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I turned 29 today. I'd like to say I've hung on to youthful good looks, but I'm not sure I ever had them: I stopped getting ID'd when I was 15.
Tomorrow morning, me and five of the lads are flying to Rome to go on the smash with our pals there. After two nights boozing it up in the Italian capital, two of us will be travelling northwards, through Umbria, Tuscany, Emilia-Romagna and Lombardy. We'll reach Milan in a week's time, where we'll be hitting Birrifico Lambrate. While I'm away, expect the odd blog post to pop up. There are a few on the backburner. Be good.
Yes, I suppose it should be Norwich. After all, that's what you voted for. Well, rest assured we haven't forgotten that sacred pledge. We'll make good our promise soon (just not yet).
 Yesterday I met up with fellow beer writer Ron Pattinson. He and his family are in town for a few days, and came down to my local for a pint or two of mild.
He came bearing gifts: bottle #6 of his 1914 recipe Whitbread Porter. 708 75cl bottles of this historic beer have been brewed to his order by Brouwerij de Molen in the Netherlands, Ron's adopted country. As anyone who reads his blog will know, he's dedicated to preserving the memory of London's defunct breweries. Now he's taken things a step further. It's a bit like Jurassic Park, if you think about it. He'll have bottles of the porter for sale at this weekend's Zythos festival in Belgium. With a bit of luck - and if stocks last - a few will be winging their way to the USA before long, too. Ron has also arranged for De Molen to produce a version of Whitbread's stout of the same period, which is currently conditioning. More historic recreations are on the cards.
 Earlier in the month I wrote about a pub in the small Lincolnshire town of Market Rasen. The landlord and brewer had declared his intention to ban lager, music and food, while offering the most expensive pint in town.
Whether or not we agree with his stand, it seems someone doesn't. As most British readers will know, last night an earthquake shook much of the country. Annoyingly, it woke me up just before 1am. It was the most powerful we've experienced for quarter of a century, measuring 4.7 5.3 on the Richter Scale. We're not used to stuff like that.
Check out this graphic showing the epicentre (taken from BBC News Online). Yes, it was little Market Rasen. Clearly the Earth Mother likes a reasonably-priced pint of lager and a plate of chips, and is partial to the odd tune while she sups. Grumpy publicans, take note.
  As part of the campaign to disassociate pubs with "binge drinking", two complementary artworks have been produced at the behest of the Society for Independent Brewers (SIBA).
It doesn't take a genius to spot the inspiration behind "Pub Street" and "Binge Lane". They're latter day reworkings of a pair of engravings produced by William Hogarth in 1751.
The "Gin Craze" of the mid 18th century caused concern among the chattering classes, as the poor got absolutely blotto on cheap hooch. Hogarth's contrasting images of a happy and harmonious "Beer Street", as opposed to a brutal and decadent "Gin Lane", are probably the most effective pieces of pro-beer propaganda ever produced. Framed copies are displayed in countless pubs and homes to this day.
As evidenced by Hogarth's original work, concerns over public alcohol consumption are nothing new. As SIBA chairman Peter Amor says, “the gin of the 18th century may have been replaced by a whole trolley of cheap drinks, but the message is the same".
According to CAMRA, it's The Old Spot Inn in Gloucestershire (website). The pub is situated in Dursley, a market town near the Severn. The official announcement is here.
As I said when the four finalists were announced, this contest seems to reinforce the view that a good pub is one which caters exclusively for those who consider themselves "traditionalists". To be good, it seems, you have to conform to a certain stereotype. For example, in this Times article, the landlord's comments suggest a certain hostility toward fine dining in pubs. That doesn't sit easily with me.
Nevertheless, The Old Spot looks like a cracking boozer. I hope to visit it one day.
 It was my Blanche DuBois moment. Last week, Matt Blajer, a blog reader from Ontario, was in town. He stopped by at my local, The Jerusalem Tavern, and entrusted the staff with a gift for yours truly. The hand-delivered package contained cans of two of Matt's local craft brews: Great Lakes Devil's Pale Ale and Hockley Stout.
