Michael Jackson, the Beer Hunter

Michael Jackson, one of the foremost authorities on beer and whisky, has passed away.

I'm pleased that I saw Michael speak at the British Guild of Beer Writers drinks earlier this month. I'm very sad that I'll never get the chance to sit and chat with him over a glass of something bracing.

His books, his newspaper articles and his television work have helped to introduce millions to the delights of world beer culture.

Here's to the Beer Hunter.

Guinness Red is here to stay

According to the Guardian, Diageo have decided to introduce Guinness Red to pubs across Britain.

You may recall the new, lighter beer was trialled in 141 Mitchells & Butlers pubs earlier this year. As far as I could tell, it was restricted to the tacky, Irish-themed O'Neills chain. Dave and myself gave it a fair go in March - you can read about our Guinness Red ordeal pub crawl here. At the time I had this to say:

This is a bizarre beer, and for me it offers nothing at all. There isn't a kind word I can say about it. You might try a pint out of curiosity. My advice? Only do so if someone else is paying.

If this diabolical stuff passed the taste test, I despair of the British people.

New beers for Londoners at Quaffs

Good news for those of you seeking rare beers in London. Chris Gill of site sponsor Quaffs has been in touch to tell me he's extending his range.

From tomorrow he'll be offering beers from Belgian micros such as Kerkom, De Graal, Glazen Toren, Girardin, Valeir and La Binchoise. Next week, he's adding Anchor Old Foghorn and Brooklyn EIPA to his American range, along with more Belgian goodies from the likes of La Rulles and Van Steenberge. Best of all, in a fortnight he'll be getting a very limited number of the Scandanavian beers that created such a stir at the GBBF: Ølfabrikken Porter, Haandbryggeriet IPA, Nøgne Ø Imperial Stout, Nøgne Ø Porter and Slottskallen Kloster Ale. To avoid disappointment, contact Quaffs now to pre-order, mentioning this site.

Quaffs is part of Spitalfields Fine Food Market, and is only open during market hours - 10am to 5pm on Thursday, Friday and Sunday. The website lists the existing range and is being updated to include the new stuff. Click here for directions and a map.

Eddyfest 2007

According to our motorist's atlas, Edwardstone in Suffolk isn't even on the road network. Nevertheless, it only took 45 minutes of faffing around on narrow country lanes, some choice words from back-seat drivers and a few fraught u-turns to reach The White Horse. We'd come to the Eddyfest for beer and music - you can keep your fancy dan Reading and Leeds festivals.
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The pub itself is fairly small, with a traditional interior and a a two bar layout. The front room is dominated by a bar billiards table. "Ringing the Bull" is also on offer, another pub game from the past. The rear bar features a wall devoted to pump clips of previous guest beers. Out back they've got a campsite and a large beer garden, given over to a beer tent and a makeshift stage - a lorry trailer hauled in for the event. A barbecue completed the scene. After a week of distinctly autumnal weather, the English summer decided to make a cameo appearance just at the right moment.
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After taking in our first pint of the day just after 1pm, we pitched our £20 tent in the back field. Supposedly a four man effort, the little blighter was a Tardis in reverse. The sun was beating down, and within minutes it was like a cramped sauna inside. From that moment on we knew we'd need to hit the booze hard before returning to this temporary hovel. We glowered enviously at the occupants of the two Scandinavian-style chalets next door to us.
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We soon met up with landlord Tom Norton and his brother Joe. Tom's just 22 - Joe even younger. This isn't fair - when you're 28 and into real ale, you at least expect the people you meet to be old farts. It seems that everyone we run into was born in the 80s. When we told them we'd be here for two nights, they broke the news to us - they don't have shower facilities for campers yet. Not a problem, said Dave, producing a tube of wet wipes.
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The beer selection reflected the season: lots of light bitters and golden ales, with just a couple of milds and stouts. The most impressive discovery for me was Farmer's Ales Puck's Folly, a remarkably smoky ale that could pass for an English rauchbier. Scottish cask lager Harviestoun Schiehallion was on great form. I've never been convinced by it in the past, but this time drank half the barrel. An honourable mention should also go to Mauldons White Adder, a strong ale brewed a few miles up the road in Sudbury. Pitfield had sent a 6% abv 25th Anniversary Ale to the festival. I'm normally a fan of their beers, but this was atrocious - cloying, grassy and above all else alcoholic. Of course, that didn't stop us seeing of a pint or two after sundown. By the end of the second day, we'd polished off most of our favourites.
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Some of the bands that played during the weekend were brilliant. Both Saturday and Sunday night were a great laugh, with people of all ages flailing around drunkenly in front of the stage (it wasn't just us, honest). We can't quite remember staggering back to the tent on either night. I think we took a few tumbles over inconvenient guy ropes in the dark, but lived to drink another day.
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On the Sunday, we set out early to the northernmost point of Suffolk, to the home of St Peter's Brewery. More on that tomorrow soon (I promise). We were keen to get out the tent as early as possible - I'd taken a pint to bed and drenched us all in our sleep. There was a horrible moment where we thought there might have been an accident of a different kind - thankfully not.
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Information:

