Beer Advent Calendar

Day of Bengal

2011-12-25T21:14:00.000Z

And so we draw the calendar to a close after yet another year of mostly regular updates, meandering commentaries and the kind of simile that works harder than most people throughout the entire year with about as much appreciation.

It's been an altogether blander affair this year. Barring a few extremely notable exceptions, the beers have been fairly one-track and uninspiring and the same can be said for some of the entries too.

Maybe that's down to waning inspiration or perhaps it's because I've had a considerably less eventful December in 2011. There's something to be said for the theory that creativity is frequently heightened by distress or borderline depression. So in a way, it is heartening to note it's been much more difficult to assign as much importance to the blog this year than I did in 2010. But it's a funny one to ponder. Would you prefer inspiration or contentment? Can the two coexist? And wouldn't this be much better if I had a pint?

As for the last question, I can think of only one way to answer that. And to round things off, a beer that's as London as you could hope for. Brewed by Fuller, Smith & Turner of Chiswick, it's an India Pale Ale like many I've had this year. Not a daftly hoppy one either, but robust and interesting enough.

It's doubtful you'd call this a craft ale like some I've had this month, but I really don't mind that. You feel like you can have a full pint of it without having to fawn over how amazingly well it's been balanced and how wonderfully pungent the new world hops are. Not that I mind any of that, but sometimes you just want a beer and this is just one of those.

Beer: Fullers Bengal Lancer

Strength: A strong yet perfectly feasible 5.3%

Colour: Standard beer light orange.

Smell: Standard beery smell, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing noxious. If anything, slightly fresh smelling, like just-washed woolens.

Tasting notes: Sharp, crisp and with admirable fortitude. Every other cliche you can think of to describe what's a genuinely tip top IPA. Whether it would qualify as one in the strictest sense is really neither here nor there with me today. I'm being seasonably charitable, but I think this beer deserves it. There is a faint taste of Christmas about it too. Peppery and spicy at first, just a smidgin of fruitiness later. Well done, Fuller's.

Gut reaction: I'm marking it down here as it's already not sitting comfortably on my Christmas dinner.

Session factor: Not today, but another time I'll gladly neck a few of these in one go.

Arbitrary score: 258

Come Wandle with me

2011-12-24T19:48:00.000Z

Christmas Eve is here and off we go to bed. Except that we don't. Not all of us. For there are still one of two bits of unfinished business to attend to, including presents to wrap (all of them) and the last of the beers to get through.

In truth, I'm not really looking forward to it and I might well leave one of them till tomorrow. The back end of this stinker of a cold along with the tiredness only a two-day break in Amsterdam can bring about has taken some of the enthusiasm away.

And well it might. I had a long day yesterday that started out in a hotel near Leidseplein, took in a Vlaamse Frites takeaway joint, a cookie shop, the Belgian beer bar, a full-on bonkers bike ride in the famous Amsterdam drizzle, the Burger Meester, a second-floor flat atop a mental spiral staircase and a mad dash to the airport.

As is often the way with these things, the ability to chat freely and easily with fellow barflies can open up whole worlds of possibilities and yesterday was no exception. I'll never forget hurtling along cobbled streets in the front of a trolley bike with an unkempt dog barking for all he was worth and cars screeching to a halt in their eagerness to give way to the pedal-powered vehicle. I'm told bike is king in Holland and they frown on car/bike interfaces. It's always the car driver's fault no matter who is really in the wrong - a good way of running things if you ask me.

Even despite the relatively early night I had, I still woke up this morning feeling like I needed another few hours. And it's only now, almost 24 hours since I left the place, that I'm beginning to feel like I've shaken off the cloying, debilitating blanket Amsterdam tends to wrap you in.

But in just a few hours' time, all this will be forgotten. Beer will be drunk, presents will be wrapped and the hour when I can sleep again will be upon me. And then it's Christmas.

Beer: Sambrook's Wandle

Strength: A mercifully manageable 4.2%

Colour:Mash tun copper.

Smell: First impression was of a slight vinegary feel, but that must have been the salad dressing I had earlier. It has a distinctly earthy aroma about it, though. Trodden earth like you get in parks.

Tasting notes: There isn't much wrong with this at all. Brewed slightly stronger than its draught counterpart, it's nevertheless a classic session beer that has just enough body about it to hold its own while also having that gentle hoppy aftertaste that begs another helping. While there are no big flavours here, there is everything you'd want in a beer of this nature. Light, refreshing, easy on the eye and unburdened by pretension or ostentation.

Gut reaction: It's a bit belchy, but nothing overly dramatic.

Session factor: Stratospheric.

Arbitrary score:140

Dutch courage

2011-12-22T13:08:00.000Z

The internet is so commonplace these days, it's sometimes easy to forget it wasn't really there 20 years ago. You can do so much you could only have dreamed of in the not-too-distant past, it's scary. Like update a blog, for example.
And that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Because when you read this, I'll be several ales and maybe one or two Jenevers to the good in Amsterdam on the works Christmas party. We've clearly had a good year in 2011. In all honesty, I think I'm probably too ill to appreciate it, but we'll see how the Dutch gin deals with the sinuses and I'll report back tomorrow.

Holland isn't exactly famous for its brewing industry. If you take Heineken and Amstel out of the equation any way. But there are one or two fine beer makers out there, which I intend seeking out the day after our celebrations when most of my colleagues will be on their way home.

The Amsterdam 'brown bar' is something I've never really patronised to a large extent before, but I'll be seeking a few out tomorrow. Essentially, they are old, traditional places with dark brown wood panels on the walls (hence 'brown bar'). The few I've seen pictures of look brilliant. Like a Dutch equivalent of an old man's pub. I'm really looking forward to unearthing a few and, if any of them sell De Molen beers, so much the better.

But just having a pleasant afternoon wandering round the concentric canals without much to worry about will be nice. It's a terrific place to mooch around in and once you get over the initial weirdness of the all touristy stuff, there's a lot to see.

And with any luck, this stupid cold will be a distant memory by then.

Beer: London Fields Brewery Hackney Hopster

Strength: 4.7%

Colour: Joe, Joe. It's that lager colour again, Joe.

Smell: Not unpleasantly floral. And sharp enough to cut right through the blocked sinuses.

Tasting notes: Good heavens, it's like Lemsip. Now it could be that I'm imagining this, but after the initial rush of bog-standard 'best bitter in a bottle' disappointment, there's a huge rush of citrus that genuinely makes me feel I'm downing an alcoholic cold remedy. Not quite Night Nurse in a glass as there isn't a great deal of body about this and the finish is sadly all too brief, but I'm almost feeling a few more swigs of this will see me through the night. There's precious little fizz about it, though, which is why it also feels like it's been poured straight out of a barrel.

Session factor: Fairly high, I'd say. Little carbonation, average strength and light enough to slug back with abandon.

Arbitrary score: 17

Indian brown ailment

2011-12-21T21:03:00.003Z

December. I always forget how inappropriate a month it is for tackling an advent calendar such as this. I know I've bleated on about the party season getting in the way and all that, but I forgot one crucial factor. The inevitable cold.

As I sit here typing this, my nose is both blocked and streaming. I can barely hear anything. The raw, red marks around my nostrils are glowing so much they're putting dear old Rudolph to shame. My throat feels like it's been ripped out, dipped in kerosene, dragged over several car accidents' worth of broken windscreen and stuffed back in the wrong way round.

Then there's my poor eyes, squinting out of my puffed up face like bloodshot pissholes in the snow. Yep. I'm properly ill. And it's no coincidence, is it? It's December, of course, and the combination of cold, wet weather, late nights and general exhaustion brought on by the rush before Christmas means I've practically invited this virus round for the holiday season. Sure, make yourself at home, stick around, I'm not busy.

Now I like a good moan as much as any man, but what makes this particular illness doubly irksome is that it means I can barely pick out any subtle flavours in any of the beers I'm drinking. So from Sunday evening onwards, most of the assessments have been a combination of educated guesswork and previous experience, mixed in with a thin coating of Lockets for good measure.

