binmen - sorry, environmental operatives - who no doubt pre virus, looked forward to emptying my green recycling bin. It was as light as a chaste maiden's kiss, filled as it was with the odd kitchen disinfectant bottle, bog cleaner, mushy pea can and milk container. Now every three weeks, they strain every Covid-free sinew, as groaning like an overloaded dance floor, they huff and puff my brimming bin to the waiting wagon.

You see, among my other sins - and they are plenty - now that the pub is denied me, I almost always only drink bottled beer. I compound that felony by drinking bottles of a larger size. That is 500 ml and above. I rarely drink small bottles of strong beer - they are the dust collectors in the garage. Of  course the ones I do drink weigh more and take up more room in what was previously a roomy bin, but which now is so inadequate that my garage floor has the excess in it as an unwanted trip hazard. If I only drank cans, then at least I could squash the buggers down a bit and equally, not be afraid of hearing a loud pinging noise and a shriek of agony, as an overloaded binman, snaps something essential, as my bin contents are dragged to their recycling future.

Now a narrow wheelie bin, emptied once every three weeks, doesn't really represent a huge amount in the great scheme of things.   I haven't measured my intake, but I do know how it has come about. Two things; the bloody lockdown and secondly the lovely weather.  As a result of the former, our garden, while hardly going to test those who aspire to Chelsea Flower show standards, is looking pretty damn good.  So, at five'o'clock or so, we have on the sun trap patio at the bottom of our garden, taken to sitting in the sunshine and opening a couple of bottles. Each. That has been known to lead to more, or even once, when the weather stayed warm until ten at night, the addition of bottles of wine and a missed evening meal.

In a so far successful attempt to be sensible, we decided some time ago only to do this if the weather is nice. But - and this is a big but - the weather has been, on the whole, damn pleasant.  So the beer (and the crisps) have been opened more often than not.  In days when the highlights are few and far between, it really has been something to look forward to.  What's not to like I hear you ask?  Well I find myself looking wistfully at my beer and saying "We could be in the Rose or the Ringers now."  E nods in agreement. We know people there and, like most people, are company starved under this lockdown. Drinking bottled beer at the bottom of the garden seems fine and dandy. It is certainly sociable between us two, but it ain't the pub and both of us are acutely aware of it.

Now however, the weather has broken and looking ahead, there seems little prospect of sitting on the patio until at least June 15th, maybe longer. The weather forecast isn't at all promising. And you know what? I'm happy about that. On the days when the sun hasn't shone, or it has been too cold, we haven't missed it.


But rain or shine, we are missing the pub and the company we find there. Not to mention in my case, cask conditioned beer.

What have I been drinking? Well, St Austell Proper Job mostly. Bottle conditioned and at 5.5%, two is usually plenty.  Some German stuff too, but I've given up re-racked cask beer.  E has developed a bit of a soft spot for Warsteiner and Aldi Pils. 

We also have the Virtual Tavern on Zoom every Sunday, but while great,  all we really want is to be back round our table.

What Time's Mr Smith Coming?

It is a peculiarity of Sam Smith pubs that they hide their ownership light under a bushel. Particularly appropriate as of course, as any ful kno, a bushel was, following the Norman Conquest, part of the legal measure of English wine, ale and grains. But I digress, though anyone seeking out The Junction could easily pass it by, as there is nothing to identify the building as a pub, with even the sign being obscured by trees and bushes. Hidden in plain sight you might say.

So what's it like? Well, a big, ordinary looking, off white building on the corner of a main road and, well, another main road. On a junction you might say.  The Junction sprang to fame a few years ago when Humphrey turned up on New Year's Eve at 8.30 p.m, sacked the licensee on the spot and summarily chucked the denizens therein out on the street. The Oldham Chronicle has a report of it all, as does the Daily Mirror. Worth a background read to learn of the somewhat chequered history of this otherwise ordinary pub. I seem to recall tales of a sit-in too, but memories fade. My take back in 2012 is here.

Putting this all behind me, I called in the other night at tea-time.  Enter on the right and you are in a rather plain, but welcoming public bar, with a J shaped bar counter, large windows making the place bright and airy. A dart board and oche against one wall and looking round, some fine pictures of Sam's bottled beers of yore. Rectangular small tables were occupied by half a dozen cheery locals - well cheery with each other - they totally ignored me.  A pot bellied dog of uncertain provenance completed this bucolic scene. Looking through to the other side a very cosy lounge looked attractive. I reckoned I'd turned the wrong way at the door, but time would tell.