1. The White Horse is in Edwardstone, nr. Sudbury, Suffolk, CO10 5PX (Tel: 01787 211211, website, map). The pub hosts three beer festivals a year, and they're currently building a microbrewery on site. The Nortons also produce real cider at their family home, Castlings Heath Cottage. Tom drove us there where we met up with his dad for a chat and a few drinks. You can read about it here.
2. If you're curious, you can read more about "Ringing the Bull" over at the Online Guide to Traditional Games. You can watch Joe Norton and Dave playing it on Saturday here and here, thanks to Youtube.

I am unclean

They've got their priorities in order. The owners of The White Horse in Edwardstone have decided to build a microbrewery rather than a shower block for their campers. Consequently, we weren't really at our best after a second night under canvas. It didn't rain, but I made sure we got wet by bringing a pint into the tent then spilling it during the first night.

In the last three days we've taken in two beer festivals, seen a traditional cider press, visited the St Peter's and Adnams breweries, and eaten in a Little Chef. I'll start writing it all up tomorrow. Despite my losing a camera memory card, there'll be photos too. But for now - a shower and a proper bed come first.

Bank holiday beers

Tomorrow we're off to Constable country.

Whether we'll see any scenery through the alcoholic haze is open to question. Edwardstone in rural Suffolk is home to The White Horse, a country pub that's about to start brewing its own beer. This weekend landlord Tom is hosting a four day beer and music festival. We'll be camping in the adjacent field and filling our boots. Dave's threatening to hit the cider hard - foolish goon.

Lets just hope it doesn't rain. I'm not sure our new £20, three-man tent from Argos will cope.

Lots of other pubs are hosting beer festivals over the long weekend, cushioning the blow of being unable to carry out banking transactions on Monday. If you're stuck for ideas, have a look at Quaffale's listings.

Arrogant Bastard Ale from California

Marketing isn't a strong point for many British brewers. They normally leave that - and consequently the lion's share of sales - to the multinationals. In the US, things are different. Microbreweries aggressively play the game, spending time and money on developing a brand identity.

Stone Brewing Company's aggressive marketing of Arrogant Bastard Ale looks a little tired after ten years, but it helped to establish their beer as a favourite across the USA. "Are you worthy?" is the brash slogan, with a warning on the bottle that "it is quite doubtful you have the taste or sophistication to be able to appreciate an ale of this depth". Arrogant Bastard isn't generally available in the UK. Your best bet is to ask a friend to bring you some back from the States. That's what I did, and Wee Rossie obliged.

Arrogant Bastard is sold in pint bottles, despite weighing in at 7.2% abv. In the glass it's a muddy dark brown with a touch of amber, topped by a rocky tan head. The first impression is an assertive bitterness that continues throughout, leaving a scoured palate for what seems like several weeks. The appearance doesn't prepare you for the burst of citrus hop. Moving on from the grapefruit, pineapple and pine, there's toffee and caramel sweetness and an alcoholic burn. An odd mix.

I'm pleased I tried this, but I'm not sure it lives up to the hype. Yes, it's challenging. I'm just not sure it's very nice. If discovering the world's finest brewing is like a journey, spending too much time on "extreme beers" is a bit like getting lost.

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Information:

Stone Brewing Company of San Diego is online here.

St Peter's Grapefruit

St Peter's Grapefruit is a gentle beer. Sometimes that's what you want. My mate Martin, an architect who has seen off many a gallon in the Jerusalem, counts it as his favourite. It's all too easy to ignore the beers right under your nose - I was sure I'd tasted the Grapefruit before, but couldn't remember what it was like. A fresh cask had gone on that afternoon, so I tried it at it's best.