Hardly the judgements of a refined palate, then. But never mind. Only a few more days left before I can hang up my bottle opener for at least another 11 months. Best get on with it. These beers won't drink themselves, will they?

Beer: Kernel Brewery Indian Brown Ale

Strength: A hopefully virus-defeating 7.4%

Colour: Brown. Really very dark brown. The darkest brown I've seen for a while.

Smell: You're kidding, right? At a push, I can just about smell some hops and yeast, the latter probably because I fucked up the pouring again.

Tasting notes: Again, it's remarkably difficult to comment when practically everything you use to detect flavour has been annihilated by this pesky disease. OK, it's not really a disease, but it bloody feels like it. I have, however, discovered that if you drink it fairly quickly, then burp a bit, you get a fairly big taste hit, so in the absence of any taste bud sensitivity, that'll have to do. It's sad, because I get the feeling this is a really lovely beer. I can't pick up much about the first gulp, but you do get a lovely, tart malty coating over your tongue as the taste subsides which, at the moment, is really pleasant and almost therapeutic. Yes, there's bitterness too, which is nice. Makes me feel like I'm drinking some kind of citrus fruit drink packed with vitamin C. Unfortunately, that's all I can give at the moment. What I will say is that I feel much better at the end of the glass than I did at the beginning.

Session factor: Not huge, but I wouldn't mind a few in one sitting given different circumstances.

Arbitrary score: 9.9

Breakfast of champignons

2011-12-20T20:32:00.003Z

There's probably some perfectly reasonable explanation behind it, but you have to admire the sheer audacity and recklessness of calling a beer Breakfast Stout.

I woke up in morning and got myself a beer, crooned Jim Morrison, in a fairly ostentatious display of bravado and insouciance designed to appeal to rebels and poster buyers the world over. Bet he didn't help himself to one of these, though. Would have flattened the bugger, I reckon.

And weighing in at a terrifying 9.3%, I'm not surprised. If you can down something like this for breakfast, you have to have the constitution of an Indian elephant that's spent its entire life cleaning out vindaloo pans. Imagine sitting down to a couple of slices of toast and a bottle of this before heading out to work. Unthinkable.

Has to be another reason. Maybe it's stout for people who haven't had one for a while and this one breaks their stout fast. Perhaps it's thus named to remind you it needs drinking first, before any other inferior stouts get in the way. It could even be that it's so full-bodied it constitutes an actual meal and the most important one of the day at that.

Whatever the truth behind it, there's no denying it's a drink that would raise a few eyebrows when ordered at a bar.

Beer: Kernel Brewery Breakfast Stout

Strength: A liver-bothering 9.3%

Colour: The Grand Union Canal, at night.

Smell: A cold espresso crossed with cooking sherry and raw field mushrooms.

Tasting notes: I've had to go away and come back five minutes later, such was the impact of the first sip. A beautiful, plummy sweetness hits you first of all, but that doesn't last. No, that's quickly replaced by what feels like a cascade of tingly droplets of frozen bitter lemon that gets progressively sharper the more it coats your tongue. And this is viscous stuff, so there's really no hiding place. And amid the ice storm, there's a stab of Calvados that pierces like a falling icicle, pinning your palate to the floor of your mouth. It then twitches its last judders of life before flickering out. Gone.

Session factor: Oh, behave.

Arbitrary score: One million pounds

Bethnal Green blues

2011-12-19T18:14:00.000Z

More than anywhere else in London, the place with which I've had the most chequered of histories is Bethnal Green. It seems to be my own personal failure enclave where pretty much everything I try doesn't come off.

It's difficult to pin down the exact point this dodgy relationship with the area began, although my hazy memory is throwing up something about a missed stop on the tube that saw me end up in the wilds of Wanstead with no way of getting back without resorting to an expensive private hire car.

My next brush with the area sticks in the memory much more clearly. There was this girl, see. Beautiful, intelligent, funny. Something of a silly name, but I'd have overlooked that. We dined. We went back to hers. We chatted. Then it was time for bed. At which point, she showed me the spare room, then took great pains to tell me exactly where I could find her were I to wake up in the night and need anything. Oh I needed something, all right. A bloody written invitation, clearly, as I totally failed to pick up on this hint and left the next morning thinking I'd maybe missed a trick. A social evening some months later, during which time she'd started seeing someone else, confirmed this to have been the case.

It didn't stop there. I moved to the area shortly afterwards, into a small, damp yet costly bedsit. The year was 1999 and it saw various disappointments come my way, including a reunion then subsequent split up with a serial piss-baller, a brief dalliance with a friend that caused the downfall of their long-term relationship and, even worse, the witnessing (fortunately only on the radio) of the hideous comeback in the Champions League final by the most hateful football team in the world.

Bloody Bethnal Green. It wasn't finished either. I also experienced the crushing disappointment of being gazumped on a property that was, at the time, on the market for a piddling £75,000. Then there was the car break-in. And the loss of several coats in the Approach.

I was glad to be shot of the place, to be honest. Since when, the area has undergone something of a renaissance. Although it's slightly hipster these days, a plethora of good pubs, restaurants, shops and transport links (if you count Shoreditch High Street at the far end of Bethnal Green Road) have sprung up in the years since I left.

And now, I have Bethnal Pale Ale from the Redchurch Brewery, which has opened up in the area in the last year. The beers I've already had of theirs have been reasonably good so far and I'm told they are opening up a retail outlet at the brewery too. Which makes it all the more galling I'm no longer in the vicinity.

Beer: Redchurch Bethnal Pale Ale

Strength: A perfectly acceptable 5.5%

Colour: Mandarin orange and chimney red

Smell: Way too fruity. Like a just opened can of sweetened oranges.

Tasting notes: Kicking the back end out of what you thought this fruity number would be. This beer has every flavour from luscious tangerine to tart blood orange and all points in between. True to form, it gives you nothing but the most tangiest aftertaste imaginable and leaves you wanting something more. And quite frankly, you're going to be disappointed. Because everything you wanted and everything you imagined is going to fade away, gently but obviously, and you're going to be left with nothing but the bile-laden hideousness of the tart you felt in the first place.

Session factor: Poor. Quaffable, yes; drinkable, no.

Arbitrary score: 38

Trying trio

2011-12-18T21:17:00.000Z

If there's one weekend I've gained a huge insight into my own limitations, this was it. It's time to pack it up and admit I'm no longer a young, resilient man. Time was I could go out on a Friday night and still have the energy to carry on right the way through the weekend. But no more.

And that's why I'm only just getting round to updating the calendar. Instead of being sensible on Friday evening, I decided I could push the boat out, what with it being the last weekend before Christmas and all. This was an error. After struggling through to 3pm yesterday, I returned home and spent the rest of the day in such a state of delicacy I could barely move.

In fairness, I have developed a survival mechanism that meant I wisely avoided alcohol completely, but that gives me the arduous task of downing three tonight. Fortunately, only one is 500ml, so at least it shouldn't be too much of a struggle.

What the weekend has made me think about is the wisdom of continuing with this tradition. I've never managed to complete one without having to catch up at some point and that's pretty embarrassing. It's only a beer a day. But there's the rub. If I'm going out during what's traditionally the season of overindulgence, it can end up being many more than one beer a day, which can occasionally prove too many. Something's got to give.

And that can mean one of two things. Grow up a bit or stop doing the calendar. This time next year, I'll be a year older, so we'll see how it goes.

Beer: Brodie's Old Street IPA

Strength: A disconcerting 6.4%

Colour: The warm orange glow of a setting sun.

Smell: Bruised peaches and comice pears.

Tasting notes: Unlike the smell, there is absolutely nothing sweet about this at all. It's sharp and tart from the off and it's downhill (or uphill, depending on your viewpoint) from there to the finish, which seems to go on an age. In a way, this bitterness provides the perfect counterpoint to the bountiful fruit of the bouquet or at the very least a sharp contrast. Whether or not it actually tastes nice is a moot point. Perhaps for the first five seconds or so it works nicely, but the back end of the finish almost tastes like the painful sting of bile, so on balance, I'm happy I've only got one to drink.