The barmaid was friendly though and my ordered pint of Dark Mild (£1.34) was fetched from the lounge ("It's been poured more recently there" quoth she.)  Top lass. She also turned a fan by the bar off as it "might deafen me", but actually while I'd noticed it, it hadn't bothered me at all.  The locals were in reminiscing mode, talking of beers of yore, though each seemed, in the time honoured Sam's way, to be drinking lager mixes. ("Yes, Lees Stout was called Archer") I nearly chipped in, but didn't. 

After a while, as my pint sank lower, (2.8% and delicious) the barmaid enquired of the codgers if they'd yet bought tickets for the meat raffle. "Classic" I thought as they all chorused that they had.  One or two drifted off and I thought that it might be good to try the lounge for another. I'm glad I did.  The lounge was splendid. Comfy nooks and crannies, bench seating throughout, bric a brac here and there and again, excellent beer posters.  One old lad, with three very doddery old ladies  - I noticed as he escorted them to the facilities - ordered them all halves of Alpine. He gave me a cheery hello. I wandered round. Two lads, again drinking lager, were chatting earnestly; a couple sat contentedly in an other cosy area and at the end of the bar, was a fellow drinking Dark Mild. "Aha" I thought.

The barmaid engaged me in conversation of the "You're not from around here" variety, but in a pleasant way, I remarked about the lounge being an attractive area. "Yes", she agreed, "but it's a bugger to clean." Seems she manages, cleans and does everything else. Well, Humph likes his pound of flesh. We also chatted about Pure Brewed Lager which is sadly only in bottles now, the keg version having been a bit too fobby for stocks. Interesting stuff.

Checking the walls from my position at the bar, the usual notices prohibiting this and that were somehow less jarring in this attractive pub, which reminded me with a jolt of how pubs used to be back in the 70s and 80s.  As I stood, earwigging at the bar, I overheard a conversation with a local.  "The big boss is coming." Surely not Humph? But it was. He was expected at half six to pick up keys for another pub which was awaiting new managers. Blimey.  He arrived at about 6.40. I've met him once before and he hadn't changed much. Nice dark suit, dapper, alert and slim with a neat semi comb-over. He didn't look round particularly, merely said hello to the barmaid /manager, she gave him the keys and off he went.

The excitement was over. I finished my pint and reflected on seeing Humph again. Some people never see him at all. Ever. Two or three minutes at the most he was there. You might have blinked and missed him, but I didn't. As Max Boyce once said "I know - coz I was there."

I was telling the barmaid of E's liking for Pure Brewed. She said I should bring her and you know, I will.  It's a smashing little pub and even at £3 a bottle, a round with a pint of Dark Mild will be less than a fiver.

Picture of poster taken on the QT. Nice innit? And no. I didn't ask Mr Smith for a selfie, but he must have been pleased at the efficacy of his prohibition of swearing. I didn't hear a single profanity.




 

Unexpected Pub in the Caucasus Area

Shortly before our tour of the Stalin Museum in Gori, Georgia, our guide pointed out a Russian Army base a mere 400 metres from the main Tbilisi - Black Sea highway.  It was a reminder that beyond that short distance, lies the occupied lands of South Ossetia and Abkhazia. It seems too that the war which officially ended in 2007, is still in small ways going on, as the Russians have the rather annoying habit of moving the barbed wire fences overnight, swallowing up a little more of Georgia each time. Georgian citizens are not allowed within 200 metres of the occupied area for fear of being kidnapped. This dread of Russia consumes every Georgian and explains in part the riots that took place when we were there. Oddly though, Russian tourists abound and are treated very well. The argument is truly state to state.

Sadly we didn't have time in Gori for a beer, but I rather liked the fact that Stalin had the bright idea of having a museum to himself built in his home town. His colleagues apparently agreed this was a splendid plan.  Very wise of them.  It was full of (retouched) photos and paintings of the local lad made good bad.

On the way up the mountain road to our destination, I caught a glimpse of a very Germanic looking building, but it was forgotten as we visited one of the oldest churches in Georgia, some 7000 feet up and a mere 14 kilometres from the border with the Russian Federation. We stopped for a beer in the frontier town of Kazbegi, where fortunately the sun shone. We leaped ahead of the assorted crumblies that were our companions, ordered and paid for our beers which gave us the chance to avoid the tension that "comfort" stops brings when 48 people all try and get served at once within a half hour.  At this stop we were advised that we'd be stopping for lunch a half hour back down the road to Tbilisi. Great stuff.