A shimmering, golden pint sat in front of me, crowned by a thin head of white foam. A good start. The grapefruit is definitely there on the nose, along with other, indeterminate citrus aromas cheering it on. Like other St Peter's beers, there's something sticky yet very fresh about this. The grapefruit works well with the wheat beer base, and the end result is certainly refreshing. At 4.7% abv, you could get nicely merry on this without noticing.

Not everyone will enjoy a beer like this, but I can see why it picked up Bronze in the Speciality Beers category at the GBBF. It's a bold recipe, but then St Peter's are hardly timid when it comes to evoking memories of the flavoured beers there were surprisingly common many years ago.

Information:

St Peter's is online here. The brewery is based at St Peter's Hall in Bungay, Suffolk. We're planning to visit on Sunday for the first time. The brewery owns my local, The Jerusalem Tavern (55 Britton Street, Clerkenwell, London, EC1M 5UQ, Tel: 020 7490 4281, map). The bar is pictured.

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UPDATE 24/08/07: Apparently I'm talking shit. Dave from the JT reckons the cask Grapefruit - which is what I reviewed - is made with a base of Golden Ale. The Wheat Beer is the base for the bottled version only. The recipes for the bottled and cask versions of St Peter's beers often vary considerably so this isn't too surprising.

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UPDATE: 31/08/07: Apparently Dave's talking shit, not me. We visited St Peter's Hall on Sunday and asked one of the brewers whether the draught Grapefruit is based on Wheat Beer. He said it was. The lesson: never trust someone who has an arm span greater than their height.

Brew Dog Riptide

Brew Dog has certainly generated a buzz. James Watt and Martin Dickie, based in Aberdeenshire, set up a ten barrel brewery in April of this year. Depressingly, they're both younger than I am, Alfie. They've already won awards for their cask and bottled beers. The standard range includes amber, blonde and pale ales, an IPA, a lager and an imperial stout. Most interesting of all, they've been experimenting by aging strong stouts in vintage whisky casks.

The lads have been good enough to send a box of samples my way, including some of the whisky stouts and a new "Double IPA". I'm saving them for a tasting session with a couple of mates, but couldn't resist cracking a Riptide stout open last week.

The beer is thick and very dark brown, a vigorous pour producing a decent tan head. I've heard it said before that where the British brew for flavour, Belgians are just as interested in mouthfeel. Riptide bucks that trend - in the mouth it's wonderfully effervescent, rippling across the tongue. Chocolate, coffee, roasted and smoky flavours dominate, with a welcome touch of vanilla and cream. The high alcoholic content of 8% abv is handled well. Riptide is a great beer, with a crisp flavour profile that offers satisfaction from beginning to end.

When the beer geeks salivate over a brewery that concentrates on high octane beers, I'm wary. I've tasted too many imbalanced, crass brews that soar up the charts on the big beer rating websites. Thankfully, Brew Dog seems to be a genuinely innovative brewery where they haven't forgotten what beer is for - drinking and enjoying. I look forward to trying the rest of their range soon. When I do, you'll be the first to know.

Information:

The Brew Dog website has an online purchasing facility, as well as information on the brewery, the beers and the men that make them. For Londoners, they've recently sent a few cases to Utobeer in Borough Market.

Pub Skittles at The Bricklayer's Arms, Putney

The Bricklayer's Arms in Putney has a pub skittles table. It's the only one I've seen in London - or indeed anywhere. It's a traditional pub game which is also known as the Devil Amongst the Tailors. We had a few games yesterday, after a pub crawl across South West London.

The premise is simple. Nine skittles are set up on the table, next to a pole to which a ball on a string is attached. Each player has to swing the ball around the pole three times, catching it after each rotation. The aim is to knock down as many skittles as possible before setting them up again for the next player. If you need further explanation, just watch this instructional video presented by Wee Rossie.

You might notice an old boy in the background, enthralled by the game. He'd wandered into the Bricklayer's after his jazz night down the road had been cancelled. I'm assuming pub skittles is extremely old school, as he'd never seen it played in his life. He was 86. Our audience also consisted of a fella called Scott from Tasmania, who came over and said he reads the blog. He's moving back home after almost a decade in London. Good luck with the move, mate.

