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I love working in pubs almost as much as I love drinking in them. That's why I'm looking forward to Saturday night, when I'll be stepping behind the bar at The Betsey Trotwood (56 Farringdon Road, London, EC1R 3BL, map, website). They need extra help because it's the bi-annual Clerkenville West festival, a night of Alternative Country, Cosmic Americana and Bluegrass. All three levels of the pub will be pressed into service (think vertical festival) with four bands and DJs performing until 1.00am. Doors open at 7.30pm, and there's a £5 cover charge.
Beers on offer are Bishop's Finger, Spitfire and Early Bird. Soon, The Betsey will be expanding its ale range with the installation of two extra beer engines. The plan is to order in small-batch brews from Shepherd Neame's micro plant, normally reserved for pubs in their Kentish heartland.
This week, I've got two brewery visits lined up. That's a nice thought to start the day. For me, anyway.
If you're a blogger, don't forget the Session this coming Friday. If you're looking for something to read right now, have a gander at this. A real ale lover at a brothel party. Quality.
From time to time, we all need to make personal policy decisions. I've decided to stop visiting JD Wetherspoon pubs. In truth, I haven't set foot in one for quite some time. That's despite the fact that at least a dozen are within my own extended stomping ground.
My objection to 'Spoons goes further than individual aspects of the experience I don't like (and those are legion). We should all aspire to live a beautiful life. That means going places and doing things that lift the spirit - it means making fewer compromises. Now let us be honest here: visiting a Spoons is all about compromise. The moment you walk through the door into one of those miserable drinking barns, you accept bad food, bad surroundings, bad atmosphere . . . and for what? Good beer? Sometimes. Is that enough? Not for me.
At the moment the pubco is hosting an international ale festival in all of its premises. Indeed, it's that event which led me to this realisation. Of course I'd like to try a cask conditioned American IPA, brewed by a fêted Californian in Shepherd Neame's pilot plant. Likewise the Japanese porter, produced at Marston's. They were both available at the launch on Wednesday, held at one of the company's bigger London venues. In the end, I decided not to go. It isn't all about the beer, you see.
 It can take a while to decide if you like a beer, particularly if the recipe's a bit wack. I still haven't made my mind up about St Peter's Honey Porter, despite necking three quarts of it last night. The JT has had it on draught this week, although when this cask is done it'll be replaced by the more conventional Old Style Porter.
An almost pitch-black pint topped with rocky off-white foam. Mmmm. A scent of honey you can smell without even raising your glass from the bar - it seems to grab everyone standing within a ten yard radius then rubs their nose in what you're about to drink. A slightly toasty, singed, malty body suggests the underlying porter is first-class, but that honey is so in your face.
Twelve hours later, and I'm sure I can still taste honey. The two pints of Organic Best I tried as a palate-cleansing antidote clearly didn't work after all. And I've got a bit of a headache. Well, at least it's Friday. Anyone else go on the booze last night?
Information:
The Jerusalem Tavern is at 55 Britton Street, London EC1M 5UQ (map). The pub is owned by St Peter's in Suffolk. You can read about our visit to the brewery here.
Awash with beer. Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Tell that to someone who was unlucky enough to stroll down Tottenham Court Road on 16th October 1814. This was long before dodgy electronics shops had taken over the thoroughfare. Instead, it hosted the Horseshoe Brewery, which was itself surrounded by slum housing. The Horseshoe was home to Meux, an outfit established in 1764. It held out until the 1960s, before succumbing to a buy-out at the hands of rival Ind Coope.
Meux was a noted producer of London Porter. Their giant vats stood taller than 20 feet, and held 3,555 barrels of beer (that's half a million litres to you). Very impressive. Unfortunately, by the autumn of 1814, one of them wasn't in very good nick. As our proverbial stoller passed by on that fateful day, he would have heard a terrifying sound. The metal hoops holding the giant vessel together sprang apart, and that vast quantity of beer burst free.