Back down the mountain we went and pulled up at the Germanic looking building - our lunch stop. To my astonishment this was a little piece of Bavaria in the Caucasus. It was Hofbräuhaus Gadauri.  Yes a pub restaurant, German inside in every way and a part (one assumes) of the Hofbräuhaus Group of Munich.  We filed inside and were taken upstairs to a huge wooden panelled dining room, which could have been upstairs in the Munich Bier Hall.  Downstairs was a large, but empty bar, very much in the Bavarian style.

Now on these capers you usually get a set lunch and so it came to pass. Time was short and by the time we were served and had eaten, it was time to go. I did though manage a look at the menu, and HB Helles, Hefeweizen and Munich Dark were all available. A party of Japanese tourists were getting stuck into some.  Lucky people.

Alas the tale ends here. No beer for me. Time ran out. But it existed. Honest.

These guided tours are mixed blessings. You see a lot, but there is little time for a beer break in the exotic destination, which is a disadvantage-  to this old soak at least. 

The photo of the beer shows the most common beer we came across. It wasn't at all bad really.

Georgian Craft Beer

 The main road through Tbilisi is Rustavelli Avenue, named after a famous Georgian poet and hero.  This is a mighty six lane highway with never ending maniacal driving at speed the rule, not the exception. A bit like Wacky Races for real people. The only way to cross it is by underpass. Any attempt to do so on foot would be certain death. We used the underpasses, spooky though they were.

On one side of Rustavelli Avenue were dotted, all the way down to Liberation Square, a number of little restaurants with seats outside. You could grab one and watch the passers by as you supped a very reasonably priced beer. Think about a pound or less for a half litre. The quality of these beers, all uniformly golden, ranged from pretty tasteless, to not too bad at all.  The quality of the people watching though more than made up for the lack of quality in the beer, with very attractive young people enjoying strolling up and down in groups, as well as many other interesting characters. It was all rather pleasant despite the roar of the traffic and the somewhat sticky 35C heat.

On our second night there we found less traditional cafe near the Parliament. The menu was uninformative, so we just ordered two beers. Now as an aside, everywhere we went - more or less- the serving staff, usually with little English were exceptionally nice. This was more throw it at you and disappear.  Also it was in a .4 glass; the cheater's half litre. We looked at the beer which was a lot more brown than we'd come across. Hmm. E took a sip and grimaced. I did the same. Crikey. What was this? The beer tasted sharp and unpleasant with a yeasty taste. It was bright though. As clear as could be and tasting pretty strong.  Beside us was a raised grass verge. E without hesitation tipped her whole glass into it. I struggled on through half of mine before giving up and calling for the bill.

Our waitress, cheered up by the thought of our imminent departure promptly appeared and on receipt of payment enquired if we'd enjoyed the beer. I said we hadn't. She looked shocked. 'But', she spluttered, 'it is craft beer.'

Further up the road there was a rather upmarket resturant. Outside were several bottles with IPA on them, but we passed, unsure if, at peak evening meal time, a table would be forthcomimg for beer only. Sadly I never saw that beer again. 

This wasn't my only craft though. Black Lion was a standard but tasty lager and was very good. I believe there was more craft to be found, but we didn't go looking.

Always Read the Label

After my less that satisfactory drinking experience written about here, we sought some scenery. You can't go to Dubrovnik without sitting at a harbour-side in the sunshine, with houses tumbling down the hillside and the sun glinting off the water as the boats go in and out. People watching in such circumstances is not only a pleasure, but an absolute must.

We found such a harbour and a little restaurant with tables outside and after a sneaky look at the menu I reckoned we could have a couple of drinks each and use up our meagre ration of Croatian kuna. A glass of wine for E and for me, taking a punt, a bottle of a dark beer called Tomaslav.  Now this at first appeared to be rather caramel like, but as I got stuck into the 500ml bottle, it became much more tasty and I started to really enjoy it.  It made a refreshing change after many tastealike standard yellow lagers. Now we were up against it time-wise as we had to get back to meet the guide and our fellow travellers in the next half hour. I ordered one more and necked it fairly quickly, deciding, as you do, to take a photo of it for posterity.  I was more than a bit taken aback to find it was 7.3% abv. Oops.  As we set off to dinner, I did feel a bit of a buzz, but a couple of hours later, after a modest couple of (0.1) glasses of wine, I was more or less recovered.

