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Christmas at The Gunmakers
 The beer delivery is normally a happy time for publicans, even if it does require an early start. Seeing the empty barrels disappear and the stocks piled high is a joyous opening to the working week. Not so when two cretinous cack-monkeys have been sent to do the business.
I should have twigged when they couldn't open the hatch. One was a bona fide coffin dodger, the other barely out of school. The old boy followed me downstairs, chatting away manically, as the nipper stood nervously on the pavement. The first real sign of trouble came when grandad stood further away from the crash mat than I did, like a batsman scared of the ball. When an 11 gallon keg of lager smashed into a case of bottles, I grimaced and assessed the damage: I can live with losing two 33cl beers, though it's hardly ideal. Sadly, the worst was yet to come.
A firkin of Timmy Taylor came bouncing down, taking flight when my useless new friend failed to trap it with his foot. It careered off to one side, smashing into one of its brethren that I'd lovingly conditioned over the weekend. The tap was smashed clean off the stillaged cask, then ripped from the line. Beer spilled everywhere. Our pair of numb-nutted dimwits stood dumbly by as I rushed to mitigate the disaster, turning the shaken, gushing cask on its end. The young lad peered down - "well mate, your bitters are a bit close to the hatch aren't they?" It took some resolve not to drag him down by his chavvy gelled hair, snap off his head and shove it up Uncle Albert's arse.
So, thanks to a duo of dodgy draymen, I've had to call cellar maintenance out to fix a beer line, and I won't have any Timmy Taylor ready to serve until Wednesday. To add insult to injury, when I was out and about later, I spotted the same pair delivering to another boozer. They waved and smiled. I didn't.
Pictured right is a nice, old-fashioned, Whitbread dray of the horse-drawn variety. Our delivery comes in a big lorry with the name of a foreign brewer on the side. The driver doesn't wear a bowler - indeed a dunce's hat would be more appropriate.
Mann's Brown Ale is 2.8% abv. If you're American, you'd probably laugh it out of town. I doubt they send much - if any - across the Atlantic. Instead, the beer cowers in brown, half litre bottles on the shelves of Tesco stores in Britain. It coyly suggests on its label that it be used for cooking. There's even a recipe for beef stew on the back. It's as if the little chap doesn't want you to drink him. It's dark brown and opaque in the glass, with a smooth beige head that fades before long. The aroma is a little stale, musty even, like the bedroom of an old cottage that's been empty over winter. The mouthfeel offends a little with the tell-tale fizz of artificial carbonation, but it's surprisingly full-bodied for one so light. The first hit of flavour is of caramel, followed up with beef gravy. Nothing complex, but tasty and not too sweet. There's a slightly off-putting twang I've come to associate - rightly or wrongly - with malt extract homebrews. The finish is excellent: long and dry, with traces of powdery white pepper. In conclusion: this is decent. I'd probably drink it again. I'd love to try it cask conditioned, but sadly it isn't available in that form. That it's brewed under the name of a defunct London brewery by Refresh UK doesn't bother me. It's good that such a historic beer survives today.
There's a website devoted to Mann's Brown Ale here. It was first brewed at the Albion Brewery in Whitechapel in 1902. Mann, Crossman & Paulin merged with Watney's in 1959. The combined operation was then purchased by Grand Metropolitan in 1972, who closed the Whitechapel site in 1979. The entrance building was converted into flats in the 90s. Several years later, this development would provide a temporary bolthole for a certain beer writer while he dated a girl who lived there. The Mann family name has been dragged through the dirt recently thanks to naughty scion Simon.
This flyer for The Pembury Tavern in Hackney promises some pretty saucy entertainment. Sadly, it dates back to the late 70s.
Once, when I lived in Prague, I was kicked in the face by a stripper as she span round on the pole. It was in Jags (Skorepa 7, Prague 1), a tiny place we often used to kick the night off. You knew you'd been there too long when the rotation of dancers came full circle. The beer on offer was Krusovice. The owner had a mullet. I remember it with nothing but fondness, to the extent I wouldn't ever go back for fear of ruining the memories.