The wave of porter smashed against the adjacent vats, breaking them open and unleashing their contents too. In total, well over a million litres of beer flooded the surrounding area, drowning seven people. An eighth victim died of alcohol poisoning: presumably he or she was among a crowd who frantically tried to save as much free beer as they could, some with buckets, others simply lapping it up where it fell. Cellars and drains were flooded, and the stale smell lingered on for weeks.
NB: This somewhat pedestrian post is far less involved than the discussion of the term "IPA" it somehow managed to spark off. Take a look at the comments.
  One of my locals, The Crown Tavern on Clerkenwell Green, is having a real ale festival of sorts. They're showcasing three different styles of beer during a six week period, with two ales at a time on handpump alongside the normal range. The Crown is one of Mitchells & Butlers' unbranded "Castle" pubs. The whole estate is participating in the event.
Before the pedants bleat, I'd be the first to admit that this isn't a beer festival in the conventional sense. However, I think it's a great initiative to remind customers of the variety offered by cask beer. Normally, the pub offers only Adnams Bitter and Timothy Taylor Landlord on the draught ale front. Perhaps that will change.
The photo on the left shows what's on offer (click on it for a closer look). On the right, my friend Roy Disco holds a pint of Titanic Stout. He enjoyed it so much he finished the cask. Good lad.
Information:
The Crown Tavern is at 43 Clerkenwell Green, EC1R 0EG (map). You can read my full review of the pub here.
Long time readers will recall our fumbling forays into the world of homebrewing last year. Remembering the angst my dad's efforts created back in the 1980s, I decided to get the whole thing out of the way pre-marriage. Myself and my brew buddy Dave took up entry-level kit brewing with gusto. The timelapse BrewCam videos we produced were probably more memorable than the beer.
The beer duty increase in the latest budget is now biting. The Chancellor's "4p on the price of a pint" has translated into some pretty swingeing rises at the bar. Some ale drinkers are feeling the pinch. It occurs to me the homebrewing hobby is ripe for a comeback. After all, you don't pay any tax at all on your own produce, thanks to good old Reggie Maudling. If you've got the urge, head over to Jim's Beer Kit and sign up for the friendly forum. The folks there will tell you all you need to know.
Even publicans seem to be tempted. One Manc landlord with no previous brewing experience has vowed to start producing his own beer. The Manchester Evening News has the story. Of course, if he bought his beer from an existing microbrewery benefitting from the Progressive Beer Duty discount, he'd be able to save money without going to such lengths. I would call him for a discussion of this, but I'm scared to because he looks like a bit of a mentalist.
 Many cities present themselves beautifully to visitors arriving by train. Peterborough isn't one of them. Despite having a fine historic quarter, clustered around a 12th century Gothic cathedral, unspeakable grimness blights the rest of the city centre. When you leave the depressing railway station, you're confronted with a forbidding, impassable dual carriageway. Once you've clambered over a footbridge, you're straight into a miserable shopping centre and a multi-storey car park. This is Britain at its very worst.
The local council wants to redevelop this part of town. Based on my description of it, you'd think I'd be in favour of their plans. Not quite. In the midst of all that unpleasantness sits The Brewery Tap, home of Oakham Brewery. One of my companions commented that they'd never encountered a pub that looks so much better inside than out. The building was previously a Job Centre, and it shows. Inside, it's magnificent. They claim it's the biggest brewpub in Europe, although that's disputed. A lengthy bar offers 12 handpumps, with the glass-fronted brewery right beside it (pictured left). On a mezzanine floor there's a cheap and cheerful dining area given over to Thai food.
 We stationed ourselves on sofas close to the bar and got stuck into the Oakham range. Jeffrey Hudson Bitter, Inferno, White Dwarf and Helter Skelter are all beers I've tried before, but rarely in such fantastic condition. Oakham never spare the hops, and their beers seem perfectly adjusted to my palate. We didn't get around to trying Attilla, a 7.5% abv barley wine that didn't seem appropriate in the early afternoon. There were also a range of guest beers from other microbreweries, but we left them alone.