Since then I've carefully taste-tested the pair, my first from Canadian microbreweries. The clear favourite was the devilish pale ale, a 6% abv beauty. Dark amber in the glass, it looks remarkably like Fullers 1845 and has a similar aroma of sweet malt and rich toffee. Burnt and toasted flavours are more evident that hop bitterness, though there's a bite in the finish. This is an indulgent, flavoursome beer that offers an earthy, satisfying experience. A big thanks to Matt for giving me my first introduction to Canuck craft beer. Information:
Great Lakes (website) is based in Toronto, and is Ontario's oldest craft brewer. Devil's Pale Ale was introduced in 2006 as a seasonal but is now brewed year-round.
 Yet another Friday night at The Betsey Trotwood. I've had a fair few of those recently. In the basement inmates from nearby St Martin's College were having a shindig, and upstairs an office leaving do was in progress. In the main bar, the normal harmonious mix of characters clustered around the tables.
However much you try and appeal to a select audience, when you run a boozer you need to be prepared for a certain type of customer: the random old drunk. They're always male, grey haired and absolutely pished. The noisy ones need to be shown the door, but last night we encountered the silent type. The little old man, in his long overcoat and blue hat, seemed to have lost his vocal cords, relying instead on the art of mime to indicate his state of mind.
At one point he wandered downstairs to the gig, encountering a student girl with tell-tale dilated pupils. His eyes widened in surprise as she engaged with him. Two people dancing together, separated by generations and the varying experiences offered by their respective intoxicants. He moved slowly and ponderously, his expression filled with bafflement, but he danced.
His finest hour didn't come until he left the building and began to stagger down Farringdon Road, past the front windows of the pub. Spotting a candle burning inside, he attempted to blow it out - through the glass. It was the kind of moment mobile phone cameras were made for. We later discovered he'd left his coat behind, so perhaps he'll come back for it next week. I hope so.
Duvel Moortgat is aiming to acquire assets associated with the bankrupt Liefmans brewery. It was reported yesterday that the Belgian courts have granted Duvel the right to take possession of the Oudenaarde plant and temporarily resume production of the famous Goudenband, Kriek and Frambozen beers. However, two Liefmans directors have set out to prevent the acquisition, which they believe will result in a closure of the brewery.
Next weekend, me and the lads will be boozing in the Trastevere. That's right, we're going back to Rome already. It seems they can't get rid of us. Ma Che Siete Venuti A Fa', here we come. The Italian brewing scene has already begun to receive the recognition it deserves here in the UK. Now Don Russell, writing for the Philapdelpia Daily News, has been spreading the word in the US: Italy - the next great brewmaster?
 Yesterday, I boarded a train at Waterloo bound for the Surrey-Berkshire borders. I'd been invited to Ascot Ales by it's proud new owner, my pal Chris Gill.
The four barrel plant is housed in a spacious industrial unit with a high ceiling. Casks fill the centre of the room, with the brew kit neatly arranged to one side. A spare steel fermenter lies prone along the floor. During my visit, the mash was in process for Ascot's first weissbier. As the smell of malted wheat and barley filled the room, we sampled the full range of beers while I learned more about the operation.
Ascot Ales was founded by in early 2007 by American Jerry Farrell. A former homebrewer, Jerry brought US-style brewing to the English Home Counties, with recipes that use exclusively New World hops. Jerry has moved on and passed the baton to Australian Tim Meyer. Tim moved to the UK last year and immediately found his skills in demand. His background is also in non-commercial brewing, having operated a two barrel set up with a group of mates back home.
 The brewery's flagship is Posh Pooch (4.2% abv), a golden beer in the style of an American Pale Ale. It's heavily hopped with Chinook and Cascade, and consequently bursts upon the palate like a good APA should. Alligator Ale at 4.8% abv is a step up in terms of strength, but uses a simpler recipe, with only two malts and a single hop variety: Cascade, unsurprisingly. With a creamier palate than its weaker brethren, it's a wonderfully balanced beer with a very full body. For session beer fans, Party 8 - so-called in a nod to Watney's and 70s nostalgia - is just 3.7% abv and a much fruitier, gentle ale, but again the American hops are out in force.