 Lots of pubs suffer from nuisance neighbours. When the government liberalised licensing hours a few years ago, landlords were encouraged to apply for extensions as a matter of course. When local residents were notified of these applications, wrong-headed challenges were mounted across the country, often led by celebrities. The reality, as we all know, is that 24 hour drinking never came to pass. After all, staying open into the night is rarely attractive to those who work in the pub trade: the extra turnover simply doesn't justify the anti-social hours.
Back then, the tenants of a community pub near my flat were instructed by their brewery to apply for a licence to serve until 2am on special occasions. They were a lovely old couple who wouldn't have dreamed of serving past eleven in any event, but orders are orders. The stress and upset caused to them by snooty neighbours who launched a campaign of vilification nearly drove them out of the trade altogether. There are people on my street I won't ever look in the eye again after witnessing the harm their ignorant, knee-jerk reaction caused to two people who were pillars of Clerkenwell community when I was a toddler on Tyneside.
In case you're wondering, my pub suffers no such problems. We never serve past eleven, and we get on fine with those who live and work alongside us. However, other places I frequent live under constant threat of unreasonable neighbours. These are people who've moved right next door to a pub, and then have the temerity to try and hound it out of business.
This may sound over the top, but to me Britain's pub culture is one of the very best things our country has to offer: when it comes to boozers, we're champions of the world. If the NIMBY faction get their way, you can kiss goodbye to that. Love your local, and learn to live with the occasional annoyances it might cause you.
I spotted the sign in the photo outside of The Yorkshire Grey in Fitzrovia (46 Langham Street, W1W 7AX, map). The pub is an absolute delight, though quieter than a morgue most of the time. Like all Sam Smith's pubs in London, they don't play any music and don't open late. Despite this, they seem to have had problems with those living nearby. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to move to a street close to Oxford Circus if you wanted a quiet life, eh?
Pubs that serve past 11pm on a Tuesday night are few, even in the heart of London. When the midnight hour approaches, they take on a sinister aspect. The staff are edgy, desperate to get home. The punters know these last drinks are a mistake, any meagre pleasure to be paid back in the morning as they tumble into hangover hell. They have their uses though: when you've worked all day in a pub, sometimes you long for an after hours pint in someone else's gaff. That's my excuse for breaking my self-imposed Wetherspoons ban tonight.
The Sir John Oldcastle is a classic 'Spoons: converted from offices, unlovely location, dreadful atmosphere. Flashing fruit machines and a forest of tacky posters and table-top menus dominate the vista. The scattered, low level furniture is reminscent of an airport departure lounge. Looking around, one sees drinkers conspicuously failing to enjoy themselves. Time to go home.
The Sir John Oldcastle is at 29-35 Farringdon Road (EC1M 3JF, map). We each drank a pint of Itchen Valley Winchester Ale. At 4.2% abv it was a decent, malty pint with a pleasing red hue.
 On Saturday I was boozing at Borough Market with my mate Alec. He reminded me of another time we'd met for a drink, back in our university days.
We were sitting outside of The King's Arms on the Broad in Oxford. It was summer, and term had finished. We were about to head of up to the Edinburgh Festival to put on a show, and were taking a break from rehearsals. One of us went in to get the pints. Mine was a Stella. This was back in the day when the lager had yet to earn the "wifebeater" tag, and was still considered to be "reassuringly expensive". Alec, being a posh Old Etonian with tastes more refined than mine, had opted for Young's Bitter.
Unfortunately, the two very different beers had been poured into identical, unmarked pint glasses. They were indistinguishable to our untrained eyes. We sat pondering this problem in the sun, as cyclists ambled past and grotesque stone heads glowered down from Wren's Sheldonian Theatre. In the end, I took a sip of each, and confidently declared which was which. After a few more gulps, we decided I'd got it wrong and swapped again. Eyeing each other nervously as we drank, we never were quite sure.