Information:

1. You can read more about pub skittles at the Online Guide to Traditional Games.
2. The Bricklayer's Arms is at 32 Waterman Street, SW15 1DD (Tel: 020 8780 0433, map, website). The pub is hosting a Lancashire beer festival next month between 14th and 16th September. Roger Protz, the editor of the Good Beer Guide, will be speaking on the Friday night. You can read about their last two festivals here and here.

Honest beer - read all about it

I had a post up my sleeve for today, but I'll keep it on the back burner for now.

Read this instead.

If you haven't already been following Ron Pattinson's blog, you should. We met at the end of July, and spent a week touring Franconian breweries. Like me Ron's a British beer writer. Like me he prefers to keep things simple, and loves traditional brewing simply because it's better that way.

Jerusalem - defiled once more

As you know, The Jerusalem Taven is my beloved local. I'd say it's cosy, others say it's cramped. I like to perch on a stool at the end of the bar, with my back to the pillar that obstructs the already narrow thoroughfare. Normally it's a safe spot, even when the place is heaving. The pub gets very busy on Friday evenings. Thursdays are a mixed bag. Last night was horrendous. It's awful when your home from home gets invaded by people you can't help but despise.

In years gone by, wearing a suit in the City used to denote a high-status job. Nowadays, it doesn't mean a thing. Captains of industry and investment bankers turn up to work tieless in chinos and boat shoes. Meanwhile the worker bees of the business world overdress and gel their hair into ever more fantastic creations. A gaggle of office workers camped out in the front room last night. The noise was deafening, the jostling unbearable. They talked loudly with expansive gestures, clicking their fingers and waving soiled banknotes at the staff. A leathery, pinstriped twat I took to be the boss was perhaps the most objectionable - a whirlwind of elbows, a sprinkler system of spittle. So many vodka and tequila shots were ordered, the bar ran out.

Don't get me wrong, it was still a good night. It always is. A woman came in with a whippet that promptly slipped its lead and ran behind the bar. A buxom Swedish lady of a certain age chatted me up before returning home to her husband. My mate Jon turned up pissed on his bike and raised a cheer. Best of all, I did the Guardian crossword in less than 15 minutes. I did it all by myself, with no help from anyone.

The Czech and Slovak Club, West Hampstead

"This little mother has claws", said Kafka of Prague. Despite having lived in the city for only six months, I tend to agree. Prague has taken centre stage for so many of the scenes of European history, it becomes bewildering. Stendhal syndrome knocks art lovers for six in Florence, while Japanese tourists faint from culture shock in Paris. Prague has a different effect - a slow, creeping melancholy that never leaves you.

In my experience, Bohemians and Moravians often gripe about the stress and expense of living in their nation's capital. Nevertheless, a steady stream of them have been coming to live in a city ten times bigger for decades. London's Czech and Slovak community was boosted in the war years by refugees from Nazi rule. Later influxes occurred after the thwarted Prague Spring, and most recently due to the expansion of the EU to include the two successor republics.

The Czech and Slovak Club was first set up for those fighting in the British forces. In 1946, it moved to its current premises in West Hampstead. The bar, restaurant and social club are situated in a fine, detached Edwardian house, slightly set back from the road. When I last visited in 2004, there was a sign hanging outside. It's gone now. Only a gaudy effigy of a chef holding a specials board, chained to the gate during opening hours, offers any clue as to what's inside. The Club is open to the general public, but more importantly it's a home from home for Czechs and Slovaks in London.

We walked through the front door at about six thirty. A towering waiter in black stood in the hallway. He greeted us with a "dobrý deň". Even my Czech stretches to that. So far, so good. To the right was the small dining room, and straight ahead was a staircase leading to private rooms. It's a strange place: this looks and feels like a house, not a social club.
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We took a right and entered the cosy bar at the back of the house. The beer taps in the corner sit by French doors leading to the back garden. A smokers' tent has been erected outside, which was busy for most of the evening. A few relaxed-looking blokes lounged around watching Czech TV. The gentle chatter of Czech voices filled the air. It's a truly beautiful language, rarely spoken quickly or loudly. We were eyed curiously, but without too much surprise. I can't be the only former expat who feels drawn to the place.

The draught beer on offer was Pilsner Urquell and Budvar, poured skillfully to leave a large, lasting head. I noticed the carbonation was less harsh than you'd expect in London. A tastier, less fizzy pint that slipped down a treat was the result. The bar itself is small and comfortable. A framed poster shows the location of the remaining Czech breweries. The obligatory ice hockey shirts hang behind the bar.