Moving away from the core range, we tried the brewery's darkest beer. Owner Chris is ecstatic about Anastasia's Exile Stout (5% abv), named after the executed Russian princess. If you think a touch of Cascade works in a dark, roasty beer, you'll be in hog heaven here. The citrus aroma is alarming, but in terms of flavour it manages to blend in with bitter chocolate and coffee to produce a pleasing, if challenging, experience.
Finally, the winter warmer: Santa's Reserve (5.2% abv). Chris is considering rebadging it next year, as a beer this good shouldn't just be for Christmas. The sample I tasted was spiced with cinnamon and coriander seed, while ginger was also added to a second batch. This certainly isn't subtle, but it was smooth and moreish. I liked it a lot.
In terms of recipes, Ascot Ales isn't a traditional English brewery. These aggressively hopped, US-style beers will certainly stand out in the UK. Nonetheless, it's all real ale: they don't filter, pasteurise or artificially carbonate anything. Don't be surprised if you see Posh Pooch or Party 8 appearing on a handpump near you.
Information:
- Ascot Ales is based in Camberley, Surrey (website). Ascot beers are available in 5l mini kegs and bottle conditioned from selected Waitrose outlets and other retailers in Surrey and Berkshire. Londoners can buy them at Spitalfields Market from Quaffs. A number of local pubs are supplied, but so far the brewery doesn't have a regular on-trade presence in the capital.
- For the avoidance of doubt, Princess Anastasia did not survive Ekaterinburg. But Elvis is alive and well, and Mohammed Fayed speaks nothing but the truth.
This made me laugh. Yes, beer from smaller brewers tends to be much better than multinational products. Yes, it's usually more "socially responsible" (whatever that means). But let's be honest, sometimes you could cut the smugness with a knife.
 It's one of life's mysteries. How do Yorkies manage to be so miserable when they've got all that good beer?
This weekend, Yorkshire's finest ales are coming to London, thanks to The Bricklayer's Arms in Putney (32 Waterman Street, SW15 1DD, map, website). Their festival runs from Friday to Sunday. If you want to make the best of it - and see the morris dancers - be there for the Saturday afternoon session. If you need convincing, read my account of last year's festival.
England's largest county is replete with quality breweries, and Timothy Taylor's is one of them. The family firm celebrates its 150th anniversary this year, and a one-off Celebration Ale has been produced to celebrate the milestone. It will make its first - and probably only - London appearance at the festival.
I couldn't resist reproducing Marc Baker's surreal poster for the event. He's an artist who also happens to work in the pub. Just take your eyes off those buttocks, and remember she's got a pint glass for a head. Not pretty.
 Until the 1980s, Farringdon Station housed its own pub. Nowadays you need to stagger across the road for a pint. The Castle on Cowcross Street (map) is a favourite for the pre-club crowds that gather on Friday and Saturday nights, little monogrammed tablets burning holes in their pockets. The music slips up a few notches as a forlorn DJ fannies around in the corner.
Even with the lights down low, you can't miss the near life-size painting that hangs opposite the bar. The scene it depicts explains why, to this day, The Castle bears the triple spheres of the pawnbroker. King George IV once drank in the pub. Presumably His Majesty wasn't a regular, because the landlord demanded his watch as security for a gambling debt. In return, the grateful monarch granted his loyal subject a licence to operate as a pawnbroker. Today, this former Charrington's pub belongs to Mitchells & Butlers. The action spills onto the street, taxis coming close to mowing down drinkers as they tackle a sharp corner. It boasts long opening hours and a decent beer selection, Budvar Dark being the pick of the bunch. The weekend crowd would do better to fill up their water bottles, though - they've got thirsty work ahead.