Bit of an amateur mistake that for an old soak like me.

Seems in the Balkans, like the UK, any old glass will do. You rarely got the right glass, even if available.

E thought my buzz was all in my mind, remarking "You felt fine until you knew how strong it was."  Maybe.

A Perfectly Nice Pub

Well it had to happen didn't it? "What?" I hear you ask? A good, old fashioned, clean, bright, Sam's pub with no oddballs whatever, that's what.

The Roebuck is bang in the middle of Rochdale, set off two main thoroughfares down a ginnel - a passageway to anyone not from the North reading this.  I called in last night pre Regal Moon, having failed in the same endeavour last Wednesday when it was unaccountably shut, though the lights were all on. A mystery that one, though I'm told the same thing happened at the same time in a couple of other Sam's pubs locally. I guess we'll never know, but with Samuel Smith there are lots of things you will never know. That's just a fact of life. Accept it and move on.

One thing to say though is that in this case I have been here before. Several times in fact, but not for some years and anyway in this case I was looking at it through fresh and critical eyes on your behalf Dear Reader.  The pub is very well laid out. A central bar with a cluster of brightly lit boxes, a well appointed room to the right of the main door and a comfortable, wooden floored main bar area with an adjoining lounge sweeping gracefully through to the right and another door to the rear. All this area has leather bench seating and the whole place gleams with cleanliness. It works.  There is the usual Sam's quirkiness with a prominent notice above the bar advising that the brewery has decreed a no tolerance policy on swearing throughout its estate. The punishment is unstated, but the threat is clear. Swear and you'll be chucked out on your ear. I therefore didn't swear and no-one else did either. See? You just have to ask.

The pub was relatively busy. In the room on the right a guy stood at the hatch to the bar, alternating his desultory chat to the barman with a seat at a nearby table.  At the bar, some women were finishing off their drinks, Coronation St Factory style - that is after work as they all had overalls and badges. At the partition which demarcated the bar from the lounge, a couple of respectable gents, chatted on the lounge side, while in the public bar, a table was occupied by two men and a woman, all drinking beer. All were similarly respectable looking.  This was just as it should be really.

I ordered a pint of stout and the barman called me "Sir" without smirking at all. Another couple wandered in and ordered pints of cider. The orderer was similarly addressed.  This was very civilised. I scrutinised the bar - all keg. There was though a kind of new one on me - Sam Smith's Best Bitter at 3.7% dispensed from a red font.   In addition to the stout, there was OBB, Taddy Bitter, Sovereign,Taddy Lager, Alpine and Cider. I don't think Double Four was on though it might have been. There was no mild, light or dark and the two glass fronted fridges contained no bottled beers at all, just mixers and a packet of opened chocolate digestives. Nice.

As I supped up one of the table occupants came to the bar and pointed out politely that his glass, which he had just finished, had a slight chip on the rim. This was acknowledged equally politely and the man took out an old fiver and scrutinised it. He remarked to me that he was in the habit of checking new fivers for the additional etching that can be found in rare cases and described to me the "winners" so far. We talked about this pleasantly while I drained my pint and he took possession of his newly poured pint of bitter. With a smile he rejoined his companions.

As I left he wished me goodnight. The barman was nowhere to be seen, but I'm sure he would have too.

I must go back to the Roebuck on a Saturday afternoon when town is busy.  It was a nice pub, but I'd like to see it in full swing.  It would have looked better too with a couple of handpulls.

This is a Quiz League venue and the pub's success is celebrated with some gleaming trophies. I checked them to see if my name was on any, but alas no. Such cups do exist though. 

Click on images to enlarge.

Where's Humph When You Need Him?

One thing that can generally be said about Sam Smith's pubs is that while they are often rather bare looking, they are always spick and span.  That's a good thing. A nice clean pub means, in the main, nice clean beer.

The Corporation Inn is a pub I've noticed before when on my way to the nearby Curtain Theatre in Rochdale, or the odd time when sampling the delights of the curry shops on Milkstone Road, but I've never been in before.  This predominance of eateries, sari shops, kebab houses and small grocers, tells you that the pub is in an Asian dominated area, relevant only because they don't tend to frequent the boozers. (Well not officially anyway, though one hears tales.) But I digress. On a windy and wet night recently, I popped in.  Now the pub has the usual Sam's job lot of paint and no sign of ownership. Well I say popped in, but I couldn't open the door. From within came a chorused shout of "LATCH". The penny dropped and I lifted the latch and stumbled in. Three grinning faces met me. I reckon they'd observed this scene playing out a number of times, but were still enjoying it. As I would if I was them.  I sussed out one was the landlord, the other his better half and a sole customer stood at the bar.  In a small side room half a dozen other denizens were playing crib - another regular feature of Sam's pubs - and the whole place smelt strongly of cigarette smoke. I reckon the smoking area was directly outside this room, but it was so gloomy I couldn't see exactly where.

