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Christmas at The Gunmakers
 Tennent's Super (9% abv) is a tramp's favourite. It comes from Scotland, a country associated with alcoholism, shortbread and the export of homeless people to London. Super's younger brother, a more restrained yet still rancid lager, is the country's best selling beer.
When leaving the pub for my afternoon break, I spotted this magical scene in a nearby doorway. You couldn't make it up. Who actually wraps their booze in brown paper bags? I've seen jakeys strolling down Whitehall brazenly chugging Diamond White from 2 litre bottles, seemingly proud of themselves.
The chap who left this behind clearly understands the importance of discretion when drinking himself to a lonely death. I salute him.
Tennent's is brewed in the Wellpark Brewery in Glasgow. The brand is owned by InBev.
Over the last couple of weeks, I accidently grew my beard back. It crept up on me. Last night, I got to relive the experience of shaving it off. Some readers may recall I lost my long-term facial fur some months ago, revealing a more youthful visage marred only by dreadfully tired eyes and a fast receding hairline.
Perhaps all men should grow a beard for one month of the year, just to remind themselves of why it's almost certainly a bad idea. For every good photo of me with a face-wig, there are a hundred very, very bad ones.
 When CAMRA launched their "take it to the top" campaign last year, I expressed my reservations in this article. In short, they're asking that the government redefine a pint of draught beer as being 100% liquid, as opposed to the current situation where a small amount of head in the glass is acceptable. Tonight, I got my first real lesson in why it's total folly, and a bloody nuisance for those in the pub trade.
A grey-haired punter and his mate came in and asked for two pints. Before I'd finished pulling them - I always let the head on a pint settle for a short while then top up as a matter of course - he began to hold forth: "right, I'll say this now - I'm going to have to ask you to top those up". I explained I was about to do so, whereupon he launched into a diatribe about how the beer in question is supposed to be served "flat", and how he knew this because he'd been drinking it for 27 years. Once I handed him the finished product he stopped grumbling, and to his credit returned to the bar later and complimented me on the quality of the beer.
I'd never serve a pint with a stupid head to rip a customer off, and doubt any publican would be foolish enough to do so. On the other hand, like 99% of other pubs in Britain, we don't use lined glasses - our pints are brim measures. Because I keep my ale properly and sell each cask within a day or two, it's lively and comes with a pleasantly foaming head. Unless I send lashings of beer cascading over the sides and into the drip tray, there's going to by some space in the glass devoted to that head.
CAMRA, get back to campaigning for real ale and against pub closures, and put the ridiculous "take it to the top" campaign to bed quietly.
Observation: when glass collecting, I find lots of abandoned Magners bottles are half full. Conclusion: even the people that buy the stuff don't like it.
Magners is a travesty of a cider. If you want to read about the good stuff, take a look at this.
"Horrible - like over-sugared, cold coffee". That was the verdict of one member of our group when presented with a sample of Moor JJJ IPA. Now, she's no ale conner, but the verdict around the table was unanimous, and her articulation deemed the best.
 On Sunday, we were driving through Surrey on our way to Dorset. We made a quick pit stop at a noted freehouse. As our dux pro tempore ordered a round of session beers, I noticed a pump at the end of the bar with a makeshift, typed label. I soon returned for a snifter, while the others sat in the sun. Asking for a half pint of the 9.3% abv Moor beer, I met with resistance from the barmaid. For my own sake, she tried to insist I sample it before handing over any money. I wanted to give such a mighty brew the respect it surely deserved, and insisted on a proper measure.
My taste buds went into revolt as soon as I knocked back the muddy, copper-coloured liquid. It stuck to the tongue, lingering to drive home its potent unpleasantness. If you want tasting notes, find "sweet" in a thesaurus, take every synonym as read, then add "it burns". This is meant to be a "triple IPA", whatever that is. It tastes like the kind of barley wine that makes people say "I don't like barley wines". I'd asked if the cask was fresh, to ensure I wasn't dealing with a dodgy sample. This wasn't down to condition, nor could I detect any obvious brewing faults. It was just plain nasty.