Gut reaction: Despite the after taste and the relatively high carbonation, I'm not expecting it to be that vicious.

Session factor: Fairly low, especially at this strength.

Arbitrary score: 14

Beer: London Fields Brewery Harvest Ale

Strength: A more humane 4.7%

Colour: The same setting sun as above, only around 20 minutes beforehand.

Smell: Not much, really, but somewhat worryingly, the only thing I can pick out is five-year-old emulsion paint

Tasting notes: A little watery at first, disappointingly. Then there's an overpowering hit of how I imagine a 30-odd year old thatched roof would taste like if you dipped it in a large puddle, bunged the lot in a Moulinex and mixed it with several pans of potato water. Thankfully, that doesn't last the course and you're treated to a slowly fading bitter finish that does its level best to (and largely succeeds in) washing that fusty taste away.

Gut reaction: Again, no issues predicted with this. It just doesn't have enough about it to threaten.

Session factor: Not too bad, really. The sharp finish almost makes you forget the generally poor taste of it.

Arbitrary score: 3.5

Beer: Meantime London Pale Ale

Strength: A reassuringly weak 4.3%

Colour: Barely disguised lager

Smell: Barely disguised lager

Tasting notes: Barely dis... OK, it's not that bad, but there isn't really a great deal to say about this one. I expect it's designed for drinking quite a lot of on hot summer days, but since this is the middle of winter and I'm still feeling rather unenthusiastic about beer, it seems a mite out of place. Like lager, it's sharp from the off and has a fairly dank finish. It's pretty gassy too and were it not for the label telling me this is a pale ale, I'd say it was lager by another name.

Gut reaction: Although not strong, it's got plenty of gas and has already had me burping with gusto.

Session factor: High.

Arbitrary score: 62%

Cool porter

2011-12-15T22:32:00.000Z

On reflection, perhaps it wasn't the best idea in the world to have the world's hottest chilli for dinner this evening. Hasn't done a great deal for the sensitivity of the taste buds, I can tell you.

In fact, my entire mouth is tingling like I've been leaning on it funny for a good half an hour. It's not unpleasant. It's just it feels like any subtle nuances of flavour will be a mite tricky to pick out due to the still searing heat my tongue is experiencing currently.

The naga chilli is to blame for this. As purchased from Chilli Pepper Pete in Brighton. Reputedly the hottest chilli in the world measuring more than a million heat units on the Scoville scale (the chilli equivalent of Richter, presumably), these things are lethal even in small doses. Bunging around eight of the blighters into a chilli along with several Scotch Bonnets and some Dave's Insanity Ghost Pepper sauce was asking for it really.

So in a way, it's a good job tonight's offering is a fairly robust, uncomplicated beer. Fuller's London Porter, if it were an actor, would be someone like Steven Seagal. Lacking in subtlety despite pretensions otherwise, it's full bodied and doesn't require much thought. Fairly good in a crisis.

What better way of calming the inferno, then?

Beer: Fuller's London Porter

Strength: A standard 5.4%

Colour: Dark wooden floorboards.

Smell: Liquid Marmite and plasticine.

Tasting notes: Bit like a roast dinner this. Not that it tastes of beef, gravy and Yorkshire puddings, of course. More that it's got that reassuring texture and homespun feel that makes you think you're either round your parents' place on a Sunday or feasting in a country pub stuck out in the middle of nowhere on a rickety table by a flickering real fire. It's dealt with the chilli with aplomb and wiped its smokey, chocolatey feet all over the mouth's doormat. And it's got a lovely, sweet, oily finish that slips its way quietly and soothingly down your throat. Nice

Gut reaction: Calming, but heavy.

Session factor: A bit rugged for too many, I'd suggest.

Arbitrary score: One hundred and eighty

Thirsty work

2011-12-14T22:02:00.001Z

Amazing how you can start fixing something and all of a sudden you find a billion more things that aren't quite right and demand immediate attention.

Fixed a puncture on my bike this evening. Started two-and-a-half hours ago. Decided it needed new rim tape; a good clean; oooh, those tyres need changing; reckon the gears want a good clean, regrease and re-index; haven't cleaned the chainrings for a while...

So a five minute job at most has taken nearly thirty times that. Which explains why I'm not posting until this hour. And which also explains this fairly concise preamble. I'm thirsty now too. Good job this is a 500ml bottle, then.

Beer: Brodies Dalston Black IPA
Strength: A hefty 7%

Colour: A deep, dark scarlet.

Smell: An intoxicating combination of French Golden Delicious apples, cherry blossom and Thai stick.

Tasting notes: As you gulp and the burst of carbonation subsides, your tongue becomes the unwitting recipient of an almost relentless barrage of bitterness. Akin to the first few spatters of rain patting the dry pavement before the deluge, it's as if an avalanche of hoppy harshness is coming and you'd better be ready. But you can't be ready, you see. If you can taste it, there's no escape. For some, the bitterness might be pushing it a bit far, but after more than two hours faffing with a bike, I can deal with this.

Gut reaction: Doesn't taste too threatening, although that carbonation up front could cause some ructions.

Session factor: Not at this ABV, but you could knock back a few served in schooners.

Arbitrary score: Eight bloody nil.

Ill communication

2011-12-13T21:27:00.001Z

Some days, this is easier than others. Yesterday was a breeze despite the pre-calendar refreshers I had at The Crown in Southwark. Today, it's like pulling the teeth of water kittens you're trying to herd uphill with a fork.

In many ways, December really isn't an ideal month for this kind of venture. Christmas parties abound, the lure of the fireside of a snug pub is increasingly difficult to resist and disease stalks the streets, buses, tubes and offices, waiting for its moment to pounce.

And it got me. I feel dreadful. All of a sudden, my decision to don extreme weather clothing and wander about in last night's storm as a kind of Honor Oak King Lear looks all the more foolhardy.

Could quite happily head straight to bed, but what with being on the downhill stretch now, I may as well take the plunge. Besides, this is a free beer and we all know how good they can be for you, eh? An old mate Rob, who has just finished a particularly worthwhile project photographing all the pubs in Brighton, picked it up for me in Dorset before I'd decided to have London breweries as the theme. So as it's a present, it makes the cut, despite being from Bridport.

And in a way, I feel duty bound to drink it now as well, especially since I've just read on the label that the brewery - Palmers - donates 5p for each bottle sold to the Chesil Trust, a charity that helps the young or disabled enjoy sailing.

By drinking this, I'm supporting a worthy cause.

Beer: Palmers Dorset Gold

Strength: A paltry 4.5%

Colour: Well, duh. Actually, it's a more pleasing copper colour that sticks two fingers up at its name.

Smell: Can't make much out through this bloody cold, but among the usual maltiness, I can detect a hint of air escaping from a deflating inner tube.

Tastingnotes: Ah, it's not bad. Fairly standard stuff, but interesting enough. A tinge of ginger accompanies the rounded fruity opener and that's a clue to the zest to follow, delivered by a not overly generous portion of hops that aren't much to write home about. In fact, there's a not unwelcome undercurrent of honey running through it too, which has definitely lifted this out of the arena of the run-of-the-mill. Hang on. Ginger? Zest? Honey? I'm clearly craving a hot toddy or 'enhanced' Lemsip, aren't I?

Gutreaction: It's a feisty number where the fizz is concerned and I've been belching.

Sessionfactor: You could, but for me it'd be too much like overdosing on Beecham's Powders.

Arbitraryscore: Nil-nil

Chocs away

2011-12-12T22:38:00.001Z

Halfway through the calendar and not even a passing glance at the surreal. How the dolphin cucumber has that happened?

I had a quick ganzer at last year's calendar and couldn't believe how much better it was. Passionate, heartfelt writing, jokes, puns, interesting metaphor. It had the lot. Whereas this year has been pretty mundane, if the truth be told. Laboured, unfunny, boring. Even for the reader.

Now there must be a bloody good reason for this, I over-analyse. What can the explanation be? It's clearly not the selection of beers - plenty of good stuff in London, I note. There's the possibility I've just got shit in the intervening year, which you can't rule out.