I scanned the lit plastic boxes before me, their false brass edges tarnished by years of neglect. Behind the bar I could see a room with various junk. It wasn't exactly tidy this place.  I chose Dark Mild. "Haven't got any" quoth the barman, a sort of Chauceresque rogue. The other choices were Taddy Lager, Cider or Old Brewery Bitter. "Why not have one of each? suggested my bar companion. Deciding to disregard that advice I had a pint of OBB. It was fine.  "Heading for the station?"  I replied in the affirmative, not feeling it wise to say "No actually, I've just come for a nose at you lot and your manky pub".

Looking behind me there was a rather soulless room on the left as you come in with nobody in it and on the right a carpeted and benched seating area which had two customers. One, a fairly young woman sat on her own with a half of lager, while the other, older guy sat reading his paper and supping his pint.  The landlord and his wife had gone to watch the crib players. My fellow barfly asked me what train I was getting, which put me in a difficult position, as I wasn't. This is how lies multiply, but in for a penny, I said I was meeting someone there and that seemed to satisfy.

Nothing else happened. The crib players hadn't looked in my direction once. Nor had the woman or the newspaper reader. My bar mate was lost in his own thoughts and as my pint went down, the landlord returned and watched hopefully, no doubt willing me to have another. When I finished and didn't I was given three goodbyes as I left, not forgetting to keep up appearances by turning left to the station, even though it was quicker to go right.

I again overlooked the bloody latch on the way out, but nobody shouted this time.



This pub reminded me or an old Liverpool boozer or two from 30 years ago. A few locals and year upon year of neglect. Pity, as actually with a few touches and a good clean, it could be a lot more appealing.  Wonder if owner Humphrey Smith would approve? I suspect not, but it was a pub where you are treated well enough and that's not so bad at all.

The pub sign was flickering epileptically as I took the photo. Apparently this is not a recent thing.

Children in Pubs

Boak and Bailey -  Gawd Bless 'em - suggested on Twitter that there should be a guide to pubs that are child friendly. I wondered why, as being childless, it didn't really occur to me that there might be such a need.  This set off quite a storm on Twitter with aggrieved parents defending their rights to bring their offspring into the pub, as and when they like and bemoaning the fact that some pubs don't take the same child friendly view. I quite liked this post, in answer to Boak and Bailey (who also seem to have suffered adversely from a "No Children" policy), which summed up one aspect of the argument succinctly, if not to my mind at least, persuasively.

@BoakandBailey @tandleman walked into the Turks head in st Helens with a sleeping baby in a sling and it was like I was wearing a bomb vest

— James, 35, SoWeTo (@JimbaudTurner) July 7, 2016

I was, as recently as last Friday, in quite a rough pub. I was taken aback somewhat as I entered, to find ensconced in a corner of the small bar area, two young parents, a pram and a sleeping child.  I wondered somewhat idly why they felt the need to be there, rather than in the spacious lounge, as the cramped bar was rather reduced by their presence. But I forgot about them and the child slept on until departure. In the case of my own local, we most certainly are, if not child friendly, child tolerant and it does give me the opportunity to observe.  One thing. Children - and you can trust me on this one - don't sit still.  If there is more than one, they pinch each other, they chase each other and they run in and out of the door, which, if you are in my seat in winter is a right pain.  They get fed up. They wander around. They want to buy their own crisps at the bar. they play noisy electronic games with the sound up - a sound that parents have long since learned to tune out. They really, in most cases I'd venture, don't want to be there. They are bored by pubs. I reason though, that they bring money in and keep my boozer open, so all in all, no problem to me really and actually in the main, they don't run wild and parents do look after them properly.  But it isn't always so.