 After visiting the cathedral, we made our way through streets lined with identikit chain shops to the River Nene. By the bridge there's a permanently moored Dutch barge (pictured right). It was built in 1909 and served for many decades as a cargo boat, before steaming to Britain and being converted into a pub and restaurant in 1991. It too is owned and operated by Oakham. On the top deck there's a fairly classy Thai restaurant, but the main show is below decks: Charters, a large real ale bar with an Easter beer festival in session. Lovely.
I'd expected a thoroughly surreal experience, but they've done a great job in turning this vessel into a proper pub (pictured left). Having said that, the place is on a permanent lean, but once you've had a few the effect wears off. The staff were young, friendly and enthusiastic, and the atmosphere first class. If I lived in Peterborough I'd camp out here and refuse to leave. A dozen handpumps on the bar were joined by about the same number of casks on stillage. We sampled most of them. My favourite beer of the session was probably Bees Wobble, a rich and curiously fruity stout. It comes from a Leicestershire outfit that only went live earlier this month.
A visit to Oakham's Peterborough fiefdom is a great day out. It seems to me that the brewery has contributed an enormous amount to the local community. If Peterborough's councillors go ahead with their plans to compulsorily purchase and demolish The Brewery Tap, they'll be erasing something truly special in the heart of their city.
Information:
- The Brewery Tap is at 80 Westgate, Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, PE1 2AA (map, website). It's a stone's throw from the railway station, albeit marooned on the wrong side of a dual carriageway. Read more about efforts to save the venue from demolition here.
- Charters is on a barge moored at Town Bridge (map, website). They're having an even bigger beer festival on the May Bank Holiday (2nd - 5th May), with 60+ ales on offer. In the article above I didn't mention the massive beer garden they have on the riverbank, nor the fact it's a noted lived music venue. It's a brilliant place.
The Scottish Public Health Minister is considering a number of proposals to tackle the country's perceived binge drinking problem. Surprise, surprise: raising the age at which Scots can buy alcohol to 21 is one of them. Lunacy. The Beeb has the story.
First Minister Alex Salmond is perhaps the most impressive politician in Britain today. I doubt he'd allow such a crazy idea to get wings, but who knows . . .
When you're twenty-something you're in the wilderness years, not a child but not yet a parent either. There are certain social occasions that are lost on you. Unless you're un basher de bible, Easter is just such a time. In the absence of overexcited little people and mass-produced chocolate eggs, myself and a couple of compadres will be boarding a train to somewhere in GPB (Grim Provincial Britain) for a proper booze-up. I have the largest brewpub in Europe and a beer festival on a barge in my sights, but need to clear it with the others and my pals have now been duped into accompanying me.
I've got nothing for you today, but feel free to continue the discussion about old men farting at beer festivals. I thirst (John 19:28).
Last week I spent two evenings at CAMRA's London Drinker festival. When one of the capital's biggest festivals is within walking distance of home, it would be rude not to. As usual I came away with mixed feelings. On one hand, you've got access to a remarkable selection of cask and international beers. It's a great chance to challenge your drinking habits with new flavours and styles not available in your local pub. Having visited lots of CAMRA festivals, I'm learning to live with the lack of music, the uninspiring municipal venues and the soup kitchen cuisine. But there's one thing I can't tolerate any longer. Someone needs to speak up.
 I'm talking about the farts. Almost every conversation you have is broken up by an onslaught of nostril-searing arse-gas. Eyes begin to dart around anxiously, playground rhymes run through your head as you consider whether to cry foul. Culprits might sheepishly retreat (although they never own up), but some are so brazen, you wonder whether they realise that dropping your guts in a public place is a faux pas. It's just completely unacceptable. Yes, I recognise that when you put a lot of blokes together in a confined space and pour beer down their necks, there will be problems. But really, fellas, is a little restraint too much to ask for?
UPDATE: I've added a photgraph of two typical festival goers. This was taken at the GBBF. Note that the young lady in the background looks distinctly uneasy. She should be - it's only a matter of time until one of those two miscreants lets rip.
 From the late nineteenth to the mid twentieth century, Clerkenwell was London's Little Italy.