But the over-arching difference between this year and last is... December 2011 is just not that dramatic. This time last year was genuinely tumultuous for all manner of reasons. In all honesty, I really didn't have any idea what was going on. Hence the high quality of the posts (IMO OBV YMMV etc.).

Jump forward 12 months and I know exactly what the near future holds, where I'll be, what my prospects are and how uncannily right I was on New Year's Day last year that 2011 would be the first since 1984 in which I failed utterly to snog anyone.

They say your finest writing comes when you're beset with uncertainty. On the strength of this year's calendar, they've got it spot on. Like everyone else, I really hope next year's calendar is better.

Which brings me to the surreal bit. I was presented with something this evening to which I genuinely didn't know the answer. To wit, how do you pronounce 'garage'? Is it 'garridge', as your south east London dance music fan of a certain age would have it, or 'gar-arrge', as befits the pronunciation as borrowed from the French 'parking', i.e. garage?

I don't know the answer. But the well-spoken piped voice on the 171 bus to Catford Garage knows. What say you?

Beer: Meantime Chocolate Stout

Strength: 6.5%

Colour: Ruddy, dark, Bourneville-style chocolate

Smell: More like a cheap sherry-ridden fruitcake than a beer

Tasting notes: OK, so first up, I'll be honest, this tastes bloody rubbish. I'll declare my interest a bit here. I've had a couple of ales already this evening, one of which was a Brooklyn Chocolate Stout, so in fairness, this one has a bit up to which to live. And I'm just on the point of damning it with some withering sarcasm the like of which I've yet to display a gift for when, all of a sudden, something's not quite lining up. It's not big or fruity enough to start with, but then from nowhere comes a blast of already tasted chocolate. Now I know you're wondering what the fuck I'm talking about, so I'll lay the cards out now. We've all hollowed out a Cadbury's Creme Egg like we're doing something inappropriate for a family website. And the result is 'diluted' chocolate. A bit faded. Like it's had a proper tonguing. Doesn't look all that appetising, but we eat it all the same, whether or not there's still a bit of that tenacious tin foil clinging barnacle-like to the exterior. And it's that unmistakable faded, rather jaded, chocolate wash that's the dominant taste about this beer's finish. I doubt I need say any more.

Gut reaction: Unsurprisingly, this doesn't feel like it'll lay easily.

Session factor: Depends entirely on your bent for licked-out Creme Eggs.

Arbitrary score: 6-0

Rye smile

2011-12-11T20:18:00.001Z

Well what a dismal weekend for beer it's been. Holed up at my parents' place with nothing but a couple of off-tasting cruddy ales for beery company.

But it's funny how things can change in the blinking of an eye. Well, they can in the land of the Beer Advent Calendar. Moments after returning, I venture to the calendar and pull out today's offering. And stone me if it isn't a Kernel Pale Ale Rye. As crafted by my fair hand.

OK, that's potentially pushing it a bit. I helped in it's preparation. All right, I was there on the day it was brewed. And I didn't manage to spill or ruin anything.

That was the second time this year I've been along to the Bermondsey arches to drink in the convivial atmosphere and see if I can learn anything about brewing beer. Think I've remembered most of what I picked up in the two visits and it's inspired me to have a crack at maybe making some of my own next year.

So in a way, no matter what this stuff tastes like - and I haven't tried it yet although it's been ready at least a week - some good has emerged. Even if it tastes rank - and I'm fairly sure it won't - then some creativity will be born from the experience.

Beer: Kernel Brewery Pale Ale Rye

Strength: 5.7%

Colour: The pale orange of expensive 1970s skateboard wheels

Smell: Oddly reminiscent of the early 80s fizzy drink Quatro.

Tasting notes: Oh, the relief. Of the 'thank fuck for that' ilk. When you check your coat pocket the next day and find your wallet is still there. Or when you finally locate that email that covers your arse and makes the client's complaint fade away into nothing. As if it never existed. There is just about enough so-called tropical (read: sweet) fruit flavour up front, but that doesn't stand a chance as our hoppy light brigade makes its headlong charge into the Russian guns of your tongue, sabres rattling and defiant and with no care for their own safety. Sure, their blood will eventually stain the buddy battlefield, but it will not have been in vain, by all the Gods. And that stain will take years to wash away, much like the bitterness this pale imparts for some considerable time after you've long since expected it to be gone. I think I may have discovered the ideal beer for slaking the thirst of a parched herd of migrating zebra.

Gut reaction: Hard to tell, really. There is a fair bit of sediment that escaped the bottle due to yet more clumsy pouring.

Session factor: Wish we'd make this in April as it would be ideal for summer afternoon-long tastings

Arbitrary score: 1969

Double trouble

2011-12-10T20:23:00.001Z

Been fairly lax due to one thing and another, so for the second time this week I'm again presented with a double bill of beers. Hardly particularly professional, is it? Still, it's for the love of it, so a bit of slippage here and there isn't going to hurt anyone I don't expect.

It's around now, just about a third of the way in, that I traditionally start to question why I bother with this. It's a bit of an effort and I've never managed to go through the whole thing without missing a day.

But perhaps that's a good thing. Gives the liver time to recover a bit. The creative juices the chance to replenish, although there hasn't been a great deal of evidence of that happening so far this year.

Not to worry. A couple of bottles of inspiration and it'll all come flooding back, right? Although quite honestly, neither of the two out of the calendar in the last couple of days are having me licking my chops in anticipation.

Yesterday's was a Pitfield's 1837 IPA. Now I've heard mixed reviews of this stuff, ranging from 'awful' to 'downright undrinkable', so I literally can wait to try it. I've also just found out it's now brewed in Cambridge rather than London, which is something of an additional disappointment, so it's looking fairly bleak.

Today's is a more promising prospect - London Fields Gold. Yes, yes, that's another golden ale I'm drinking. But I've not had anything from this new addition to the London brewing scene, so there's at least a small element of surprise in store.

Beer: Pitfield's 1837 IPA

Strength: 7.6%

Colour: Dull, lifeless amber.

Smell: Nothing at all like the IPAs I've been drinking recently, it smells more like a strong premium bitter: sweet, fruity and fusty rather than spicy and enticing.

Tasting notes: It's difficult to say which camp I'm in here, but just two hearty glugs in and I'm erring towards the undrinkable end of the spectrum. It's a bit like drinking a badly out of date pint of London Pride that's somehow chanced upon a supply of steroids and beefed itself up a bit. While simultaneously having passed out and allowed something already fairly smelly to crawl up its arse and die. The sleevenotes have it that this is a beer brewed to an historical recipe. I can only think there's every reason the recipe should have stayed that way.

Gut reaction: A beer more likely to turn my insides into a fizzy bum gravy producing factory I don't think I've had for many a year.

Session factor: Dismally low. I've already given some of this one away and am seriously considering pouring the rest.

Arbitrary score: -274

Beer: London Fields Brewery Gold

Strength: 5.1%

Colour: Opaque, light gold. Like someone didn't pour it carefully and the sedement's ended up in the glass.

Smell:Really disappointing. Like a wet pair of jeans left in a plastic bag for a week crossed with a cat's breath.

Tasting notes: Much, much more disappointing than the smell. I think it must be off. Is it entirely fair to review a beer you think is off? Well, given I've nothing else, I guess I will. This has next to no merit at all. There's precious little about it from the start, a damp squib of a finish and an utterly unconvincing middle that you wonder why they bothered. Now I had a glass of their beer when I collected this bottle and it was lovely, so I know they can do it. But this shouldn't have been allowed out of the building and the poor aroma and below average taste cannot be put down to clumsy pouring. Pleh.

Gut reaction: I fear for my innards.

Session factor: A decent one would score fairly highly, I reckon. But I wouldn't want another one of these again on the strength of this bottle.

Arbitrary score: 0-2

Hoxton fings

2011-12-09T00:33:00.001Z

OK, I know it's late, but I've not gone to bed yet, so this still counts as 'today' in my book. And for several of our friends on the American continent, this is still the 8th of December.