I was talking to one of my local pub managers recently about children when I was relating an experience of children running wild and unchecked in a different pub. He sighed and advised me that the issue is that staff are very wary about telling children not to run around and if they ask parents to do so, they are rarely co-operative and often abusive. The parents don't see any harm being done and are too busy enjoying themselves to think it a problem. They rarely see their own children with a detached view. If confronted, they threaten not to come back , but they are often high spenders on meals as well as booze and customers are needed. Simpler to turn a blind eye unless it gets really out of hand. Two sides of this argument are illustrated below:

@oldmudgie @ErlangerNick @tandleman @petedrinks @BoakandBailey @JimbaudTurner pubs should police bad behaviour in kids or adults

— craig (@CAGarvie) July 7, 2016

  I could go on, but one thing is for sure. Pubs would not see the need to restrict children if they perceived that there are no problems with them.  Over the years they have realised that the issue is divisive and doubt if they can get the balance right, hence the plethora of restrictions, caveats, reluctant acceptance and outright banning.

The Good Pub for the Sprogged Guide might just suit all parties. Much need information for both sides of this vexing divide. Go Boak and Bailey. Answer the call.

A thought. Aren't all these Happy Eater,  Chef and Brewer, Toybox type places a better place for a child? They provide things for them to do, whereas an ordinary pub doesn't. And some sell decent beer too.

A second thought. Hasn't society changed so much that this sums up the matter too?

@CAGarvie @tandleman @ErlangerNick @BoakandBailey @JimbaudTurner I think that boat sailed years ago, sadly

— Pete Drinks (@petedrinks) July 7, 2016

 Lastly. Sorry for quoting you so much Craig.but you have a firm and quotable point of view.

No Bloody Buses

As I sit here writing this I'm contemplating my four and half mile walk to the pub.  My arch nemesis First Bus can't be bothered to run a service on New Year's Day. Perhaps they have joined Dry January? Well they won't stop me. Walk there, walk a mile back down to the Ship and phone a cab. Taxis won't come up the lane, it is so pitted and rutted. (A bit like the first day of the Somme, it looks as though it has been freshly shelled). A taxi from the Ship won't even be that much dearer, so take that First Manchester.

My last beers of 2015 were both from Hawkshead. Damson Stout and Wild Wheat. Both interesting and not in the English meaning, but the German one. I've just listened to Henning Wehn on the radio and now am perfectly clear on the difference.  "Interesting" in English is NOT interesting at all and interesting in German IS interesting. Who'd have thought it?  Enough of that and back to beer. I liked the Damson Stout and though British sour beers don't tend to do it for me, enjoyed the Wild Wheat too.  My last cask beer of 2015 was a surprise to me, as with with its usual incompetence, my local Middleton JDW had very little on cask wise, so I plumped for Otter Claus which was a surprisingly rich, bittersweet beer, so good in fact that I had three of them.

Today my first beer of 2016 will likely be Lees MPA if it is on, or Lees Bitter if it isn't.  It's what I mostly drink, though this year I have made a bit of a resolution to get out more, but after today that'll have to wait. Manchester Beer and Cider Festival will take up most of my time and I'll be writing about it. 

 Finally, you'll have heard of the recent floods up here I suppose?  My Wednesday haunt, the Regal Moon in Rochdale was severely inundated and will be out of action for a yet to be determined period. All the staff have been redistributed throughout the JDW Greater Manchester Spoons. This is hard for them as expected shifts may not materialise and there will be financial hardship. I know the people there and feel for them. Flooding is a terrible thing. Do spare a thought for them today when you are cosy in the pub.

Happy New Year to one and all.  Even First Manchester.

 I hope to see many of you at Manchester Beer and Cider Festival. It will be awesome fantastic

I didn't do Golden Pints this year, but my favourite blogger is Seeing the Lizards. If we can't laugh at ourselves.........

Chocolate Chilli Stout

I was rather pleased to visit Matt Holmes of Ramsbottom Craft Brewery to brew a beer with him. Matt brews in a small but perfectly formed two barrel plant in the garage of his home in deepest Ramsbottom.  It has everything you need from mash tun to hop store, all within easy reach and as a bonus he doesn't have to go far to work in the morning or home later.

The beer chosen was a Chocolate Chilli Stout. On the side I'm a bit of a stout fiend. The only other brew that I've had a recipe hand in was with Allgates of Wigan and that was a stout too - and a bloody successful one that has been brewed more than once. I see a pattern emerging.  Now one thing I always think that stout should be is black. That means, to me at least, that it should have roast barley in it. I know you can piss about in other ways to replicate the colour without the "burnt" flavour, but then to me it isn't really a stout.  I know in purist or historical terms that's not so, but if you want me to brew a stout, it will be between four and five percent, be black as the ace of spades and it will have a resinous hoppy finish and be a bit dry.