This, from a man who - less than a decade later - professes to be a beer writer.
The King's Arms (known locally as "The KA") is at 40 Holywell Street, Oxford (OX1 3SP, map). It's one of two Young's pubs in the city. I'm barred from the other one.
 Last year I wrote about the savage prices of bottled beers at Brew Wharf in Borough Market. Well, I was there again on Saturday night, and was amused to see that they've excelled themselves. A 500ml bottle of Bernard Dark - an admittedly excellent lager from the Czech Republic - costs £7.50. That's ludicrous even in the context of their otherwise overpriced list. I happen to know precisely what the wholesale price of the beer is, and can offer no explanation for their mark-up.
I think it's common sense that upmarket bars and restaurants will charge more for beer than backstreet boozers. However, no one in their right mind is going to pay £7.50 for less than a pint of lager - even if it's a very good one. The fact is, nobody does. Looking around, the boys and girls filling the tables were more interested in wines and spirits as they watched Russia unexpectedly trounce the Netherlands.
Brew Wharf (website) occupies impressive premises on the edge of Borough Market in London. It's attached to Vinopolis, the wine museum. It opened in the autumn of 2005. The venue hosts a microbrewery, visible behind a glass screen in the restaurant area. However, on Saturday neither of the two handpumps on the bar were dispensing the house beers.
 Are we unfair to Greene King IPA? I imagine that few of you who read this website would have a kind word to say about it, but it's been named Champion Beer Bitter of Britain. That decision - at the 2004 Great British Beer Festival - might be the most controversial incident in CAMRA's history. A lot of people cried foul, saying that the result was less than legit.
Greene King is Britain's biggest producer of cask ale. The neo-national brewer has an unfortunate habit of buying up and closing down regionals, assimilating their brands into its own portfolio and producing them at the mothership in Bury St Edmunds. Hardy's & Hanson's, Morrells and Ridley's don't exist as breweries anymore, but you'll see them as fake guest beers in GK tied houses. Someone I know is taking on the lease of a pub tied to Greene King in a few weeks. It's a great opportunity, and doubtless I'll visit fairly often. This led me to think about the brewery's beers. I can only name one I've enjoyed - a summer seasonal - but I'm now wondering whether or not I'm simply prejudiced against them, my mind poisoned by the bad feeling surrounding GK's acquisitive antics. Perhaps I need to try them again with an open mind. Pictured right is a sign I spotted today on the outside of Compton's, a gay pub on Old Compton Street, Soho's main drag. It celebrates Greene King IPA being named Champion Beer Bitter of Britain four summers ago.
 A party of 21 rugby players are coming to our pub for a slap-up, lunchtime feast today. A herd of cows have been slaughtered so that our burly chums can chow down on the finest rib eye. Meanwhile, a quieter but more interesting event will be taking place on the premises: the editor of What's Brewing? will be hosting a beer tasting session in the afternoon.
Earlier in the week, three major regional breweries couriered polypins of ale to us. The beers are Wells & Young's Burning Gold, Adnams East Green and Shepherd Neame Canterbury Jack. They're all ready for gravity dispense down in the cellar (pictured right), perched above the bottled mixers on a stainless steel shelf. That means I'm going to be up and down those stairs with a jug every time someone rocks up for a snifter.
All that, and I've still got to serve the kids their pints of lager. Gadzooks, as our Mayor might say.
A comment left in response to Monday's post about the GBBF riles me somewhat. In the past I've been criticised for being too cheery, so I thought I'd let off some steam. Here's the offending missive:
"Got to admit Friday is the best night 700 beers and the group in front of me are asking whats the best beer for us lager drinkers .GBBF is now part of the social circuit definitly one fest worth missing unless your a blogger." To all those who agree with that: I'm not writing for you. Plenty of other people on the internet are. Off you go.