And with that firmly established as a perfectly reasonable excuse, we'll get on to the less rational arena of the errant pub.

That's you, The Harp. Because on the surface of it, you do everything right. And you sell some good beer. Hell, you even look OK. But you fail. And you fail epically.

Here's why. You were open. And to all intents and purposes, you were still open when I chanced upon you this evening. And when I ventured inside, you were all lights on and serving. And you'd seen me waiting patiently for my opportunity to order.

Then you decided you were shut. No flashing lights, no 'last orders' bell. Nothing. Just a refusal. That's not good enough. I don't mind you being shut and I totally respect your right to call time. But you really should call time so I can at least choose to head elsewhere.

And I'm massively disappointed, because I've recommended you to countless people asking where the best pub near Charing Cross is. And even though this evening you had a relatively uninspiring beer list, I still thought you were a better option than just heading home. But I was wrong. I didn't want to be, but you pushed me into it.

I realise this won't affect you commercially, but I can't recommend you any more. A good pub has great beer, a good atmosphere and, crucially, lets everyone know when it's over. Two out of three, in this instance, wasn't good enough.

But then, you didn't have any Redchurch Brewery beers for me to have a crack at, so perhaps it was for the best.

Beer: Redchurch Brewery Hoxton Stout

Strength: I can't read what it says, but it looks like 8.9% (it's actually 6%)

Colour: Deep, dark and brown. Like you wouldn't muck about with it.

Smell: You know what. I've had several sniffs of this and I can't make out anything other than 'beer' and 'fruitcake'. Which isn't good enough in my book.

Tasting notes: For a stout, this is surprisingly refreshing. Sure, there's molasses and treacle and everything you'd expect from a stout (apart from Guinness, that is), but this has a bit of a kick to it. Not only when you first swig it, but long afterwards as well. Almost infuriatingly. You sense you'd quite like rid of the taste, but it comes back at you like a child insisting it wants to wear the red cardigan; not the pink one. It doesn't know these things are up for debate; it just says it louder and louder till you have to threaten to take away its noo-noo before it'll back down. It's not unpleasant; just inevitable.

Gut reaction: I'm indignant it won't hurt a bit, despite having already burped several times.

Session factor: Depends how much you enjoy conflict.

Arbitrary score: 12

North and south

2011-12-07T20:15:00.001Z

More observant readers will have spotted the lack of update yesterday. This was due to technical reasons, to wit, I was unable to operate the keyboard having been on an extended trip to The Rake in Borough.

Regulars will be only too aware updates can be less-than-clockwork as December wears on, what with it being the party season and all. The intention was there but sadly the ability was absent. Never mind. It does mean I get to have two this evening, so every cloud...

And this evening's drinks couldn't be more different if they tried. One from north London; one from south. One easily sourced; the other a bit of a chore to lay in. One pale; the other black. But both made by fairly small brewers based in Network Rail properties (or railway arches, to the uninitiated).

So take a bow Camden Pale Ale and Kernel Double Black IPA. I've had both before and they each have their merits. Camden Pale Ale is a terrific keg beer that's a go-to pint whenever you see it in a bar. I believe they have it on at The Social and it's exactly what I'd be drinking were I there.

Kernel's Double Black IPA is a thing of wonder. I can't quite put my finger on why it's better than the standard Black IPA they do, but it just is. It's unfair to compare the two as they're completely different beers, so I won't.

I'm glad it's the Camden Pale Ale first, though.

Beer: Camden Pale Ale

Strength: A paltry 4.5%

Colour: Insipid pigs urine

Smell: Honeysuckle

Tasting notes: If ever there was a beer designed to be a session ale, this is it. The nicely floral aroma is carried over into the first gulp, but that quickly disappears. Next up is a rasping citrus zest that feels not unlike a lemony spike strip 'stinger' puncturing the tyre walls of your taste buds. This is the very epitome of refreshing, especially as the lingering finish drags on and tempts you into another swig.

Gut reaction: Only issue with the beer is it's quite a belch-bringer.

Session factor: Large. Fairly low ABV, light, refreshing. It's got everything a session ale needs.

Arbitrary score: 28

Beer: Kernel Double Black IPA

Strength: A wonderful and frightening 9.8%

Colour: Mahogany

Smell: Molasses and marzipan

Tasting notes: This is huge. A genuinely massive beer. Lovely big dollop of treacle on the tongue, laced with the finest sherbet, then comes the sharp, tart taste of Granny Smith's apple and a wave of malty Marmite that has what I imagine is the flavour of anchovy-stuffed olives in rock salt. And it is a wave as that salty sensation surfs along the surface of your tongue. It has a half-life of at least a couple of minutes too, so you can afford to savour and marvel at how you can possibly pack this much punch in such a small glass. Sensational stuff.

Gut reaction: It feels fairly soothing, but at 9.8% you can never be certain.

Session factor: Negligible. This is hard, if satisfying, work.

Arbitrary score: 254/3

Karma Citra

2011-12-05T20:03:00.001Z

Monday. A busy week ahead. Nowhere near enough sleep as you fought valiantly the duvet demons and bravely battled the trolling mind. Early start. Things to do. Freezing cold. General Monday misery.

And yet spirits have remained surprisingly high despite the many faceted beast that is the beginning of the working week.

Why? The door through the fifth day of December brings me a Kernel Citra IPA, that's why. I've got form with this stuff. That is to say, I've had it before and it's terrific. So while beavering away in an office that must have been too cold to be entirely legal, I was warmed by the prospect of sinking this one tonight.

In fact, the only downside of cracking a beer this good is the fear your words won't do it justice. Ideally, the review would fit the beer, but often when faced with such high quality, it's tricky thinking of anything worthwhile to say about it.

It tastes nice. I like it. I could go another one of these. See? It's like being a tongue-tied teenager unable to utter anything even remotely comprehensible to that girl you fancy. Charlie Brown clamming up when he finally summons up the nerve to talk to 'that little red-haired girl'. Sometimes there just aren't any words there and I'm worried that'll happen tonight. It would be easier describing a can of Carling Black Label.

Or maybe the alcohol content will unlock the loquaciousness and I'll ramble on all evening eulogising about its nectar-like properties?

Sometimes, there's only one way to find out.

Beer: Kernel Citra IPA

Strength: 6.6%

Colour: A Gorgeous golden orange

Smell: Like writhing around in a sandpit full of lychee flowers.

Tasting notes: I think this is the best beer I've had all year. And I've had some extremely good beers. Right from the off, this screams quality and artisanship. For something that smells so powerful, this is a really subtle beer. An initial sugary hit that reminds me for all the world of those shiny orange sweets you can get in Indian shops gradually fizzles out into a long, flowing taffeta train of a finish. And it's a delightfully delicate zest of a finish too, like someone repeatedly dabbing a peeled segment of mandarin orange on to your tongue with all the care and attention of a mother soothing her child's grazed knee. I reckon even people who profess to not like beer would like this. Completely delicious.

Gut reaction: I don't care. It could make me fart with the force of a Rolls-Royce Trent 900 and I wouldn't mind.

Session factor: Despite the potency, I'd gladly drink this all night. Honestly wish I'd bought several more.

Arbitrary score: 100

Beyond the pale

2011-12-04T16:57:00.001Z

It's days like these that really test the mettle. Sure, it's all very well with the build-up and the initial burst of enthusiasm. But when you're faced with the drinking equivalent of a tricky away tie on a rainy night in Stoke, that's when you really find out what you're made of.

So welcome, testing Sunday. I stare you down. I drink in your face. Despite a terrible batch of lager back (that's a medical term) and a crushing sense of decline, brought on in no small part by the cold, hard facts of dwindling hit counts, I'm forging on regardless.

Now some would call that foolhardy. Irresponsible. Borderline alcoholic. And they'd be exactly the kind of person you'd want to annoy by belching beery breath right in the kisser. Pow! I know this isn't particularly healthy, but since when has December and anything remotely pleasurable been all that good for you? Sure, I could take milk thistle and pure spring water filtered through the rock of ages, but that's not going to sustain any kind of interest over 24 days, is it?