Moving next door, we ate traditional Czech food from a surprisingly comprehensive menu. The dining room is overlooked by a photo of former President Havel, one of the heroes of beer I wrote about recently. The food wasn't spectacular, but certainly an accurate representation of the hearty meals you get in a Czech restaurace or hospoda. We each enjoyed a bottle of Bernard Cerné (one of the better Bohemian dark lagers) over dinner. We were surprised at how quickly the place filled up. Soon, the lone waiter was rushing back and forth with plates of food and mugs of foaming beer.

Returning to the bar, the football had kicked off and the drinkers were glued to the small television in the corner. An excited old boy joined our table to wolf down his goulash and dumplings, while offering a running commentary in a Czenglish patois. Sparta Prague were up against Arsenal. The Czechs put up a fight before conceding two goals. We tried to look suitably disappointed, drawing a few more quizzical and faintly amused looks.

The post-Communist years haven't been kind to Czech beer. Buy-outs of the larger breweries by multinationals are largely to blame. Shiny conicals have replaced the open fermentation still common in Southern Germany, reducing the flavour of the beer. Lagering times have been reduced, with greener beer shipped out of breweries. Air pressure pumps that allowed barmen to tap wonderfully smooth mugs of beer have largely been replaced with C02. Meanwhile, prices have risen year on year.

Never mind. the Czech Republic remains one of the world's greatest brewing nations. Two young lads raised a glass while we were in the bar. I understood enough to hear one say "it's great to be drinking Czech beer again". I felt the same way.

Information:

The Czech and Slovak Club is at 74 West End Lane, London NW6 2LX (map, website (club), website (restaurant), Tel: 0207 328 0131 (Club) / 020 7372 1193 (Restaurant)). I think it's worth reserving a table if you want to eat. Note that the Club is closed on Mondays.

Finding London's best pub

Time Out have published their shortlist for best bar and best gastropub in London. You can view them here. The nomination of The Rake in the bars category shows a rare and welcome recognition that quality beer counts for something. Plain old pubs don't get a look in, sadly. Strange, considering these are supposed to be Time Out's Eating and Drinking awards. They're willing to give an award out to coffee bars, but not too the humble boozer.

I'd like to come up with a shortlist of the five best places to drink beer in London, with a view to making an award. I don't care whether they're pubs, bars, clubs, or gastrowhatevers. No discrimination here.

Ideas, anyone? Tell me your top five, and I'll tell you mine. Very Nick Hornby.

The Warwick Castle, Little Venice

Sometimes good pubs get better.

I was in Maida Vale on Sunday for a birthday lunch (not my own, I'm ageless). Afterwards I hunted down an old haunt from my days of exile on the wrong side of London. The NW postcodes aren't the most lively parts of town.

The Warwick Castle sits on a quiet side street just next to the junction between the Grand Union and Regent's Canals. The interior is resolutely traditional without being twee. Punters spill out onto a pavement terrace from two rooms inside. It gets busy despite being tucked away.

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When I first visited the pub a few years ago, it was a Mitchells and Butlers house serving ales from the big brewers only. Since then it's been purchased by the Capital Pub Company, and the new management are a little more adventurous.

On Sunday, Sharp's Cornish Coaster, Sharp's Doom Bar and Hogs Back Summer Ale were available. The gaffer told me that he rotates the beers regularly, and turnover is high. The Cornish Coaster was in excellent condition, and knocking back a couple of pints was an absolute joy. An ordinary bitter can shine when serve at it's prime. The Hog's Back effort was less enjoyable, cloyingly sweet with indistinct flavours.

So often pubs change hands and suffer for it. It doesn't have to be that way.

Information:

1. The Warwick Castle is at 6 Warwick Place, W9 2PX (Tel: 020 7432 1331, map).
2. The Capital Pub Company PLC is online here.

Facebook - Stonch's Beer Group

I blame beer peer pressure. I've joined social networking site Facebook. I didn't want to, but there's only so many times you can look into the imploring eyes of a friend or acquaintance who suggests the wretched thing as a way of keeping in touch.

In order to spread my malign, beery influence to that bastion of narcissism and disingenuousness, I've created Stonch's Beer Group. If you're registered on Facebook, click the link and join up. I'll post news, photos and videos from time to time. There's also a discussion board, which will allow me to tap into your collective wit and knowledge, which I'll then pass off as my own.