You: the guy throwing up on the Northern Line at East Finchley on 9 Feb. Me: The ginger girl whose jeans got in the way. Wish I could've told you how the remnants of WKD Blue brought out the blue in your eyes. Drink? That's an excerpt from the thelondonpaper's "lovestruck" column, where texts from lonely hearts (desperados) are published for commuters to cringe at.If you can charm someone that much by yocking on them after a night on the smash, I'm sorted.
 Sitting here on a cold winter's day, I cast my mind back to that magical trip to Franconia. Regular readers will recall I visited the German region back in summer, accompanied by Andy Neil and Ron Pattinson, among others. I chronicled the tour in a flurry of on-the-spot mobile blog posts. Looking back, I realise now that I missed out a few key ingredients that made it unforgettable. So, in a hopelessly self-indulgent trip down memory lane, let me talk about "beer schnapps".
At Maisel's Brewery in Bayreuth, I learned that microdistilleries need not be the preserve of gap-toothed hillbillies. It was there that I squared up to beer schnapps for the first time, after taking a look at the kit used to make the evil stuff. The legend on the vintage still said it all: "Bavarian Moonshine - 90° proof". By separating out the alcohol, something altogether more devilish is created from virginal beer.
Our grinning tour guide racked up shots on an old pharmacist's counter, brought over from London by the brewery's chairman. Dear readers, I cannot tell a lie: when I downed mine, I nearly spat. I can't even begin to describe the awfulness. Give me a black Sambuca any day of the week, because hopped liquor just doesn't float my boat. My esteemed travelling companion Mr. Pattinson, he of the elephantine frame and hollow legs, had a very different reaction. He positively begged for more, and a love affair that would last the trip blossomed. At almost every stop, waitresses would be hounded to produce the foul substance, which Ron would gulp down with gusto. I'd forgotten that I recorded such enthusiasm for posterity on our final evening, as we sat in Spezial's courtyard in Bamberg. Watch this mercifully brief video, and witness a truly happy man. Listen carefully and you'll hear his self-satisfied chuckle at the end.
I try and avoid the old "quotable quotes" on beer, their impact deadened by overuse. Few have become more hackneyed than this from Frank Zappa:
"You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline. It helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer". Individuals define themselves through an eclectic jumble of identifiers. Beer can be one of them. A person may not have explored the beer styles of the world, and to them an ersatz lager brand the aficionado would scoff at might be the only show in town. It isn't because the taste is irreplaceable. It's because the sight of that bottle or can offers familiarity, comfort and a sense of belonging. For this reason a Pole might be gladdened to see Zywiec or Tyskie on a Dublin supermarket shelf. Speight's of New Zealand shipped their beers across the globe to be sold in a temporary bar by the Thames. Czechs complain about the scarcity of Gambrinus - the nation's favourite - outside of their own borders, even though Budvar and Pilsner Urquell have a foothold almost everywhere. And why else does Bintang from Indonesia, a brew with few redeeming features other than fluidity, turn up in Amsterdam? Of course, there is another less palatable side to this. Each of the "national beers" I mentioned above are brewed at the behest of a massive multinational brewer, manipulating the home country's market from headquarters far away. Nonetheless, people who have grown up with a brand of beer might continue to identify with it, and seek it out when abroad. That's why so many pale yellow beers, largely indistinguishable in terms of flavour, are shipped around the world. Beer is more than just what's in the glass, and that's why the culture that surrounds it is so rich.
No lager and the priciest pint in town. According to the Market Rasen Mail, that's the order of the day for Tom Wood, a Lincolnshire brewer and publican:
"Brewer Tom Wood will only have real ales and cider on tap at the Red Lion, will not entertain music or gaming machines, has no space for a pool table and definitely won't be serving food". Wood can do what he likes with his own gaff, of course, and customers will vote with their feet. But let me ask you this: is this the kind of pub you crave? Or do you think it creates an environment fit only for a Real Ale Twat?
 Think of the fat bloke in Pizza Hut, who orders a Diet Coke to go with his eat-all-you-like lunch buffet. That's what springs to my mind when American "lite" beers are mentioned. They never caught on over here, but they're bestsellers in a country that offers the least healthy food in the world.