And besides, I've at least two people whose livers are living vicariously through my daily updates and I can not disappoint. And there's a Brucie Bonus today. Anyone eagle-eyed enough to spot what's playing on my record player in the picture above wins a half of Courage Directors down the local Wetherspoons.

If that's not reason to keep going, nothing is.

Beer: Sambrook's Pale Ale

Strength: Thankfully, just 4.2%

Colour: Worryingly lager coloured. Really looks like a pint of Fosters.

Smell: Like the sweetest spring blossom. Really pleasing and surprising given the circumstances.

Tasting notes: There I was all set to slate this as a Badger Brewery knock-off, when all of a sudden that bitterness kicked in. To be fair, this knocks the socks off anything Badger can come up with. While the aroma is hugely floral, the taste is a different matter. It's got a buttery biscuit base that would have Gregg Wallace frothing in a Pavlovian frenzy and the (dare I say it?) lager-esque hops used work really well as a pale. Probably more of a summer drink in all honesty, but we can all use some sunshine in our lives in these dark days of winter, can't we?

Gut reaction: Can't imagine it'll have any adverse effect, but a skin-full would probably leave you feeling your stomach had been scraped out with a scalpel.

Session factor: Easy. You could quite easily sink several without thinking about the possible consequences referred to above.

Arbitrary score: Thirty-love.

Unsightly Hackney

2011-12-03T14:26:00.001Z

The trouble with randomness is that it has a tendency to throw up some distinctly uniform patterns. So it is that just three days into the calendar and I'm drinking another beer with Hackney and a colour in its name.

Redchurch Brewery, based in Bethnal Green, has only been going a few months but it's already garnered some critical acclaim among beer bloggers and ordinary ale-drinking folk. Personally, I've never touched the stuff. Hell, I'd never even seen the stuff before my bottle gathering took me to the City Beverage Company on Old Street, where I was told by the brewer himself they stocked Redchurch's fare.

City Beverage Company is a terrific place. It sells all sorts of drinks, from Chinese tea and Ethiopian coffee to quality craft beer and fine wine. It's not a huge shop, so things are piled high. It's almost like you're in a second-hand bookshop, but with drinks instead of books. Well worth a visit.

But back to the beer. Redchurch do three beers, all of which have made it into the calendar this year. I'm told the stout is great, but that the Hackney Gold divides opinion. I'm really hoping it's not just another standard golden ale of the ilk I've slagged off before and I do wonder when the backlash against pale-coloured ales will start in earnest. Beer-coloured beer does seem to be a rarity these days.

I like the packaging on this stuff, though. Nice and simple, nothing too ostentatious, fairly understated. But something tells me the beer may not share those characteristics.

Beer: Redchurch Brewery Hackney Gold

Strength: 5.5%

Colour: Not gold. Fantastic. Russet, I'd say. And a bit cloudy, courtesy of my ham-fisted pouring

Smell: Yeasty as a proving loaf, with a good dollop of apple crumble thrown in for good measure.

Tasting notes: Beautiful, rounded, full and smooth orangey opening that surrenders to a tangy foe of a finish like a lily-livered Walter Softy waving a white flag at a hairy spider. This is a proper, autumnal fireside of a beer rather than the summer lightener I was expecting from the name. I'm really not sure why it's called Hackney Gold since it's neither made in Hackney nor gold. Clearly names count for nothing these days and a good thing that is too. It's a repeater as well. It's taken me, what, five minutes to write these tasting notes and I've practically finished it.

Gut reaction: Not much in the way of carbonation in this, so I don't expect too much wind, sediment ingestion notwithstanding.

Session factor: Modest alcohol count plus borderline addictive taste equals proper session ale.

Arbitrary score: 17-20

Stout of this world

2011-12-02T20:54:00.001Z

Difficult day today so apologies for the lateness.Actually, fuck that. I'm not sorry. It's at least on the right date,so that's good enough for me.

What made it difficult was the combination of agreat night out and an early start this morning. On a miserableDecember evening characterised by too much rain and not enoughdegrees, I struck out for Stoke Newington and the sanctuary of theJolly Butchers. I may have tried one too many there before headingdown to the Vortex in Dalston for a gig. The Memory Band, if you werewondering. Highly enjoyable.

But in the back of my mind all night was thethought of having to conduct an interview at 7.45 the followingmorning to fit in with some git's ludicrous timetable. Doublygalling, then, that he was only too happy to rearrange it till thisafternoon when he realised he didn't have the right document withhim. Thanks.

In truth, I haven't really been looking forward tothis. While it was pleasantly surprising to find passable ales at thegig venue last night, it's done nothing for my head or stomach today.The prospect of drinking hasn't been one I've been relishing at alltoday, so it really feels like I'm forcing this one down.

That's right. Forcing. Like it's some kind ofhardship.

Beer: Meantime London Stout

Strength: 4.5%

Colour: Black

Smell: Roasted black treacle. It's prettypungent.

Tasting notes: Oh, how terrifically smooth.I wasn't really holding out any high hopes for this, but it's reallyimpressive. Plummier than a member of the landed gentry and with avelvety cravat straight out of Jeeves and Wooster, Meantime LondonStout is also insanely moreish. And that's down to the finish, whichis like a steadily sloping gradient from fulsome to rasping. Justwhat you need to encourage another sip.

Gut reaction: How can something this mellowcause any ill? I go so far as to say you could use this instead ofGaviscon.

Session factor: Not high, but I'd like afew more all the same.

Arbitrary score: Six-nil

Hackney downed

2011-12-01T00:11:00.001Z

Off we go and, blow me, if it isn’t a high-strength IPA.Unsurprising really, as I’ve a few of these dotted around the calendar,reflecting the huge upsurge in popularity of these ales in the last couple ofyears.

You'll already know the story of India Pale Ales and, if you don't,I'll assume you're probably not all that interested. Something to do with hops,strength and the long voyage to India on slow-moving boats. What marks thelatest breed out from the more traditional varieties is their use of so-called'new world' hops such as Citra, Simcoe and Nelson Sauvin. I realise I'mdrifting alarmingly into wine critic territory here; suffice it to say theysmell and taste a lot bigger than their forebears.

In a way, that's been a good thing. They've changed the game and havethrown down a beery gauntlet to the old guard. Trouble is, as with anythingreally, once a bandwaggon gets rolling, any old chancer will try and jump onit. This inevitably leads to dick-measuring one-upmanship, arms-race jostlingfor superiority and eventual saturation that ultimately breeds brown-shoedbores bleating on about how much they preferred the original. Optimisticoutlook, eh?

The signs are already there. The last six months have produced analarming array of ever-more outlandishly named'look-how-many-different-types-of-hops-I've-stuffed-in-here' IPAs that havecontributed in no small part to the world running out of the more exoticvarieties of hops. In years to come, people will look back misty-eyed at the'great hop drought' of 2011. It hasn't quite caused fights betweenbrewers at hop suppliers, but those days can't be far off. You can also getdifferent coloured ones too. Black IPA, red IPA, green IPA. And worryingly, thistrend has crossed over to stouts and porters too - next up, a white porter.Where will it end?

Thankfully, some brewers laid in their supplies long ago and arequietly going about their business of making quality, interesting IPAs thathave enough about them to excite the palate but aren't so overbearing you don'tknow whether you're drinking beer or going down on a cannabis flower.

Brodies is one of them. In what looks like a small coal shed outside anold Victorian boozer in Leyton (see Beer Advent Calendar passim),the team there brews a pleasing range of well put-together ales. Most of whichthey sell in the pub at the frankly risible price of £1.99 a pint. Thankfully,they bottle a lot of it and flog it at a far more wallet-relieving price in alimited number of London outlets.

Not only that, their naming convention falls just the right side of theludicrous line, so they've a few representatives in this year's calendar.

Eagle-eyed calendar followers will have spotted a couple of cosmeticchanges to the format this year. This is purely down to time constraints, butit should improve readability. Brevity, I'm told, is the watchword these days,so it's unlikely I'll ramble on at this length in subsequent posts and I'vedropped one or two of the categories below.