If I don't like a pub or a beer, I don't go out of my way to write about it. I'll usually only do so if there's some broader point to be made. Here, it's that I don't want our bolder microbrewers to be unpleasantly extreme. It isn't big and it isn't clever. Headbanging concoctions might be fun to brew, but unless they actually taste nice, you're pissing in the wind. They're destined to go stale in cellars, and ensure publicans remain wary forever more. If you want to be macho, buy a punchbag and hang it in your brewhouse.
Moor Brewing Company (website) is based in Somerset. The brewer is a former military man from the USA. We've met briefly, and he's a gent. Despite my harsh words about this particular firewater, I wish him all the best. It's worth noting that my voice is a dissenting one here: JJJ IPA has received Gold and Silver awards at recent beer festivals, and is a firm favourite with the notebook-wielders of Ratebeer.com.
I don't drive. When I'm very lucky, I get driven places. As such, I'm oblivious to rising fuel prices and deeply unsympathetic when a journey across Central London takes ages thanks to lorry drivers staging a go-slow protest on the Westway. Inconsiderate twats. Eight of us were returning from a three-day tour to Dorset in the West Country. There, we'd stayed in a cottage owned by some bloke who drinks at The Betsey. Our digs, overlooking Corfe Castle, were right next door to the village pub. The garden gate opened onto what must be one of the most attractive beer gardens on earth. Careering around country lanes in a rented minibus, we visited about a dozen other rural boozers. Our fodder was pasties, a greasy fry-up and lots of meat. On the drinks front, most of us stuck to local ales - Ringwood Best was everywhere - but managed to lose our mead virginity too. More on that later. Right now, it's time for Eastenders then bed.
I look at the three French kids across the bar carefully. Difficult to tell the age of the two girls: very pretty, with that grungy look young Romance speakers always seem to affect. The bloke's the main problem: despite his best efforts, he looks too fresh faced, sporting red-flushed cheeks. So I ask for ID. They produce legit driver's licenses bearing the EU flag, one of my favourite symbols. They're all 18. Fine.
If it had been different - if the dates had been wrong, or the lamination a little suspect - they'd have been back on the streets. As it was, I was able to take their money and push pints of Landlord in their hands (they looked confused at the beers on offer so I guided them firmly in the right direction). The encounter set me thinking about underage drinking. I tend to avoid doing so as the government and media spend so much time at it on my behalf.
Yesterday I spent my afternoon break watching five episodes of a new sitcom back to back. You probably haven't heard of The Inbetweeners, because it's shown on E4. Now, not many people watch E4, and most who do are younger than even me (I'm still young, you know). The first series is about to conclude with a sixth episode. If you download the 4oD player, you can watch it at your leisure. I rather liked it, but then I'm easily pleased. I love telly.
It's about four teenage boys, all very awkward in their own way, who do the daft things teenage boys do. They make a very bad fist of it. In one episode, the principal character dresses in his friend's dad's suit and visits an off licence. He leaves with two bottles of gin and a bottle of Drambuie. The foursome play truant and get absolutely grumble and grunted. They do so for no apparent reason, and make tits of themselves. The portrayal rang true for me, bringing back my own experiences from those sticky years of painful adolescence.
16 year olds drink alcohol. In fact, younger kids do too, but lets leave that to one side for a moment. They drink anything they can lay their hands on. Beer's rarely the weapon of choice for teenage tipplers. If it was, I think the inevitable incidences of teenage drinking would be less harmful for both the kids concerned and those they encounter while on a bender. The problems are that beer's not the cheapest way to deliver units of alcohol to the bloodstream, it's something of an acquired taste, and due to its higher volume it's less easily concealed. As all forms of alcohol are equally difficult to obtain, you might as well go for 40% abv spirits or tramp-strength cider.
Facing up to the fact they'll drink whatever happens, how do we steer our youngsters toward our favoured beverage? Simple - legalise the sale to and consumption by 16 year olds of beer of 5% abv or under.
My pals at Brew Dog aren't cuddly puppies. Check out this page on the Scottish brewery's website. They've got themselves into a scrap with the Portman Group, a body describing itself as "an organisation formed with the purpose of promoting sensible drinking and avoiding alcohol misuse". Portman criticised the innovative micro's labels. Brew Dog bit back.