As part of a general shit-stirring post last year, I asked you to name the beer you think is most overrated. Let's do the same for pubs in London - which places get the most undeserved praise?
I'll plump for The Bree Louise, the grim little alehouse I wrote about on Monday. Inexplicably, it's won plaudits from the folks at CAMRA, including a coveted Good Beer Guide entry and a local branch award.
 In April I was at the opening night of The Betjeman Arms in St Pancras Station. There's nothing like a free blag in magnificient surroundings. Sadly, on the evening in question the pub's eponymous house ale - specially commissioned from Sharp's of Cornwall - wasn't yet available. I've been told the delay was down to copyright issues over an image used on the pumpclip. It's a picture of Sir John laughing like a loon whilst hanging on to his hat.
On Sunday I returned to the pub to try Betjeman Ale for the first time. It's now the pub's best seller. As can be seen from the sandwich board at street level, the management are keen to push the house beer to the fore, ensuring rapid turnover. Served in dimpled mugs, it's a lively, golden ale that settles out to leave a tight, creamy head. The first sip is gentle, with the malt dominating right through to a grainy aftertaste. Those who expect a light-bodied, floral character will be surprised: this might not look like a traditional English bitter, but it certainly tastes like one. Some beers grab your attention and hold on to it. Not this one - it's a simple brew that slips down easily. That's probably wise considering the setting. After all, the passing trade at The Betjeman Arms are going places. Bon voyage.The Betjeman Arms is upstairs at St Pancras International Station, Pancras Road, London NW1 2QP (map). Sharp's Brewery was founded in 1994 in Rock, Cornwall (website). Its most famous beer is Doom Bar.
My tickets for the Great British Beer Festival's opening session arrived today. If you can go then - it's supposed to be trade only - you'll find all the beers will be in top condition and the atmosphere most relaxed. Alternatively, go on the Friday night when things get nice and lairy and the notebook-tickers are trampled underfoot by hordes of people who've come to enjoy themselves.
This year's GBBF runs from 5th-9th August and will be held, once again, at Earl's Court in West London. Further details are on CAMRA's website. You can read my report on last year's proceedings here. I enjoyed myself at the GBBF, something that can't be said about some other festivals.
 Quite how a corner pub can be so devoid of natural light is beyond me. A featureless interior offers only uniform rows of tables, filled with less-than-pretty punters. Getting to the bar is made difficult by a cordon of orange tape. It surrounds an area in which a metal pole props up a dangerously bulging, discoloured ceiling. Most pubs would close if suffering major structural problems - you have to admire their indefatigability.
The Bree Louise by Euston Station - long considered a dedicated real ale pub - recently stepped up a gear by making room behind the bar for five casks on stillage in addition to the same number of handpumps. When we visited early on Saturday evening, however, only six beers were available for dispense. We ordered two pints of a superlative mild, served straight from the barrel in perfect condition. Consolation for our dismal surroundings in hand, we retreated to the pavement tables. The street outside isn't very nice, particularly when dusk gives way to darkness. The Bree Louise is certainly a locals pub - but when the locality's like this, I'm not sure that's something to boast about. A selection of unsavouries stumbled past as we slurped away at our beer. "I'm going in for a piss - if I don't come back, call the Police but please save yourself". As I left the Bree Louise, never to return, I spotted a certificate on the wall. It told me that this is the local branch of CAMRA's Pub of the Season for Spring 2008. I think the landlord's lucky to be able to display a licence, let alone an award. The Bree Louise is at 69 Cobourg St, London, NW1 2HH (map). On presentation of a CAMRA membership card, they'll give you a 50p discount on a pint.
On Thursday leading Tory David Davis announced his bizarre decision to resign his Parliamentary seat to force an unnecessary by-election. His speech outside Parliament sounded like the kind of drunken, incoherent rant a publican might hear from an unwelcome regular.