I am, however, happy to engage people in banter/answer questions/arguethe toss/accept compliments in the comments section, so feel free to use thatfacility as often as you like.

Beer: Brodies Hackney Red IPA

Strength: 6.1%

Colour: *sigh* red. Well, not that red, actually.More damp conker.

Smell: Difficult to put my finger on this one. It's across between sponge fingers, stale fruitcake, week-old sawdust and soakedcardboard boxes, like the type you find outside northern supermarkets. Yes, thesawdust and the boxes.

Tasting notes: Not as complex as I thought it wouldbe from the smell. Disappointingly, it's exactly what I'd expect from somethingcalled Hackney Red. It's a Man U fan of a beer; one that's never seen north ofWatford, never mind the streets of Salford. Oh sure, it knows all the facts andfigures, but ask it what bus to catch from Piccadilly Gardens to Old Traffordand it looks at you blankly. That is to say, on the surface, it seems thegenuine article. Nice rounded hit up front and sharp at the end. But with everypeeling away of the flavour veneer, so a level of authenticity disappears too.What starts out reasonably promisingly ends up overly sour and graspingdesperately for acceptance. Should have supported its local club, really.

Gut reaction: It's fortunately quite subtlycarbonated, so I'm not anticipating too many ructions despite its cloudyappearance.

Session factor: As viable as Man U playing in thenext round of the Carling Cup.

Arbitrary score: 1-2

The crate and the good

2011-11-30T23:50:00.001Z

Well that was an unexpectedly laborious faff. Thought I'd make it easy on myself this year by picking 'London brewers' as the theme. You know. Close to home and all that.

But it's taken the best part of two weeks to pull this little lot together. I've been north, east, south and even a bit west to lay in the ingredients for this year's calendar. Hell, I've even been to Brighton. Up a ruddy steep hill at that.

I'd like to say that was the difficult bit, but it wasn't. No. Finding a crate was no mean feat, so thanks to Theatre of Wine in Tufnell Park for the kind loan of the rather fetching orange Orval one above. But the real bind was making that seemingly unimpressive number matrix above. It might not even be a matrix, but I want to give it a complicated sounding name because that was a right bugger to make. Looks like it could have been knocked up in minutes; in reality it took me three hours.

Each one of those little flaps was meticulously scored out with a fairly blunt Stanley knife and there was more than one occasion I nearly sliced the end of my ruddy fingers off.

That said, it's pretty bloody impressive, isn't it? Big grin on the face when I finished it and posted it up. Now all I've got to do is drink the contents.

It's a tough job, etc....

Beer of the Roses

2011-11-27T21:02:00.001Z

Someone told me it had been August since I last updated this blog. They were right. Unforgivable sloth. I assure you I have been drinking beer, but writing about it has seemed pointless. But no more. Because someone suggested a beer fight. What could be more worthy than that?

Lancy git: taller and slimmer not necessarily better.

For more, click here.

These things take time

2011-08-08T10:25:00.001+01:00

In early April, I spent one of the best days of my year helping to brew beer at the Kernel Brewery. I say helping; I think the best thing I did was manage to put a few labels on bottles straight. The resulting beer was, however, fantastic. I've just finished my last one.

Coffee time: that label looks suspiciously like
my handiwork

The bottle

2011-06-01T10:52:00.000+01:00

Gil Scott-Heron died yesterday. Or was it the day before. I forget. I found out via a rumour on Twitter that was only confirmed the next day.

If you're looking for a eulogy, there are plenty already on the internet that should fulfil your needs. This is a purely personal hats off to someone who's been a pretty much constant presence on my stereo for the last 20-odd years and whose lyrics, poetry, call it what you will have kicked me up the arse, given me hope or opened my mind to the fact that, maybe, just maybe, I'm not the lowest of the low.

My first introduction to the music was while smoking daft-smelling resin in the 12th-storey flat of the guy who went on to play Cain Dingle in Emmerdale. Cheers, Jeff. I'd been something of an indie Nazi before then, with the occasional leaning towards reggae and half an ear cocked to my step-dad's jazz record collection, but not much prepared me for the onslaught of The Revolution Will Not Be Televised. Astonishing, especially given how much hip hop was being listened to around the world at the time. So that's where it all began, I thought. But having resolved then and there to seek out more of his stuff, it wasn't until several years later in a bar in Turkey that I had my second brush with the man's music. We took control of the hotel bar stereo and someone stuck on a tape just at the start of Whitey On The Moon. I'd never really before experienced what felt at the time like racism , but was suitably impressed any way. Here was a man sneering at the greed and cynicism of the white supremacy and all I could do as a white man was totally agree.

But it was When You Are Who You Are that really did it for me. Pushed me over the edge into barely contained obsession. I was feeling pretty low at the time and trying out all kinds of personas in an effort to be loved. Yet there, writ and sung large, was the key. Needless to say I've tried out many more personalities in the intervening years, it being fairly difficult to genuinely be who you are, but it's a song I've always returned to when either trying to pick myself up off the floor or attempting to reassure others.

From that moment, I dug deep into the oeuvre. The dad-like, gravelly voice made up for the loss of my own father a year later. And the words. The stories. The brilliantly documented tales of woe, addiction and defeat. They all helped steer me back to some semblance of normality when things started to go wrong. Here was a presence that would keep me on the straight and narrow no matter how events or emotions were shaping up. And there was hope too. I Think I'll Call It Morning sounds like a manifesto for the downtrodden and broken trying to fix themselves, while the classic Lady Day and John Coltrane never fails to raise a smile and shore up the resolve.

Then there was The Bottle. As a beer writer, it's often difficult to admit that you're sailing dangerously close to borderline alcoholism. No, no, I just like the taste, you'll claim. The complexity. The craft of fine brewers' wares. And to some extent, that's true. But scratch the surface of any writer on booze and there's a dodgy relationship going on there. Most beer writers I know will regularly pile in much more than's supposedly healthy, while striving to conceal the appetite for inebriation behind a veneer of research. The Bottle demonstrates the decline most of us are fighting to avoid, mostly with a degree of success admittedly, but not universally. It's pretty much my go-to song when I feel like I'm losing the fight. A cautionary tale. I believe it's working so far.

So when I heard about Gil Scott-Heron's death at the age of 62, it felt like my guardian had gone. And what would be my tribute? I'm almost ashamed to say that it would be the opening of a five-year-old bottle of O'Hanlon's Thomas Hardy's Ale that's been gathering dust since I bought it for a special occasion. I'm not sure special is quite the right word, but it does seem sort of fitting that I'm seeing off a bottle I've laid down in honour of someone who's just been laid to rest and whose work kept me this side of sane for so many years.

And at a frankly preposterous 11.7%, it's already calling into question my claim to be the right side of the alcoholic divide. It's stronger than the wine I had last night and considerably older too. There is a part of me that's uneasy about trying to describe a beer while remembering the recently departed, but it's what I do and, frankly, much of Gil Scott-Heron's output made me feel uneasy anyway, so I'll crow-bar that in by way of justification.

Smells initially like a Belgian Lambic beer, which is both pleasing and dread-inspiring at the same time. Then a whiff of off Marmite strips out the nostril hair and puts paid to any idea this will be a pleasant experience. The colour's off-putting too. Even when held up to the light, you can't quite shake the impression of diluted sump oil.

It's billed as Britain's strongest ale and the label claims it can be kept for up to 25 years, but I remain to be convinced. That wariness is borne out when I taste it. It's an horrifically salty assault on the senses. Any complexities I'd hoped had developed over time are wiped out by a shoal of anchovies writhing around in a grit bunker of coarse sodium. Only a few sips in and it's clear – unlike the beer itself – that it'll take the kind of dedication usually only found in real drunkards to finish it. I've had strong beers before that tip the nod to this kind of thing, but they usually have some kind of saving grace. Not so Thomas Hardy's Ale, which is almost as impenetrable as The Mayor of Casterbridge is to a callow 16-year-old GCSE student.