Tomorrow I'm off on a beano with folks from The Betsey. We're driving down to Dorset for a camping / boozing trip. We'll be visiting The Square and Compass in Worth Matravers, a non-London pub so famous that even I've heard of it. Enjoy your bank holiday weekend, whatever you're doing.
Recently I wrote some unflattering things about Wetherspoons, the massive British pub chain. Here's the article. I reasoned thusly:
"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."
My dad disagrees.
While I was writing that last post an obese pigeon landed on the open sash window in my room. I was lying in bed. He scanned the room with his little orange eyes, cocking his head from side to side. "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, no!" I said. "Coo", said he. My pleas were ignored, as he took flight and wheeled around my bedchamber. "Ah, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!" I screamed. He listened that time - he fucked off. Phew.
One of my first blog posts was about St Peter's Cream Stout at The Jerusalem Tavern. Here it is. My mate Dave still works there, and was behind the bar last night, along with Joe. I was so enthusiastic about it back then (the beer, not Dave or Joe). Now I have reason to feel otherwise. Every time this 6.5% abv beastie appears in cask form at my local, it messes with my life. Here I am, in that perilous grey area between last night's drunkenness and the hangover that must surely come, delicately stalking the unfertile land between leaping joy and total despair.
On the plus side, I was drinking with a bloke last night who was briefly a member of the Sex Pistols. He's called Hank Dog. He was playing at The Betsey.
 A lot of fuss is made about the handling of cask ale. People talk about beer being "well kept" in reverential tones, as if the publican were entrusted with a task of baffling complexity. In reality, if the beer arrives in good nick, only three things matter: the temperature of your cellar, how quickly you sell ale and your willingness to follow basic instructions.
The pub I'm managing has two beer engines. That's plenty. When I started, Young's Bitter and Wells Bombardier were on sale. The latter moved very slowly. I immediately replaced it with Timothy Taylor Landlord, which now outsells the Young's by a factor of two to one. Overall, ale sales have more than doubled. Yesterday I sold a cask of Landlord in half a day. Most of it was polished off in the space of two hours by punters watching the Champion's League final in the upstairs function room.
As long as the environment you're working in is adequate, cellarmanship is unchallenging and absolutely rewarding. It does, however, have its pitfalls. Certain beers need to be treated in different ways. Landlord is a prime example. When I broach cask of Young's, hammering a spile through the shive, a sharp hiss is emitted as pressure escapes. I expected the same of Landlord, forgetting the warnings I'd been given about its liveliness. A geyser sprayed from that narrow hole, reaching the ceiling and covering me in beer and its yeasty bi-products. Since then, I've always stripped to the waist when tackling a fresh barrel. In this way, I've managed to render what should be the most manly of pub tasks mildly homoerotic.
Last week I posted an article by my dad about his first ever visit to the famous Tan Hill Inn in the Pennines. Until Saturday, he hadn't visited in almost two decades. What follows is his account of a long overdue session in one of his all-time favourites: .JPG) "As we approached the Tan Hill Inn, I was relieved to see that very little had changed externally in the almost twenty years since I had last been there. The weather certainly hadn’t, as we crawled along in an enveloping mist, the soft Pennine rain spattering the windscreen. At least I was in a car this time and not on foot. The pub sign advertised Black Sheep Ales, rather than Websters, one change for the better.
"Stumbling in, we complied with a sign which demanded that the outer door be shut before the inner is opened, like an airlock. We guffawed at a scrawled handwritten notice saying 'Don’t let the sheep in!'. Later, we found that this notice was perfectly serious.
 "Inside, the warmth and feelgood atmosphere hit us immediately. There were no major changes at all. From the stone-flagged floor to the beamed ceiling, everything was the same. There were still three separate rooms - the Bar, 'The Barn' and a more luxurious Residents' Lounge, which is open to all. Log fires flickered merrily, adding to the feeling of comfort and bonhomie and the place was full of merriment and chatter. Dripping cyclists regularly arrived and forced their way to the fire, where they stood steaming. A sleepy bar dog raised one eyelid from time to time and eyed them disapprovingly.