SABMiller is trialling these little beauties in the USA: Miller Lite Amber, Wheat and Blonde Ale. They're all 4.2% abv and low in calories and carbohydrates. Yet again, they're reacting to the small but growing craft beer segment of the American market (around 4% of total volume), yet think that brand loyalty and health concerns can stop their customers from deserting them.
You might ask why a mass-produced, dumbed-down beer would achieve this goal, yet pause for a moment. Pale adjunct lagers have been so dominant over there for so long that any beer in a different "style" can attract kudos amongst the uninitiated. You only need look at the respect given to Newcastle Brown Ale and Guinness in the US, even from craft beer drinkers. On the other hand, perhaps the Miller brand will taint, rather than enhance, these products. We shall see.
Information:
The beers are collectively known as the Miller Brewers Collection. The slogan? "Craft beer. Done Lite". Thanks to Lew Bryson for the tip-off and the photo. There's also an article on SABMiller's own Brew Blog.
 The Griffin, known to regulars as "The Black Buzzard", is a tittie bar at 125 Clerkenwell Road (map). As long as you're willing to drop a pound in a pint jug every time an exotic young lady passes by, she'll mount the stage and show you her breasts, vagina and (in keeping with modern preoccupations) winking anus.
The building itself has an impressive history. Many years before the windows were blacked out and a bouncer stationed at the door, it was the tap for Reid & Co's Griffin Brewery. That closed in 1899 after 136 years in business, having specialised in porter and stout. It's pleasing that the name has survived, even if the brewery hasn't. Last time I visited, I was saddened to see the lone handpump had been removed. The Griffin used to be one of the few outlets for cask Tetley's in London. I was always tickled by that odd distinction. Perhaps CAMRA should be tackling this problem: just because you're partial to a flash of gash, it doesn't mean you don't deserve real ale.
 The brewery may be gone, but some of its pubs survive. Wenlock was bought out by Bass in the early 1960s. The brewery building was demolished some years ago, but the adjoining tap survives: The Wenlock Arms is a renowned freehouse, voted London's favourite pub by readers of this blog last year.
 Walking through Fitzrovia on Sunday, I spotted two Wenlock liveried pubs within a few hundred yards of one another. The first wears the name proudly across its tiled, 1930s exterior. The Carpenters Arms is on Howland Street, close to Tottenham Court Road. It's recently been refurbished by Mitchells & Butlers, offering a decent beer selection and strangely furnished roof terrace. Walking west under the shadow of the BT Tower, Howland Street gives way to New Cavendish Street. Opposite the concrete monstrosity of the University of Westminster sits a neglected little pub, The Ship. From the outside, its allegiance is unclear, thanks to that 1960s takeover. Large vintage Bass lanterns proclaim Burton's famous ale, still dispensed from handpumps inside. However, smaller and well preserved Wenlock signs still cling to the brick at first floor level. Only when peering through the window will you see the clincher. A large painted banner above the bar, partly obscured by hanging nautical paraphernalia, proclaims proudly that this is "Wenlock's No. 1 House".
When I think of Iceland, I think of volcanic activity, Björk and Damon Albarn. Who knew that until 1989, beer was banned on the island? Mental. March 1st, the day on which the 75-year-old ban was lifted, is marked each year in Reykjavik's bars and clubs. They call it Beer Day. What japes. A pint is so expensive (expect to pay about £5), I'd just save up my cash and emigrate.
When a senior police officer proposed raising the legal drinking age to 21 last year, I nearly spat my beer out. Peter Lahy, Cheshire chief plod, was the culprit. Outside of the Islamic world, only a handful of countries are as restrictive as that. It would be an affront to young people, and put Britain out of step with the rest of Europe.