Hobson's Mild - Champion Beer of Britain

On Friday I made a return visit to the GBBF. There was no question as to what our first pint would be. Hobson's Mild, the newly crowned Champion Beer of Britain, was flowing thick and fast and we wanted in on the action.

Hats off to the brewery, a Shropshire micro founded in 1993. Despite the massive interest in their beer, they kept up with demand throughout the festival. A moody, unconvincing tranny was on hand to enforce a strict halves-only policy.

Trying the beer for the first time, it was instantly apparent why it grabbed the tasters' attention. I've never known a beer of this strength (just 3.2% abv) have such character. Extremely dry, fruity, packed with coffee, a bitter aftertaste with a touch of charcoal in the finish. If anything, it could all get a bit too much if you had more than a couple. There's no doubt about it - Hobson's Mild is a remarkable beer.

Information:

1. Hobson's Brewery is online here.
2. There's a piece by Protz on beer-pages.com about the GBBF prizewinners.
3. Back in May, I wrote an article entitled "Session beers - the real art of brewing". Hobson's Mild is a fine example.

Grab a (Franconian) Granny

In an earlier post I eluded to Andy Neil's new found desire for the mature woman. On several occasions during our Bier-Mania! trip to Franconia, he was bowled over by luscious ladies of advanced years.

Check out this corker he chatted up in the Schlenkerla tavern, Bamberg. She doesn't look too impressed by our guide's efforts to include her in the fun, but posed sweetly for a photo..Incidentally, this chance encounter put paid to suggestions that the historic taverns of Bamberg are now just tourist traps. This dedicated local told us she's been coming in for her lunchtime rauchbier fix for years.

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Unfortunately, I didn't get the old girl's name. Doubtless Andy has it tattooed on his arm.

The world's biggest boozer

Until yesterday, I'd never been to the Great British Beer Festival. I'm usually abroad this time of year. In any case, I'm only a nipper - the first festival was held two years before I was born. Tuesday's opening session was my first taster of the world's biggest beer fest.

We rocked up at around 1.30. Any earlier, and we might have been trampled in a stampede of notebook-wielding tickers*. Keen CAMRA volunteers milled around the lobby excitedly. Yes, the venue itself lacks character - but there was lots of beer. Beer was everywhere.

There were flash branded bars paid for by monied brewers. Regional bars divided the hall into a boozy map of Britain. Bored caterers peddled enormous Cornish pasties and monster pork scratchings. A few forlorn-looking chaps manned temporary skittle alleys and other antiquated pub games. Obligatory pipers in kilts did their best to induce headaches. By the South West England bar, a group of pensioners were standing in a circle doing some kind of traditional sing-song. It looked like an argument over the last comfy chair in the day centre.

First impressions? The GBBF is the sum of the British beer lover's most cherished fantasies. Brilliant.

We started at the North West England bar, trying beers from Pictish, Phoenix and Okells. We were armed with dainty nip glasses, restricting ourselves to third pint measures. The first bar man was unimpressed ("you can get proper glasses, you know"). Dave's decision to start with a smoked porter may not have been the wisest, but Okells Aile is a cracking brew. I chose a gentler start with Pictish Brewers Gold.

Nigel Evans MP, chair of the Parliamentary Beer Group, was by the bar enjoying a beer. We had a chat. He's a politician, so by rights I should slag him off. Actually, he's a really nice bloke. I've met him a few times before in a past life. It's good to see someone in Westminster appreciates the good stuff.

Next stop was the fabled Bières Sans Frontières, the international bar that makes beer geeks throb with excitement. Some of my pals from Italy were working as volunteers. Chris Gill, owner of beer stall Quaffs, was around. Pictured left are myself, Chris and Manuele, the owner of unpronouncable Roman beer bar Ma Che Siete Venuti A Fa'. My glass was charged with Budvar Kroužkovaný Ležák, a tastier, unfiltered version of the famous pilsener.

Podge, one of my favourite beer writers, was camped out with a group of friends enjoying the overseas offerings. He's got what should be a fantastic book in the pipeline, and I might be helping with some of the liquid research.

My friend Alex Liberati from Brasserie 4:20 in Rome (pictured right) appeared behind the bar with glad tidings - he's flown over some casks of White Dog beer from Modena. I tried them in March at Alex's place, and they're certainly worth the effort. They'll be available in a day or two.