The community has dispersed, but they still gather here from time to time. On Clerkenwell Road there's St Peter's, a beautiful Italian church jammed between an alimentari and an office building. If you pass it on a Sunday, you might need to weave through a crowd of beautiful people from the bella paese. They're congregating in a place where Garibaldi and Mazzini orated, and Caruso and Gigli sang. Once a year in July a parade winds its way through the streets, passing packed pubs and cafes.
Recently I've been using Dino's. It's an Italian cafe on St John Street, the ancient thoroughfare that runs from Smithfield Market to the Angel, Islington. The sixty-something owner Tony originates from Amalfi, but has spent his entire life in London. On the unseasonably warm Saturday we enjoyed last month, three of us spent a whole day with him, his friends and a few bottles of Montepulciano.
The back room of the cafe sits on the lower ground floor and gives way to a suntrap courtyard. It hosts a gallery of photographs and news clippings from the 30s, 40s and 50s. They show what life was like in these parts when the pure sound of Italian vowels was as common as the glottal stop. In one frame, a small boy stands by his father, wearing short pants and a school cap. A pigeon perches passively on his head. I pointed and laughed. An elderly gent sitting by us was pleased I liked it so much. He loves that black and white picture of him and his old man, taken when when he was just a nipper.
Those who have got this far will have realised that this post doesn't even mention beer or pubs. However, good honest caffs are as much part of London life as the traditional boozer, and likewise are a species under threat. For a blog devoted to them, try eggbaconchipsandbeans.
Thwaites have just announced that their Dark Mild is to be renamed "Nutty Brown". In December, Manc brewers J.W. Lees dropped GB Mild in favour of "Brewer's Dark". Brains of Cardiff did much the same some years ago. Mild seems to be the beer style that dare not speak its name. Are traditional family brewers like Thwaites right to move away from tradition like this? Or are such rebranding exercises a wise move for a 21st century brewer that wants to broaden its appeal? What do you think?
To read more about mild, take a look at this post from last May. Click here to find out about Hobson's Mild, 2007's Champion Beer of Britain.
 Enjoying beer is as much about people as it is malt and hops. The term "social lubricant" has always seemed a little too euphemistic to me, so lets be honest: having a few pints and getting merry is bloody good fun. That's why we do it.
It's ten times better when you're with good mates, or meeting interesting new people. I've made lots of new friends in my favourite pubs and through my involvement in the beer industry. From the most skillful brewers to the louchest boozehounds, they're the reason why I keep doing this*.
On Friday 4th April, the date of the next Session, I'd like you to write about people. Choose someone you know personally. That person might be a brewer, a publican, someone who sups at your local, or maybe just a friend who is passionate about beer. Let's read some pen portraits of your companions on the path to fermented enlightenment.
The Session is an online event, hosted by a different beer blog on the first Friday of every month. Writers from around the world produce articles on a common theme. Here's a summary to date. Stonch's Beer Blog is April's host, and a round-up of all participating posts will be published here.
* The implication, of course, is that I'm not merely an alcoholic.
Later today I'll be announcing the theme of April's Session, which will be hosted here at Stonch's Beer Blog. It's an online beer event held on the first Friday of every month. Writers from around the world produce posts with a common theme. Stan Hieronymus first came up with the idea back in January 2007, and as the beer blogosphere has grown, so has The Session.
 The flat and everything in it seemed to be coated in a thin layer of sticky sambuca. Half-empty cans of lager stood like grim sentinels on unlikely surfaces. Anything that could be construed as a receptacle for ash was filled with cigarette butts. Moving would probably have been wiser than attempting to clean up. We'd emerged from a lengthy bender in which friends and strangers alike had cavorted in our home.
That was the scene that prompted myself and a dazed flatmate to stagger out into the grey, wet world. We sought sanctuary somewhere we hadn't disgraced ourselves in during the last 72 hours. The trail led northwards, away from the ghastly familiarity of Clerkenwell. The hangover shudders and painful flashbacks persisted as we skirted the stagnant New River in Canonbury. Believe it or not, at desperate times like this I make some of my finest pub discoveries.