Last year I wrote about "smoke rebel" Hamish Howitt. He's the owner of a minging Blackpool drinking den who's determined to "fight" the ban on smoking in enclosed public places. So far his loony efforts have earned him a few press articles, a trip to the Magistrates Court and a £500 fine. Now he's scented an opportunity to make a tit of himself again. He's announced he's standing in the by-election for Haltemprice and Howden against David Davis. The Morning Advertiser has the story.
You can read more from this blog about the ban on smoking in enclosed public places (including pubs) here. It's been in place for almost a year now, and I've not heard of a single quality pub that has had to close as a result. Meanwhile, sales of cigarettes have fallen. Seems like a successful policy to me - but then I don't smoke.
InBev's offer is on the table. Speculation that the Brussels-based, multinational brewing concern would swoop on smaller rival Anheuser-Busch reached fever pitch earlier in the month. On Wednesday, a formal offer was made to shareholders. If successful, this takeover will mean that ownership of all three of the American brewing giants - A-B, Miller and Coors - will be in foreign hands. Miller was acquired by South African Breweries in 2002. Coors merged with Molson, the dominant Canadian brewer, in 2005. In the brewing world, at least, it doesn't look like we're living in the New American Century.
InBev is the world's second largest brewing concern, snapping at the heels of SABMiller, which has its headquarters in London. Anheuser-Busch is America's largest brewery, and is ranked fourth internationally. It's responsible for inflicting Budweiser on the world, blackening the name of a South Bohemian city in the process.
A pub in North London has drafted in a hairdresser to boost business. On Tuesday night you can have your hair cut while supping at The Dartmouth Arms in Tufnell Park. BBC News Online has the story.
The article says this is an effort to "beat the credit crunch", as opposed to a leaf from David Davis's Big Book of Crass Publicity Stunts. I've heard it said that brewers and publicans do just fine in times of adversity. Even during wars and recessions, British people still want a pint. Aren't we brilliant?
 St John is a Smithfield institution. It's often listed among London's best restaurants. They sell bone marrow and whole suckling pigs. The waiters are dressed like chefs. They bake their own bread. It has a simple, rustic interior. These are all good things.
There are three handpumps on the bar. Only the so-so Wadworth 6X from Devizes was available last night, Black Sheep Bitter having just run out. The third handle looked totally redundant. A keg font offers two beers from Meantime of Greenwich. I hadn't tried Kölner (4.8% abv) before. I won't again. Absolutely dreadful - cardboard in abundance. Helles (4.4% abv) was more enjoyable, but only marginally better than a mass-produced lager.
My companion stuck to the wine list. Next time I'll take her lead.
St John is at 26 St John Street (EC1M 4AY, website).
Sunday's post sparked off a discussion about the handling and transport of cask beer. The consensus seems to be that real ale is best enjoyed close to where it's brewed, with lengthy journeys avoided where possible.
Today I received a newsletter from the British Beer and Pub Association. The front page splash celebrates the 500th cask of Fullers ESB served in St Urtho's pub in Helsinki, Finland. Clearly the landlord there - Esa Mustonen - doesn't share our concerns. He's been serving the beer since 1999.
 St Albans is outside of London, but it isn't grim at all. In fact, it proves that life outside of our nation's glorious and everlasting capital is not only possible, but in some cases desirable. If you take a stroll through the town - as we did in January of last year - you'll be tripping over proper drinkers' pubs, many of them with beer gardens. I was there again on Sunday with a mate, touring a few boozers including The Lower Red Lion, The Farmer's Boy and The White Lion.
When passing by the cathedral, we came across this graffiti in a narrow passageway. Perhaps someone from CAMRA did it - they're headquartered in the town, after all.
Hertfordshire Constabulary are searching for bearded, middle-aged men in fleeces and hiking boots. They may be wielding permanent marker pens. The public are advised that they're harmless, but probably shouldn't be approached anyway.