We worked our way through samples of the American cask ales. You'll recall that these had to be flown over at great expense, after plans to ship them went awry. I was impressed with Pennichuck Halligan RyePA, a 5.1% abv IPA. It outgunned more extreme examples on the flavour stakes, despite the restrained alcoholic content. This may seem like sacrilege, but for us it wasn't the time or the place to tuck into the headbanging Imperial Stouts and Double IPAs. I wanted to keep my palate intact for the rest of the session.

We moved over to the German part of the bar. A good selection of biers were served via gravity from those unique little barrels they use over there (pictured left). A few brews we'd enjoyed in Franconia were on offer, including Neder Schwarze Anna. It was amazing to encounter a beer from one of those wonderfully pokey tavern-breweries we visited in Forchheim. Drinking a third-of-pint measure of Löwenbräu Buttenheim Festbier didn't match up to guzzling it from litre krugs at the Annafest last week. For me, beer isn't just about what's in the glass.

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Tony Lennon joined us, and we set off for another trip around the British bars. Tony's the brewer from The Cock & Hen and The Florence. He's pictured right, flanked by Adam and Dave. He was with us for much of the rest of day. We stopped by at the Oakham stand, where sales director Sammy Saunders was certainly enjoying himself. Hilarious guy. He was holding forth with a pint in hand, wearing a splendid three piece tweed suit. I checked he wasn't holding a shotgun before accepting his offer of an Oakham Helter Skelter, a full-bodied strong bitter packed with citrus hop flavour.

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In the evening, our group's numbers were swelled with poor souls who'd actually had to work on a Tuesday afternoon (a ridiculous, inhumane state of affairs). As reported earlier, Joe brought news of the Britton Street Brothel Raid. They all went straight onto the pints, scoffing at our dainty, nip glass ways. Clio Jon started his session with a full pint of an Imperial Stout. Things started getting hazy for everyone before long.

In total we must have tried dozens of beers between us, but no-one was counting. The atmosphere was spot on, with a great mix of people enjoying a few light refreshments.

Earl's Court is an unlovely place - but if you crack open hundreds of barrels of beer, it soon brightens up.

Information:

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The festival runs until Saturday. See here for information on getting there and getting in.

* For the uninitiated, a ticker is someone who seeks to drink as many different beers as possible, ticking them off in a dog-eared notebook as they go. Some surreptitiously pour draught beer from the pub into plastic bottles to take home with them, so they never need miss a "scoop" even if bloated from overindulgence. These samples are drunk at home under the blankets by the light of a He-Man torch. Enjoyment and appreciation of beer is optional, and shouldn't be allowed to get in the way of new ticks.

Jerusalem - defiled

This evening at the GBBF we were joined by a very shocked Joe (pictured left). He works at my local, The Jerusalem Tavern. He's only a young lad, and today he had a rude awakening.

During his shift this afternoon, the flat above the pub was raided by police.

They kicked in the door, and expelled the occupants into the alleyway.

Ladies of the night - exposed in broad daylight. Some of them in "costume", so to speak.

Crivvens. Who would have thought it? And to think - in the past, they've had the cheek to complain about us making noise after hours. The dirty devils.

The GBBF is go

Get your drinking boots on. The Great British Beer Festival starts today at 5pm (noon for trade and season ticket holders). The event runs until Saturday. For one week, real ale will be London's biggest show. The festival always draws attention from a broad section of the press and public, focusing minds on this important element of our national life.

An article on BBC News Online has appeared today, trailing CAMRA's efforts to improve the marketing of real ale to women. It's a short piece, containing the wretched use of "bitter" as a generic term for ale, but the point is there. I think the image of ale certainly needs to be spruced up. It's a natural, premium product, with a logical position in the quality food and drink sector. The market has changed. Some aspects of our traditional drinking culture are changing - and that's no bad thing.

Last night I was at the British Guild of Beer Writers reception at The White Horse in Parson's Green. Michael Jackson spoke, and beer was drunk. Magic. I had a long chat with John Cryne, ex-National Chair of CAMRA, who told me he's a fan of the blog. There were lots of words of encouragement from some very nice people.

I'll be at the festival today, gingerly sipping third-of-pint measures. See you there.