The Marquess Tavern enjoys a secluded location (32 Canonbury Street, N1 2TB, map, website). Only locals and the hardy urban rambler will chance upon it. It's a fine Georgian pub that's gone gastro in a big way. An almost imposing white dining room offers waitress service and high chairs for Horatio, but you can enjoy a pint in the main bar. Despite being tied to Young's, there's also a guest beer and a handpumped perry on offer. In the fridges there's a good selection of bottled beers from around the world.
Looking around, everyone seemed to be drinking Erdinger from tall glasses. We set about pints of Young's Winter Warmer. It was probably the last time I'll drink that particular ale this year, its season allegedly drawing to a close. The weather doesn't seem to agree.
The London Drinker is underway. The festival (website) runs until Friday evening at the Camden Centre, Bidborough Street, across the road from King's Cross. I was there with bells on yesterday, and will be back this evening. I stand by my previously expressed reservations about CAMRA beer festivals, but don't mind being a hypocrite. Anyway, I needed to drown my sorrows after hearing that duty on beer is rising by 4p a pint.
For me, the highlight so far has been Brew Dog Edge, a dark mild. I received a tip-off about it from brewer James Watt back in January. Trying it for the first time, I was astonished at such richness and complexity from a beer that barely registers on the alcoholic Richter scale - it's only 2.7% abv. There are strong espresso notes bundled in with a whole bag of fruit and a surprisingly full body. Sadly, the cask ran dry half way through the session.
Due to my presence at the festival and other commitments, I'll be off the radar for a couple of days. When I come back I'll post a write-up of Birrificio Lambrate, a brew pub in Milan I visited last week. There'll also be an announcement of sorts. In the meantime, have a butcher's at this article from US beer salesman and brewer Tom Cizauskas: Orval and creeping wine envy. Good point, well made. If you're still bored, buy FHM or something.
 It must be one of my favourite beer labels of all time. The amount of information crammed onto that 75cl bottle is a reminder that this is no ordinary brew. You can keep your merry monks and lanky cats: reams of dense text are just the ticket here.
As reported two weeks ago, my friend Ron Pattinson is working with Brouwerij de Molen to recreate authentic beers from the London breweries of past centuries, using original brewing records. When we last met in February, he kindly gifted me one of the first bottles of batch #1: a 1914 recipe Whitbread Porter.
Tonight I tackled the bottle, after giving it an hour in the fridge to reach the optimum serving temperature. With a crassness only I could manage, it was supped it in front of Hotel Babylon. A less appropriate televisual accompaniment you could scarcely imagine. I unscrewed the cage whilst the fragrant Emma Pierson strutted across my screen in a pencil skirt and killer heels. The cork popped, unleashing a plume of dense vapour, just as Alexandra Moen made a heart-stopping appearance.
It looks the part, with a rocky, voluminous tan head and a clear, dark brown body. Then there's a full, malty aroma. It's wonderfully dry and slightly spicy, and there's gentle but ever-present carbonation on the tongue. Those grainy, coffee flavours dominate. This is delicious, I'm enjoying it, I want more of it. Even from a big bottle, there aren't enough refills. My flatmate Jon eyes it enviously. I ignore him.
My conclusions? First, Ron's brought a bloody good beer to the table. Second, Whitbread's porter of 1914 tasted much like the better examples of the style we enjoy today. Third, Dexter Fletcher's really aged since he was in Press Gang.
This picture hangs on the wall in Bir & Fud, Rome. It depicts the Last Supper, but in place of Christ and the Apostles are luminaries of the Italian beer scene. Manuele Colonna, proprietor of my favourite pub, takes the place of the anointed one. In the forground on the right is Lorenzo "Kuaska" Dabove, the country's leading beer writer. As you can see, those chaps are truly messianic when it comes to promoting fine beer . . .