"The regular ales, which were excellently kept and promptly served, were Black Sheep Brewery’s Bitter and Riggwelter, plus Theakson’s Old Peculier and Best Bitter. The landlord kept only one guest ale, which was regularly varied. At this time it was Dent Brewery’s Aviator, a light brew which, though palatable, couldn’t hold a candle to the Black Sheep Bitter, which was in top-class condition. Also a grand brew was the Theakson’s Best Bitter, very tasty and malty with a creamy head.
 "Trying them all, I was soon in fine fettle and fit to give a song, if anyone would have tolerated it! In the old days, a good sing-round would probably have spontaneously developed, but the advent of satellite television has put paid to that. There was a small screen perched on the side of the bar and a large one which dominated the Barn, so singing was definitely out. I also noticed that the clientele had changed somewhat. There were less walkers, more cyclists and fair mix of tourists in cars, like ourselves. Despite these changes, it was still a drinker’s paradise.
"As we left, many ales later, three lambs tried to slip in past us and we had the devil of a job trying to herd them out. The bar dog was definitely not interested in helping us." The Tan Hill Inn is near Keld in North Yorkshire (DL11 6ED, Tel: 01833 628246, map, website). It's so remote it doesn't have a proper address. If you enjoyed this article, read Beer, Walks and History, my dad's own, brand new blog.
Gemma Garrett is a candidate in the upcoming Crewe and Nantwich by-election. She's also the reigning Miss GB (despite the fact she's from Belfast, which isn't in Great Britain). In Italy, she'd probably win the vote. Sadly this isn't Italy. In an interview in this week's Zoo magazine (in which she appears topless*) she says she used to work for a beer company, where she received lots of free booze. There's your link to beer. As you were.
* Topless save for the strategic "hand bra". I could get them under trade descriptions. My flatmate's money was wasted.
"Real ale . . . is the preserve of a tiny, deeply uncool subculture of old, grey-haired ramblers in rural pubs". So says Guardian blogger Tony Naylor, a gentleman possessed of a hairstyle designed to feign cool in the face of follicular disaster. I came across his article because he'd linked to one of my own to advance his argument, which is stridently pro-lager (good) and anti-real ale (bad).
Wikio has compiled a list of the most "influential" blogs in the field of gastronomy. It's here. Stonch's Beer Blog is ranked at number eight. I didn't know that writing about pubs and beer made me a gastronome. Another beer blog also made the top 100 - Pete Brown's, at number 47.
Wikio is a Swiss company that runs a search engine facility for blogs. Gastronomes are greedy sprites in pointy hats who live in gardens.
Unwilling to continue propping up my site, my dad has launched his own blog. Beer, Walks and History went live on Thursday. He's already posted three times, including a review of The Beamish Mary, a pub in No Place, County Durham.
I can tell you what my favourite song is. New England, Billy Bragg. No, wait, maybe it's Bowie's Life on Mars. Last night someone asked me to name my favourite London pub. I couldn't begin to answer, and instead stuttered out excuses. I wasn't going to say The Jerusalem Tavern: that'd be too easy, and it's hardly the perfect all-rounder. I changed the subject and slurped the dregs from a cinnamon-infused mojito (too much ice).
Dollar on Exmouth Market (EC1R 4PX) used to be a pub. It still carries Watney's branding on the presumably-protected exterior. I'm told that it had degenerated into a tittie bar for horny posties before being renovated and renamed. Upstairs, American food is served in a brash restaurant setting. The cellar no longer houses beer barrels. Instead it's given over to a cosy cocktail bar with salubrious alcoves. My sleeves were decidedly damp after leaning on the glass bar counter, where I shelled out £14 for two glasses filled primarily with frozen London tap water.
Got a bit over excited at the German beer fest last night. Am in a very bad state. Half of London has made reservations for lunch in the pub I run today. Am going to be very busy. Help.
Do you think a breakfast pint of my own, perfectly kept Timothy Taylor Landlord will make me feel better or worse?
The Zeitgeist / Bier-Mania fest continues today and tomorrow - see here for more details.
Ron's latest post is one of his best yet. It's marvellous that the person who is doing the most to research beer history is also the the field's finest writer. Read it now.
 Britain's bestest ever German beer fest starts today at 3pm, and runs through to Saturday night. It's a joint effort by Bier-Mania, Stonch's Beer Blog and the festival venue - Zeitgeist @ The Jolly Gardeners (49-51 Black Prince Road, Lambeth, SE11 6AB, map).