Good news for London lager fans. The Pembury Tavern has just started dispensing Taddington Moravka, the lager I evangalised about after my trip up to the brewery in the Peak District (read more here). Steve - the pub's landlord - came to our tasting session at The Jerusalem Tavern last month. He was so taken with the beer he decided to become the first in the capital to sell Britain's best lager on a permanent basis.
The Pembury Tavern is at 90 Amhurst Road, E8 1JH (Tel: 020 8986 8597, website). It's well served by a number of bus routes (including my favourites the 38 and 55) and is within spitting distance of Hackney Central station. I've written about it before a few times.
 Southwold's Victorian brewer and America's embattled giant aren't really squaring up for a scrap. However, they are competing for the attention of busy passers-by in Central London. All along High Holborn - one of the capital's key thoroughfares - bus shelters proclaim Adnam's Spindrift ale (reviewed here). Meanwhile, premium bottled lager Michelob from A-B is plastered across the side of black cabs.
It's interesting to see a regional brewer adopting the same tactics as a massive multinational. Adnams has become increasingly common across the country in recent years, and looks to be making a bid to join its former peers who have attained neo-national status.
Adnams of Suffolk needs no introduction, but Michelob might. It's a lager from the makers of American Budweiser. It's been all-malt (i.e. brewed without adjuncts such as corn or rice) since early 2007. Whoever's selling it to the on-trade is doing a good job: sleek little bottles of the stuff are appearing in bars and clubs across London. I've had a few recently when faced with fridges of horrors in loud and dark environments. I'd have to admit it isn't too bad as mass-produced lagers go, although given a proper choice I'd leave it be.
I like to think my interest in beer has reached a state of equilibrium. It'll be with me for life, but my enthusiasm's at a gentle simmer rather than an uncontrolled, rolling boil. Perhaps that's why you and I keep disagreeing about things, dear reader. More of you visit than ever before, but with those who've been here from the beginning, the relationship's less cosy. Don't say you haven't noticed. There's no point in kidding ourselves.
A year ago, if you'd asked me what my favourite beer was, I'd have ducked the question. "Too many to name", I might have said. "Changes every day", perhaps. "I haven't had it yet", even. I couldn't even have done you a Hornby-esque top five. No more. I know what my favourite beer is. It's made in Keighley, West Yorkshire, and it's called Landlord. Thank you, Timothy Taylor.
On Saturday night we hosted an engagement party in the pub. Half of London's Greek community descended on our little house and kept us up to the early hours, drinking us out of Smirnoff, Jack Daniels and Courvoisier. Lovely people. They could drink and drink, then come back for more - and they did. I didn't dispense a single ale, unless you count the half of bitter shandy I made for one of the grandads. However, one of the handpumps did see some action - I needed rehydration.
I'd pressed a fresh cask of Landlord into service on Friday evening, when its predecessor spluttered its last. I find that 24 hours in, the beer's at its best. Saturday confirmed that. If you were only allowed to sniff it, you'd still worship this aromatic yet unattainable beauty. Taking a break from slinging together ever-more ridiculous spirit and mixer combos (amaretto and cranberry, anyone?), I pulled a quick two-thirds of a pint (my standard measure when working). Apparently we only have about 10,000 taste buds, but it seemed like ten million were awoken as the beer washed down. For a moment, my face was a picture of total bliss, despite the three-deep crowd at the bar. "You like that, don't you mate?" intoned a be-frocked, sultry lovely in purest Estuary. "Yes. Yes, I do".
 There can be few head brewers who are willing to give up their spare time to lead crowds of aleheads around their deserted premises on a school night. Miles Jenner is exceptional. Vertically restrained, white-suited and brown-loafered, he talked enthusiastically in honey-dipped RP as he led us through Harvey's historic but working brewery.