In sharp contrast, Phil Dixon - a drinks industry consultant and journalist - has suggested going in precisely the opposite direction in an effort to encourage responsible drinking. During a BBC Radio 2 debate hosted by Jeremy Vine, he argued that 16-year-olds should be allowed to drink in pubs:
“It’s a stark choice of reality – you either have them in a controlled, supervised environment or you send them up alleyways and into parks and round the back of bike sheds, where according to teachers, they are drinking neat vodka. Now, which is best for society? The Government needs to look at the more difficult solutions.” Graham Taylor, a former police officer who believes the drinking age should be raised to 21, angrily responded to Dixon's arguments:
"Pubs are not well managed. My daughter is 16 and regularly goes to pubs and clubs and drinks . . . You can’t tell me these people are going to be very vigilant because they are not . . . You are saying this because you are selling the stuff and you want kids in the pubs so you can sell more alcohol to them and get them drunk." I've been thinking about the issue based on my own experiences. I'll hold my hands up: I started drinking in pubs, bars and clubs at the beginning of my fifth year at secondary school. I was 15 (and three-quarters). We weren't drinking in the area's finest alehouses - far from it. The venues of choice were filled with dry ice, loud music, and reeked of cheap perfume smothered over spotty adolescents. Aggressive bouncers held sway, while the police sat outside waiting for the fights to kick off at closing time. We'd spend most of our night in bars with drinks offers: a pound for a pint of cheap lager (UK-brewed Labatts and Fosters were popular) or a triple measure of house spirits. Most weekends, we'd get wrecked. Were we safer than the kids who confined their drinking to the "alleyways and parks"? I think not. If I'm honest, I wouldn't have had it any other way back then. But looking back, Taylor is right: the pubs and bars teenagers drink in aren't safe for inexperienced young people. They're binge-drinking dens run by unscrupulous people, who are happy to allow the law to be broken if they can turn a profit. And it's they who would benefit from a change to the law. 16-year-olds wouldn't want to drink in the adult environment of a properly-run pub, and probably wouldn't be welcome there anyway. I do think we have a problematic drinking culture in Britain, and I do think government should seek to tackle it, through legislation if necessary. But baby steps to prohibitionism aren't the way forward, and they terrify me. So a part of me wants to cheer on Dixon's bold approach. Instead of pandering to the prejudices of Middle England bigots, who dislike youth and have little time for communal activities like pub-going, he's tried to steer the discussion onto a more sensible path. However, I just don't think lowering the legal drinking age is helpful, let alone politically feasible.
"Billed as 'the biggest innovation in the cider market for over a decade', Bulmers Iced uses a 'unique dispense system' that delivers a pint with a head of iced cider". That's from a recent article in the Morning Advertiser, describing new products from S&N: Strongbow on Ice and Bulmers Iced. The first "uses new technology that freezes cider to create crystals, which melt as the drink is consumed". The second is a semi-frozen abomination which results in something that critics say has "the consistency of a slush puppy". Both are designed for foolish individuals.
Honestly, making and serving a proper cider isn't difficult, as these people will tell you. What you get is a natural product packed with flavour. Admittedly it can send you loopy, but country folk are made of sterner stuff than we effete metrosexuals.
The Hawley Arms, Camden's leading music pub, went up in flames on Saturday evening. The same fire laid waste to much of the area's famous market. Where will the emo kids buy their cheap shit? As usual BBC News Online has the gen. Holy Moly blog takes a more irreverent approach.
Earlier in the week I reviewed Duke of Bronte Capstan FS, a fiendishly strong bottled beer from Yorkshire. Writer Zak Avery has also tried it and recorded his thoughts in the video I've embedded here. He goes into considerable detail, and does so without having tasted the beer before. Hats off.
Zak is planning to release video tasting notes like this every week. Let me know if you'd like me to post more of them. Or perhaps I should have a bash myself?
Information: - Duke of Bronte can be purchased from the Old Bear Brewery in Keighley, West Yorkshire and from local suppliers. There's a mail order service too. The brewery has a website
- Zak Avery is a beer writer based in the Leeds area. He maintains a website, the The Beer Boy. He also manages an award-winning beer shop, BeerRitz in Headingley. As you can see, he has a beard and he loves beer. On the other hand he isn't fat and isn't wearing a fleece. I can't decide which pigeon hole to put him in.
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Stonch lives in London, where he runs a pub.