Questo quadro è sul muro al Bir e Fud Bar a Roma. Dipinge il Cenacolo, ma invece di Cristo e gli Apostoli ci sono i conosciuti del mondo italiano della birra. Manuele Colonna, padrone del mio pub preferito, prende il posto di quello consacrato. Lorenzo Dabove, lo scrittore più importante del paese, è più vicino a destra. È ovvio che questi tipi sono veramente messianici a proposito del promuovere la buona birra . . .
 He was a much-loved television personality, and the most famous owner of a withered appendage since Kaiser Bill. Sadly, Jeremy Beadle passed away in February. In the latest What's Brewing?, it's revealed he was once on CAMRA's National Executive for six months, back in 1973.
Founding member Michael Hardman recalls that "he resigned half way through his first year after a furious row, which was none of his making, over a perceived unfair distribution of labour among the entirely amateur hierarchy of CAMRA. CAMRA's loss was Saturday evening's gain, for Jeremy soon rose to the kind of small-screen prominence reserved until then for Morecambe and Wise".
 Florence is a city so rich in culture, it can send an unprepared tourist into a confused stupor known as Stendhal's syndrome. You could visit every year for the rest of your life, and die without discovering all of its treasures. I've visited half a dozen times. However, on all previous visits I've had to go without a decent beer. That won't be a problem anymore: the city's only microbrewery is just a short walk from the Ponte Vecchio.
 Il Bovaro sits in the shadow of the mighty Porta San Frediano, squatting just outside of the old city walls. Needless to say, the building is centuries old. Inside, the vaulted tap room is decorated in rustic style. The shiny brew kit is fully on display. Bags of malts from Weyermann of Bamberg are piled just feet away from where diners and drinkers are seated.
The pint-sized brewer Daniele Venturi (great name) appeared shortly after we arrived. He's friendly and enthusiastic, but doesn't speak English. Time for the pidgin Italian I've picked up through osmosis to kick in, then. He set the place up in 2000 with his brother, Titiano (even better name). Apparently the brewery was named for his brother's dog.
Daniele eagerly professed his immense fondness for aromatic hops, and his curious creation Titan (6.3% abv) reflects that. Raising a tall glass of this dark amber beer, Amarillo is very evident on the nose and palate, with roasted caramel providing a pleasant backdrop. Kiki, a 4.5% abv lager, was more enjoyable, a fresh-tasting helles with a creamy head and floral aroma. A third brew, a strong ale called Axel, was unavailable on our visit.
The beers at Il Bovaro aren't going to set your world on fire, but the welcome is warm and the hearty, inexpensive food a fine accompaniment to freshly brewed beer. Next time Florence calls me, I'll be back.
Information:
The brewery is at 3 Via Pisana in Florence, very close to the river on the Altrano side (website). It's open every day from 7pm until 1am (2am on Friday and Saturday).
 That's what the Tories are saying. First, we heard about Conservative Westminster Council's efforts to curb street drinking. They're banning the sale of strong lager on their Central London patch. Now, the national party is getting in on the act. Britain's main opposition have just announced policy proposals that would see swingeing tax rises for "super-strength beer".
The announcement is presumably aimed at the likes of Carlsberg Special Brew and Tennent's Super, rancid concoctions popular with lairy, bellowing tramps like your dad (pictured right). However, it's difficult to see how fine distinctions can be made between those and the quality beers that happen to be high in alcohol content. For example, no-one would consider a Trappist ale like Chimay Blue a weapon of choice for the park bench pissheads, but at 9% abv it's as strong as a can of loopy juice. Has anyone at Conservative Central Office thought about this? Do they even care?
Cameron's Conservatives aren't strangers to draconian policy proposals when it comes to tackling "Booze Britain", as this story from last year demonstrates. It seems that there's a cross-party consensus that legislative and/or regulatory action is needed. And while we're on the subject of binge drinking and politicians, check this out: Lib Dem Vince Cable cracked a joke about Wetherspoons at a party conference, comparing the dodgy lending practices of banks to the pubco's "sense of social responsibility". BBC News Online has the story.
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Stonch lives in London, where he runs a pub.
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