We decided that the chilli should just be a hint, so Matt prepared some fresh ones and we also had actual cocoa nibs too.  I won't bore you with the brewing details, but while it was all boiling away we took the opportunity to sample some of Matt's bottles. They were good. A list can be found on his very informative website here.  I can particularly recommend Oh Sunny Day and the wonderfully named Flaori Maori made with New Zealand hops as you have no doubt guessed.  The Chocolate Chilli stout  - which had to be re-chillied as we were determined not to overdo it - has just a prickle of heat and is otherwise a classic bitter stout. It was all sold out in advance as Matt's casks tend to and made its début at our CAMRA do referred to in this post. It was very well received on the night by the assembled drunks beer experts and has gone down well subsequently elsewhere, with positive comments. Want to try it? You might be too late for the cask effort, but it will appear in real ale in a bottle form soon. Contact Matt if you are in the area and fancy some.

Stout. Mmm. Under-rated and yummy. We need more of it.

The fact that I had a hand in this beer has certainly influenced my views.  Still a good beer mind.  Of course it is greatly enhanced by perfect cask conditioning and a tight sparkler to produce a classic creamy white head. That and the fact that Matt knows his stuff.  To labout the point, stout just isn't stout without that creamy head.

No Man Loves Life Like Him That's Growing Old

The quote that heads this post is from Sophocles. He was a Greek guy. Its truth was evidenced last week when in the company of blogger and Publican Jeff Bell and his pal (the guy who is opening the Piccadilly Tap - let's call him Mr PT - whose idea it was), we ventured into the Hare and Hounds on Shudehill, Manchester.

Winding back slightly, we had been in the Marble Arch with Mr PT when he mentioned a pub that he'd been in which was a smashing example of the kind of city centre pub that you rarely see any more.  Could we go there for one?  From his description, I couldn't quite place it, but as we approached the Angel, he said "It's just over there that pub" and all fell into place and I knew exactly where and what he meant.  The Hare and Hounds is a small three roomed, ex Tetley pub just opposite the Arndale Bus Station.  It attracts, shall we say,  a more mature clientèle to sup its keenly priced handpulled Joey Holt's Bitter and various smooth beers. You'll often find it jammed from end to end. Despite their age, there is much vertical drinking and the place positively buzzes with conversation and noise. There used to be (and may still be) a piano and a bit of informal singing. Yes, sometimes they sing.  If you want to see how Northern pubs used to be, there's probably few better places.

The back room and bar were heaving when we arrived and squeezed into the hatched snug on the right as you enter. It gives you a kind of railway tunnel view of proceedings. There was a geriatric karaoke in full swing. At the far end an oldish guy on an electronic music box was squeezing out old time tunes accompanied by even older types giving it laldy on the microphone. Others sang along or watched happily.  Some cheerily awaited their turn on the mike. No-one was being shy here. Supping Holt's Bitter, we three watched transfixed from the hatch. Jeff loved it and Mr PT remarked as if in a dream, "Some of these guys are pretty good."  And they were at that. We cast our eyes over proceedings until our pints were finished and  left, the merry din ringing in our ears. 

Mr PT is right. It is the kind of place I remember from my time in Liverpool many years ago and which sadly is all too rare nowadays.  It cheered us up immensely to think of the pleasure these senior citizens were getting from the simple act of singing together, though no doubt lubrication played its part.

For sure, these cheery customers aren't dead yet.And this pub is very much alive too.

These days impromptu singing is likely to get you chucked out of most places. I don't think it does here.  I thought the Holt's Bitter on good form. Other opinions may have varied slightly.

Sophocles who was a bit of a philosopher on the side also said “If you were to offer a thirsty man all wisdom, you would not please him more than if you gave him a drink.” Mine's a pint!

A Few Minor Things

Given that Manchester Beer and Cider Festival is for us that are seriously involved in it, a constant companion, I am likely to have even less time to blog, considering the beer deliveries start this Friday.  However, as I'm waiting for yet another festival related phone call, here's a few beery matters that have caught my interest this week.