Come and get stuck into 19 different gravity-dispensed beers from the world's most misunderstood brewing giant. It'll be an alcoholic education. There's no cover charge, and everything is £3.50 a pint - a bargain in the circumstances. The pub's normal range of 13 draught and 23 bottled beers will also be on offer, and there's talk of a barbecue in the garden. Zeitgeist is open until 12:30am tonight and until 1:30am on Friday and Saturday, so you can really get on it. See you there. The beer list is online (part 1, part 2), but there's going to be a couple of extras. Bier-Mania is a specialist beer tour company run by Andy Neil and his wife Evi. I went on their Franconian tour last summer and we've been friends since then. Zeitgeist is London's newest and best German pub. Stonch's Beer Blog is the website you're reading.
 No, Orwell didn't include a famous Pennine pub in his dystopian masterpiece. In 1984 my dad visited The Tan Hill Inn for the first time. Next weekend he's planning to return after a gap of nearly twenty years to see what's changed. Here's his description of what it was like then, complete with photos:
"I first visited that Mecca for hill walkers, The Tan Hill Inn, in 1984, during a period of my life when I used to undertake solitary marathon walks, each night making a wilderness camp within striking distance of a pub. "It was very late in the evening when I arrived at Tan Hill. In fact it was almost completely dark and a hill-fog had set in, making my track across the boggy moors more a case of dangerous guesswork than anything else. You can imagine how relieved I felt when I saw the lights of the Inn gleaming through the gloom. No more welcome sight had I ever seen on all my wanderings!  "Inside I found a roaring fire, good companionship and excellent real ale. Though CAMRA had hardly conquered the world in those days, the innkeeper, Neil, was a true believer and had a number of well-kept casks. The first pint ‘barely touched the sides’.
I fell in with a stout-hearted painter and decorator from Leeds, Stuart, who was celebrating his 50th birthday by doing the Pennine Way. What a character he proved to be! Where is he now, I wonder? Many pints we shifted together as we sat round the fire, the session lasting through to the early hours of the morning when Neil closed the bar. "He served us a last pint then told us we could doss down in front of the fire until breakfast time. It was a decision he was to earnestly regret. Stuart snored so raucously that Neil came down at 5 am and threw us out to finish our sleep on the moor. Still, there were no hard feelings, as he served us later with a fine breakfast of Cumberland sausage and eggs for a very modest price. Plain fare and good beer, that’s what the Tan Hill Inn was all about in those days. I hope it hasn’t changed".
The Tan Hill Inn is high in the Pennines, near Keld in North Yorkshire (DL11 6ED, Tel: 01833 628246, map, website). I wrote about the landlord's bizarre legal tangle with Kentucky Fried Chicken last year, but have never been there.
American + female + London resident = quality blogger. It seems to be a cast iron rule. Only a few days ago I was praising Krista and Mo. Now Allyson has come up with this excellent post. My favourite bit? This observation from her visit to a real ale pub in West London:
As I sat sipping, the crowd of chunky men watching the footie started in on a rather ugly conversation about the government taxing white Englishmen while Muslims just get away tax-free. I thought, yeah, this is why beer culture is not considered cool in this country– there is all this racist nationalism tied up with “real ale”– a false sense of authenticity. But this is a topic for another post. I know exactly where she's coming from, and look forward to reading that promised post. Allyson writes Impy Malting, a new London beer blog. It's an offshoot from her existing site, Feral Strumpet Teatime.
 Since I became interested in beer, in a bizarre generational reversal, my parents have followed in my footsteps. They've taken to real ale with gusto. They spent last week in Wensleydale, North Yorkshire. The piece below was written by my dad:
"While staying in Hawes, we walked the idyllic path to Hardraw Village. There we enjoyed Timothy Taylor's Ram Tam at the Green Dragon Inn, which was just as good as we remembered from last time. We sat outside in a lovely outdoor space and watched the world go by whilst knocking back the dark nectar. The pub is now managed by Tim Lee, who came up from Grantham recently to do the job. I remarked on how Chinese his name sounded and he told me (seriously) that he sometimes gets misdirected mail from China!