Extradition Order at The Betsey Trotwood

My mate Alastair's a talented young man. He doesn't just handle bar duties at The Jerusalem Tavern - he writes for the Guardian and he's in a band too. He can also pat his head, rub his stomach and down a yard of ale at the same time.

Anti-folk trio Extradition Order hosted a multi-band party at The Betsey Trotwood yesterday. Stonch and Goon were called in to handle the MC duties. We love being exposed as talentless alongside a lot of people who aren't. Bottles of our latest homebrew, dubbed Extradition Order Porter for the occasion, were given away in a prize raffle. General consensus was that it was pretty rough. Tough luck for the winner.

The event kicked off in the afternoon, and we were still hard at the Shepherd Neame Whitstable Bay and Bishop's Finger at closing time. The ale in the Betsey's always top notch and it's one of the best places in London to try Shep's range.

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During the day an amazing coincidence took place. Two of the boys I met during my March trip to Rome - Matteo and Luca - walked through the door (pictured right). The lads are over here to man the Belgian bar at the GBBF, which starts tomorrow. They were warming up with a formidable pub crawl across London. Nice to see them again - good lads, and proper beer lovers.

Information:

The Betsey Trotwood is at 56 Farringdon Road, London, EC1R 3BL (Tel: 020 7253 4285, map, website). They've got live music on most nights. The pub is tied to Kent brewer Shepherd Neame, and offers Spitfire, Bishop's Finger and a seasonal. Landlord Scott has a better beard than me, but he's older so he's had longer to grow it.

Warmes bier? Jawohl!

During World War II, American GIs mocked the British for drinking our beer at cellar temperature. The "warm beer" myth lives on today, helped along by dodgy pub cellars in high summer.

Britain isn't the only place where traditionalists reject freezing beer. During our time in Franconia, we spotted a strange contraption behind a few bars: a small handheld immersion heater. On request, they'll zap your pint to warm it by a few degrees.

Watch the video to see one in action at Spezial in Bamberg, complete with a voice over from Andy doing the Attenborough bit. I bet the barmaid hadn't been asked to do that for years. She looks unimpressed.

Any place I hang my (drinking) hat is home

Waking up hangover-free after a six day brewery crawl is some feeling. Even with a clear head, It's hard to readjust after a trip to beervana. The memories are all I have left (apart from a drinking hat and a mass krug).

In the last week my knowledge and understanding of German beer has increased tenfold. My liver isn't too happy about it, though. If you look back through the week's posts, I've added a few photos. I expect I'll write more about Franconia over the days and weeks to follow. Should I post Andy's video of me drunkenly dancing through the kellerwald? I'm not sure. In the meantime, check out Ron Pattinson's blog for his perspective on our shared experiences.

For now, treadmills, saunas and sobriety beckon . . . until the Great British Beer Festival kicks off next week, that is. Maybe I'll need that drinking hat after all...

Franconia #7 - all roads lead to Bamberg (and then to bed)

All gruelling beer tours must come to an end. Although my body barely works I've just about retained the strength and agility to tap out this final mobile missive from Nuremberg airport.

On the penultimate evening we took it easy at our digs for the night, Dinkel brewery guesthouse in Stublang. The house brew was a challenging spicy number with a slightly sour edge. I enjoyed it enough to drink five half litres, sending me to bed without checking out the village's second brewery, Henneman. It was a lovely community. Traditional timber-framed houses lined a gently flowing canal.

Wednesday was trailed as the big one - all of Bamberg's ten breweries in one day. In the end we managed them between us, but I concentrated on the highlights. Spezial Rauchbier served fresh from the barrel shames the bottled version, while Schlenkerla (tavern pictured right) lived up to my earlier recollections of draught magnificence.

Both taverns were atmospheric and quintessentially Franconian, despite the influx of tourists. The town itself, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, deserved more attention than the beery day tripper could afford to give it. I'm looking forward to returning.

We finish the trip having learned a few things about ourselves. Andy discovered a passion for pensioners - he told one brewer his deaf septegenarian mother was fit, then insisted on being photographed with a rauchbier-quaffing old dear in Bamberg. Ron's website may well become "Shut up about beer schnapps" - he missed no opportunity to inflict the heart-stopping distillation upon himself. I think the most crucial lesson I learned was never, ever to order a 0.3cl beer when touring with hardened hangover jockeys like this lot. I've been assured I'll never live it down.

Here's to the next trip. Prost!