Firstly, readers may remember this post from September 2010 where I complained that I dislike being greeted at the bar when approaching by "You all right there?" in lieu of actually saying something along the lines of  "What can I get you?".  Despite it grating for the last two years since I first wrote that it got on my nerves (allowing things to get on your nerves is one of the few joys of growing old by the way) I have borne repeated manifestations of it with dignity, forbearance and patience.  I tried a new tactic though in a well known local hostelry last Friday night.  It was the same one mentioned in the original post where it has become endemic.  When asked this I responded "I'm fine thanks. How are you?"  The slightly taken aback barmaid responded with "I'm great thanks. What can I get you?"   It was a victory of sorts and I may try it again or just lapse back into unspoken resentment. Not sure which.

On Saturday I was in rather a nice pub to chair the Manchester Beer and Cider Festival Organising Meeting. The Deansgate had very pleasant staff, a good atmosphere, lots of nooks, crannies and distinct drinking areas and the beer was spot on temperature and condition wise. I rather liked it, but since other comments on the web indicate it is a free house, I wonder why there was just three Thwaites beers on at a rather hefty £3.70 a pint.  Incidentally, talking of Thwaites, has anyone else found that the Banks' brewed Wainwright is rather an improvement on the Wainwright that Thwaites brewed in Blackburn when they brewed it themselves?  I know from conversations with the now retired Head Brewer who designed it, that it was meant to have a degree of sweetness throughout. My findings are that Banks has dried the beer out somewhat giving a much more refreshing drink.  For me at least, it is improved - which is rarely the case when a beer is contract brewed - but then again, I regard Banks' as one of the best breweries in the Marstons Group.

Another pub I hadn't been to for ages was the Knott Bar more less across the road. This is under a railway arch and is a mix of traditional and trendy which is evolutionary rather than contrived. It works well and I'd forgotten just how good it is. Excellent beer there from a number of breweries (I enjoyed Acorn Blonde but Marble Ginger less so). All comfortably under £3.70 a pop too.  I'll be back. Of course no trip to Manchester is complete without a trip to the Marble Arch.  It wasn't my idea, as we'd really enjoyed a stout (can't remember whose) in the Angel and I would have liked another, but I was dragged there by companions.  A singer was just setting up, which I found odd as I'd never known it to be a place that has live music. It was jammed - though whether that was the attraction of the singer or not I don't know.

None of us enjoyed the beer that much though. Maybe we'd just had enough? I'll try it again soon and report back.

It was good to see all the pubs I visited on Saturday so busy. Dry January? Not on this evidence.

Great British Railway Journeys

Anyone spot Michael Portillo standing outside the Baum, CAMRA's National Pub of the Year last night?  Well he was, while visiting its next door neighbour, the Rochdale Pioneers Museum.

If you are interested in seeing it on BBC iPlayer it is about 5 - 10 minutes before the end.  You need to be sharp eyed mind, but you do see it twice.

Worth it though and the Pioneers bit is good too.

Michael was wearing a hugely nausea inducing lime green jacket and pink shirt.

Flipping Blogger

Does anyone like the new blogger?  Not me.  Among many other gripes like not being able to resize your photos to suit yourself, the way it brings you back to a big menu page when you want to do anything and loads more, I have just realised since it changed I haven't put labels on my posts.  Way back since October 2012.  I might go back to over it and correct this, but I might not.  Seems like a ballache.  Before they were handily placed below your new post, so you couldn't miss them.  Now they are tucked away on the right hand side, so you forget. Or I did.

Can't say I noticed though. Until today.  Their fault though.

And the scheduler for posting only works when it feels like it.

What's The Matter With Beer Drinkers?

Thanks to William Lees-Jones of Lees Brewery, I learn that Virgin Trains have reached their 100,000 e-petition target in just about a week.  A week! They want the Government's decision to award the West Coast Mainline franchise to First to be reviewed. I am quite sympathetic to that aim - Virgin run a pretty good (but bloody expensive) service and there are doubts about First's ability to deliver on its promises,  but really?  Clearly so many people think Virgin so fantastic that they sign the e-petition in their thousands.  Why? It really beggars belief.

It seems that many more people care about a possible future problem on the West Coast Mainline train franchise than care about the excessive duty on beer in this country. The e-petition on beer is still struggling at around 80,000, after weeks of earnest endeavour. CAMRA members could have done this in a trice, but they are the minority of beer drinkers. Where is everyone? There are far more beer drinkers than Virgin West Coast passengers, but clearly they don't feel as motivated.  What is going on?

Nobody cares after all it seems.  Except Virgin passengers. There's nowt queerer than folk.

I haven't signed the Virgin petition. Not that sorry the Grinning Bearded One is going to get no more of my money, but will no doubt be picking up a bill in due course when it all goes tits up. Lose/lose situation.