 The building itself is a Victorian Gothic delight ( pictured right), constructed at a cost of £8000 in 1880 alongside the original Georgian brewhouse. Although it was extended in the 1980s to double capacity, the new section blends almost seamlessly with the original. There were many highlights during the two hour tour. The old-fashioned brew kettle (pictured left) may only be a decade old, but it replaced one of near-identical dimensions that had been in use for a century. By the head brewer's office sit two working steam engines, fired up once a year on Christmas Eve. In the store, we grabbed handfuls of English hops, revelling in the aroma of our own native varieties. Peering into open fermenters is always a joy, even when a blast of CO2 punches you in the face. One interesting piece of news emerged during the tour: later this year, a new five barrel microplant will be constructed within the brewery's confines . A new, deeper well has been sunk for the purpose, to draw water more closely resembling that used in the brewery's early days. Miles plans to brew from logs inherited from his predecessors. Although Harvey's today is known for it's low strength beers - John Hop at 1% abv, anyone? - he'll be embracing higher gravities as he plunders the old recipes. A mild ale with an original gravity of 1055 is likely to be the first. Even when doing something new and exciting, Harvey's looks to the past.  The tasting room was decorated with tiles bearing an old slogan: "Many a soul hath found good cheer / In harmony with Harvey's beer". That's as true today as when it was first penned, judging by the faces of those who stood around us. They were, as you'd expect, an odd bunch. As Miles poured beer into plastic glasses as fast as he could ( pictured right), they were passed down a (more or less) human chain of frenzied fanatics. We stuck around for a couple of halves, before thanking our host and striking out for The Lewes Arms. There we sat on the terrace as evening drew in, surrounded by ancient brickwork, knocking back local beer in the town's most celebrated pub. The Bridge Wharf Brewery, home of Harvey's, is on Cliffe High Street, Lewes, East Sussex, BN7 2AH. The website is charmingly clunky. The Lewes Arms (Mount Place, BN7 1YH, map) became nationally famous last year when locals led a succesful boycott, forcing owners Greene King to restore local beer to the bar (read more here). On our visit, three Harvey's beers were available, and no-one was touching the GK IPA or Abbot Ale.
 Will Beckett has been commissioned to write an online series called "Beer Guerilla" for the Guardian. Will's a director of Underdog, a company that operates top-notch pubs, bars and restaurants. The group includes Canonbury's Marquess Tavern, where we met recently. We shared a pot of tea (nice china), as I eyed down the quality bottled beer selection in the fridges.
In his own words:
"The idea is that I'm going to do all sorts of guerilla beer tastings, so look forward to tastings with NF hooligans, strippers, midgets, Gordon Ramsay, the cast of Emmerdale, the Women's Institute and more. I'd love to receive comments and suggestions (and maybe a little provocative abuse), so please check it out!" Here's a link to the section, which also includes articles by other writers. Pictured is Will on his first assignment: sharing a few beers with the girls at an unidentified strip club. Lets hope he doesn't get headbutted by the NF or slow-clapped by the WI.
 You've got to love Harvey's. It's a brewery that simply won't change with the times. This week I took delivery of my first cask of their Best Bitter. It looks like it's been through the wars. The keystone is made of wood, as opposed to the plastic that's now industry standard.
I approached the counter-intuitive task of hammering a plastic tap through a piece of wood with trepidation. "Whack it, don't tap it" said my pal Roy Disco, as he supped a pint of Landlord in the cellar, watching me tackle the precious barrel. Bang. Not a drop spilled.
Harvey's is in Lewes, East Sussex. I visited the town and wrote about the pubs we visited in June of last year. Back then, we gazed wistfully at the outside of the brewery, but didn't gain admittance. This evening, I'm going down there for a tour. I've been rather looking forward to it, to be honest.
 Running a pub can seem a little like Groundhog Day at times. You need to learn to cherish amusing incidents.
Last night, three italoinglese gents passed by with an old-fashioned, hand cranked street organ. They'd been playing at a party around the corner. Despite the fact it was bucketing down with rain, they stopped and gave us an impromtu concert. An Aussie bird who'd been getting pissed up on Pinot danced under her umbrella as they played - pretty lively for a Tuesday night.