 "I learned from Tim that when the present owner, Mark Thompson, bought the pub, it had been 'modernised' beyond all recognition: original features such as beams, exposed stone walls and fireplaces had been covered by formica and other artificial materials. Mark restored the place to the goldmine of interest that it now is. It's absolutely packed with interesting old knick-knacks, pictures and features of Yorkshire rural life.
"The pub enjoys brisk trade as it's on the Pennine Way. Every walker who passes feels obliged to visit Hardraw Force. It's reputed to be the highest single unbroken fall of water in the UK. The pub owns the rights to the land around the waterfall. "I detest modern, barn-like pubs with only a single huge room, but here there are separate rooms and little nooks and crannies where privacy can be maintained. The Green Dragon Inn is almost like a museum, and one that's well worth a visit for the atmosphere alone."
From today's Sunday Mirror:
"Colleen is determined her wedding to Wayne will be classy affair and has banned beer from the celebrations because it's 'too vulgar'".
Well. That's us told, then. I'm a little confused though - didn't they get married ages ago?
Last year there were rumours that St James's Gate Brewery - home of Guinness - would be closed, with production moving to a new site in the Dublin suburbs. Brand owner Diageo have decided not to do the unthinkable after all. The Pillar and the Met have gone, the Royal long since pulled down - but it seems the brewery is there to stay. Times Online has the story.
In June last year, I wrote this cheeky article about those (now abandoned) plans to close St James's Gate. You might also be interested in this piece about the myth of stout being an Irish innovation.
I'm tasked with picking out twelve pubs for an upcoming publication. The aim is to represent the London pub scene in all its diversity for an audience that, for the most part, will be overseas. All of the choices need to be photogenic and have a suitably interesting back story.
Suggestions?
This time next week the German beer fest at Zeitgeist will be kicking off. Andy Neil of Bier-Mania, who is bringing the beers over, has announced the final line-up (part 1, part 2). We're all ready to go. Don't miss out. Party like your name's Wolfgang, ja?
The venue - Zeitgeist - is at The Jolly Gardeners, 49-51 Black Prince Road, Lambeth, SE11 6AB (map). The fest kicks off at 3pm on Thursday 15th May and continues until 1.30am on the Saturday night. Register your support at the event listing on Facebook, and invite your pals. Join Stonch's Beer Group while you're at it. Jawohl.
My two favourite blogs right now aren't about beer. Those of you who've detected a change around here recently might not be surprised by that.
- Fresh Eyes on London is written by Mo, an American girl who gets around the capital with a camera and a keen eye for what makes this city so wonderful. In a remarkable coincidence, we were clearly within a few feet of each other on Saturday afternoon - compare the photos in my post here and hers here.
- londonelicious comes from Krista, another American. Ostensibly it's a restaurant review website, but the personal tone and the enthusiasm for her adopted home make it much more than that.
The name of this post was taken from Ken Livingstone's concession speech last week. Perhaps he'd been chopping onions.
 Even the most affluent and cultured areas have their fair share of local nutters. So it is with Hampstead village. Sitting down outside of The Duke of Hamilton on a muggy Sunday, we were joined at our picnic table by a man in drainpipe jeans and a bomber jacket covered in badges. His body seemed to be in perpetual motion as his voice rang out, disturbing the still air and those who just wanted a quiet pint.
"I need to concentrate on world peace. That has got to be my aim. The politicians have an inkling, but none have my vision".
"I have the utmost respect for Victorian architects, but things move on. These facades do not flow. I am aiming to redesign this area, much as I love it".
He was accompanied by an earnest (but uncomfortable) churchman, wet behind the ears and clad in a dress-down outfit that looked decidedly mum-bought. The younger man's glass of white wine outlasted his temporary ward's two pints of lager. The landlord stood behind us, faffing with a barbecue to avoid being drawn into the weighty discussions that unfolded. We didn't have an alibi and consequently weren't so lucky. The Duke of Hamilton is a free house at 23 New End, Hampstead, NW3 1JD (map). It's right next door to a small theatre. The beer selection includes real ales from Fullers and Sharp's, keg Meantime London Stout, Bitburger lager and Licher Weizen. It's a lovely place with something of the village pub about it.
 You'd think that seven years in London would have taught me not to arrange a rendezvous at 6pm on a Saturday outside Covent Garden tube. I'd worked up a thirst searching for my pal amongst shuffling tourists, twats pretending to be statues and gaggles of tarts on hen nights.
On our way to The Harp we passed David Bellamy bothering bystanders in a mocked-up allotment (pictured left). The old boy's still going strong at 75, even if he does have a touch of the loons. He was showing some kind of beastie to a terrified child who had been thrust forward by her parents. She probably wondered what Santa was doing in a t-shirt.
Later in the evening we stopped for a couple of outdoor pints at Porterhouse. The Dublin microbrewery's sole British outlet has never appealed to me. The oppressive industrial decor and lack of natural light would be bad enough without the constant jostling from Essex boys and Antipodeans. Thankfully, one of their beers makes it all worthwhile. Wrasslers XXXX Stout is dark, bitter and smoky. Even the dodgy nitrogenated head - creamy like shaving foam - doesn't dull the flavour. They claim it's brewed to a recipe from 1900, recreating "Michael Collins' favourite tipple". We kept an eye out for snipers. He was only 31, you know.
London's Porterhouse is at 21-22 Maiden Lane, WC2E 7NA (map, website). The beers are brewed in Dublin.
The last time I saw Boris Johnson in the flesh must have been about three years ago. "In the flesh" seems particularly appropriate, when you consider his lumbering frame and strangely proportioned face.
I'd taken the foolish decision of running down a busy Piccadilly. The traffic was held up at lights, so I leapt from the crowded pavement to sprint along the empty bus lane. I noticed a cyclist alongside me, his knees splayed wide as he panted along in his suit. His blonde hair was unkempt and his shirt tails were flying, having escaped from his bulging waistband. "Keep running, young man", he said. We kept pace for a while before I barged back on to the pavement, a number 38 bus hot on my tail.
Best of luck, Boris. Thanks for everything, Ken.
 Today, bloggers around the world are participating in the Session, a monthly event where we all write on a common, beer-related theme. Boak and Bailey are hosts for May.
Czechs honestly believe that their beer is the best in the world. They drink more of the stuff than any other nation, with 160 litres a year being consumed for every man, woman and child.
In traditional Czech pubs, the job of tapman is often reserved for the owner, his task a revered art. Waiters carry the precious cargo to those bunkered in around long tables. People of all ages and backgrounds join together as they drain mugs of foaming pivo. Beer is truly an essential for most Czechs. Indeed, working men still drink it for breakfast, a practice that used to be common here but died out many decades ago.
Of course, Czech culture is changing and diversifying as the country moves confidently forward. The brewing and pub industry might contract, but it won't go away. Beer is ingrained in the national psyche. It's almost impossible to spend time in the country and not be affected by it. That's how it was for me when I lived in Prague for six months between 2003 and 2004. I came back home a true beer lover and I've never looked back.
So is Czech beer really the best in the world? When you're in Prague, yes it is.
I haven't got time to compose something lengthy or terribly witty today, so I'll fall back on a beery anecdote I was told recently. It's about a chap who earned the nickname "Veg Stout", due to a particularly rancid display of tickeritis. A few of you will already know what a ticker is: they collect beers in the way others might collect postage stamps. Whereas philatelics can boast of catalogues filled with their paper prey, tickers end up with beer guts and a bad case of wind.
Veg Stout earned his nickname after an incident at a beer festival. Nearing the end of the session, one particularly rare stout was tapped. He knew he'd had enough, but needed that final "tick", so dutifully ordered his half pint measure. Just as he was about to raise the glass to his lips, his guts revolted, expelling their contents at high velocity. Chunks of his lunch flew into the beer. Ordinarily you'd expect a person to stagger away embarrassed, begging forgiveness and abandoning his glass. Not this chap. Undeterred, he took a swig of his own, very special, Veg Stout. And so a legend was born, a sorry tale of desperation and obsessive compulsive behaviour.
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Tennent's Super (9% abv) is a tramp's favourite. It comes from Scotland, a country associated with alcoholism, shortbread and the export of homeless people to London. Super's younger brother, a more restrained yet still rancid lager, is the country's best selling beer.
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