The lads joined us for a pint on the house and promised to return soon. Sadly, we'll have to supply our own monkey.
 The Square and Compass is famous. Well, not properly famous, like Trevor Macdonald or Cheryl Tweedy, but it's certainly noted among pub lovers. It's appeared in every edition of CAMRA's Good Beer Guide, and has been in the hands of the same family for a century. We visited twice during our boozy trip to Dorset over the last bank holiday weekend.
The pub overlooks the English Channel. Our mobile phones spat out "welcome to France" messages as they switched over to a foreign network. Two things stand out: inside there's a museum (which houses an exhibit labelled as "fossilised crocodile turd"), but no bar. Instead, beers and ciders are served directly from the barrel in a narrow back room, and passed to punters who queue at a hatch. The building is as authentic as it comes - the flagstones and open beams of pub fantasy are there in spades. The only proper foodstuffs on offer were excellent pasties. In an area where so many other beautiful pubs are given over entirely to "country dining", this came as something of a relief. I can confirm that smashing four pasties for your dinner is a drunken delight. Although the interior, beer garden and pasties were outstanding, the beer wasn't quite as hot on our visit. All of the ales were as flat as a gaggle of topless witches. That can't entirely be attributed to the method of dispense: liberal use of hard spiles would improve matters. Among the four beers on offer, only one - a mild (name escapes me) - was really special. Still, it's only beer. A pint of headbanging local cider sent us over the edge before bedtime.
The Square and Compass is in Worth Matravers, near Swanage in Dorset (BH19 3LF, map).
 Nicholson's is a company that operates four dozen pubs in Central London. All of their houses are fairly strong on cask ale and most have well-preserved period interiors. Sadly, they all suffer from a somewhat corporate feel (tip: don't make your staff wear any kind of uniform - you run boozers, not airport coffee shops).
A real stand out is art deco masterpiece The Blackfriar (174 Queen Victoria St, EC4V 4EG, map). It's right by the railway station of the same name, within spitting distance of where the River Fleet escapes its subterranean confines and cascades into the Thames. The pub was built on the site of a monastery, inspiring much of the ornate ceramic work both inside and out. It has a reputation for not being easy on the nose (dodgy drains) but the beer's usually pretty good.
Some time ago I spotted this sign outside The Magpie, a Nicholson's pub by Bishopsgate, telling of the company's origins as a Clerkenwell gin distiller. You'll need to click on it for a closer view. You knew that. You aren't stupid.
Nicholson's is owned by Mitchells & Butlers, and has an online presence here.
If a brewery fails to supplying a pumpclip, it can scupper a cask ale's debut at the bar. Inventive publicans and their staff need to work around such problems. At my local The Betsey Trotwood they've got this arty effort on display. They've now found the proper badge, but have decided to stick with the homespun one a little longer.
 Boris, you are a silly tart. I remember seeing you take a bread bun to the forehead a decade ago as you gave an after-dinner speech. The guy who launched it was a notorious see-you-en-tee, and he put a fair welly on it, but you didn't even flinch. But the moment we give you a bit of authority, you ban boozing on the tube. The rule took effect yesterday at midnight.
In order to defy our new mayor's dictat, Londoners took to the tunnels and trains yesterday with drinks in hand. On the way to a party, myself and Clio Jon armed ourselves with cans of Guinness Original (the lesser of many, many evils) and slugged away with gusto.
Boris Johnson is London's new right wing mayor. To read more about his ban on drinking on the London Underground, check out this article on BBC News Online. Apparently some folks got a little over excited and misbehaved. We didn't. We're just Mark and Jeremy from Peep Show. We don't mean any harm.
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The beer delivery is normally a happy time for publicans, even if it does require an early start. Seeing the empty barrels disappear and the stocks piled high is a joyous opening to the working week. Not so when two cretinous cack-monkeys have been sent to do the business.