But I'll see it through to the end in some misguided notion of propriety and respect. It's what Gil would have warned against and, now he's no longer around, there's not a lot left to stop me.

Brighton breezy

2011-04-26T10:52:00.001+01:00

Gunn capital: a pub named after someone who
helped royalty bathe in the sea. Brilliant.

Yeah, OK. Cheap shot of a headline, I know. But after the Easter weekend I've had, it's the best you'll get.

Some distance away from cheap shots, however, are my mate Rob's fantastic pictures of Brighton boozers in his Flickr photostream. Rob's been taking great pictures for some years, even before he secretly upped sticks and moved to Brighton.

In his latest project, he's making it his personal mission to photograph every single pub in Brighton and Hove. Whether or not he's actually drinking in each of them is anyone's guess, but I suspect being the ale aficionado he is, there's every chance he's doing just that. A laudable enterprise in itself. To give you an idea of the scale of his challenge, there are more than 300 in the vacinity, so it could take some time and no little toll on the liver.

There are some terrific photos in the collection, plus the odd interesting titbit of blurb as well. If you've ever been to Brighton, you'll doubtless find yourself musing: "Oooh, I've had a pint in there..." or "I've been meaning to try that place out..." as I have been doing while browsing the photostream.

If you haven't, then you could do worse than having a butcher's at the site and treating it like a virtual visual Brighton pub guide.

The crime of pristine Brodie's

2011-04-15T09:17:00.002+01:00

What happens when two beer writers meet up at a brewery tap pub that sells beer for £1.99 a pint?

Carnage, that's what. But luckily one of them had the presence of mind to scribble a few notes down while the other punched some text into his phone. The result? A review of sorts...

Old Bill: The King William IV has a lived-in feel and
Victorian charm (and prices).

http://caughtbytheriver.net/2011/04/pint-by-the-river-brodies-beers-the-king-william-iv/

A week without beer

2011-03-22T18:10:00.000Z

Well it had to happen at some point and given this week's about the quietest in my diary for some months, I've decided it's as good a time as any.

I'm going a whole week without beer. Without alcohol of any sort, moreover. Three days in and it's really not proving too difficult, although meeting someone at Mason & Taylor tomorrow evening might provide a stern test.

Several people have already questioned why I'm doing this, but given it seems like I've been drinking pretty solidly since early October last year, I guess that kind of answers the question. And, dare I say it, I'm becoming a bit beered out.

That is to say, there have been so many different varieties I've sampled and seemingly so many more to try that I'm almost overwhelmed. Of course, next week will be a different matter and I'm sure the enthusiasm will have returned, but for the moment, I just cannot be bothered with it.

Which is a shame as I've noticed a few events around town I'd quite like to attend, but I'm sure they'll come round again. But with a weekend away coming up that involves taking the kids to see their grandparents and my niece's party, I'm sure I'll be able to manage manfully for the next few days.

And, of course, there's always Monday and the launch of a book about the beer hunter himself Michael Jackson at The Rake, so falling off the wagon should be a fairly pleasurable and interesting affair too.

Brizzle shizzle

2011-03-15T11:13:00.000Z

A huge great hulking bear of a bloke has been banging on at me for several months about the Bristol Beer Factory.

I think he knows one of the people who work there, an even bigger chap aptly monikered ‘Big Chris’, and this is one of the reasons he’s such a fan. A resident of the hilly city, he also seemingly extols the virtues of Bristol to anyone who’ll listen.

More here

Bristol Fashion: BBF's Southville Hop

Five go mad in Bermondsey

2011-03-12T17:27:00.000Z

It was a cold coming we had of it. And an inauspicious start. We're late arriving at London Bridge and by the time we get to Druid Street, there are already drunks shouting loudly at passers-by.

So it's a brisk walk we embark upon to Monmouth Coffee House's roasting facility on Maltby Street, where we plan to fill up on Madeleines, croissants and strong coffee before the long tasting session that stretches out ahead of us at the Kernel Brewery.

The news that James is outside Borough Market's Monmouth Coffee house is greeted with no great surprise. But we don't have time to waste, so we pick our way past dusty metal fences and reclaimed cast iron radiators to the arch that houses what I still maintain is the best little brewery in the country.

Our opening sample is a relatively light 6.2% Citra IPA and it's despatched with some ease. James arrives and takes little time to catch up before we all opt for a stronger, more robust Black IPA, a collaboration between Kernel and Glyn, the manager of Borough Market's The Rake. It's deceptive in that it looks for all the world like a lively stout, but tastes like a the hop-laden 7.2% leviathan it is. We're already becoming carried away by the bonhomie, a feeling heightened by the bitterly cold temperatures that threaten to meld our reddening fingers to the glasses.

Next up is the new SIBA bottled beer of the year, Kernel's Export Stout. A smooth, chocolatey, oily brew that slips down like a gloopy black honey before plonking itself unceremoniously in the pit of your stomach in a style not unlike a just-swallowed medicine ball. At which point, we realise we're in trouble.

Yet we still have a long way to go. At least another five bottles remain on the menu and it looks like we're here for the duration.

Thick and fast they come. An Export India Porter carries us past two o'clock as if we were so many bags of silk. Evin O'Riordan, the brewing maestro behind Kernel, suddenly secures a few bottles of Coffee IPA from under the counter, which we polish off with glee. Then comes the formidable Small Imperial Stout at 9%, which briefly warms us enough to convince ourselves it's a good idea to have one more.

The final throw of the dice is the always excellent SCCANS IPA. It's not on general sale, but Evin's uncovered a crate out back that he happily cracks open for our willing mouths. It's still able to stand head and shoulders above the rest, despite the onslaught our tongues have endured over the last few hours.

But we succumb to the cold and retire to the Draft House. Bloodied, bruised, beered, but unbowed. Grinning massively and ruddy of complexion. Thanks, Kernel. We'll be back in May when the weather's better.

Death by BrewDog

2011-02-25T13:14:00.000Z

IPA is dead. Well it is if this is anything to go by. Deader than a festering dodo. Bereft of life. Gleich tot.

BrewDog's IPA is Dead is a monster of a 7.5% beer. They've brewed four different ones using a single variety of hop - Citra, Bramling Cross, Nelson Sauvin or Sorachi Ace - so you get to learn the distinct characteristics of each. Fine, laudable idea in theory. In practice, however, it's utterly disgusting. I have no idea which one it is I'm drinking, but have ruled out Citra or Nelson Sauvin by dint of the fact they couldn't possibly have made a beer this bad with either of those hops. Could they?

Fortunately, it's yet another 'limited edition' brew by the Fraserburgh-based publicity machine, so all is not lost.

The weird thing is, it smells terrific at first. Hoppy as a proverbial Mad March Hare on uppers; it has a wondrous flowery aroma.

But the thing with beer is... it's a drink. So eventually, you have to taste it. And when it tastes like a dead rabbit has just emptied its post-mortem bowels in a mortuary, you wonder whether tasting it really is the right option. Thank God I didn't order a pint of this crud. Oh, I did.

From the smell, you'd expect a finely crafted, subtly balanced hop maniac. Instead, what you get is 10-year-old Soreen malt loaf that throws spores of foetid mould around like its an explosion in a paint powder factory. And it hurts too. At 7.5%, it's no lightweight; rather it splays its dung-like flavour around like a 10-tonne muck-spreader, leaving rancid, hideous detritus strewn around the mouth indiscriminately.

And the trademark not-quite-there finish in which BrewDog seems to specialise rears its ugly head at the death too, just in case you hadn't had enough of an assault on the senses. Disgusting.

IPA is Dead is dead. Long live IPA.

Brief Wellington

2011-02-20T14:17:00.002Z

A 20 minute walk at a brisk pace from Bungalowville, north Seaford to the old town sees me arrive at The Wellington warm, thirsty and in bad need of the loo. So a clean lavatory, complete with a full complement of toilet roll, inspires confidence.

Paper towels add to that, as do the six hand pumps taking pride of place on the clean, well-tended bar. My barmaid doesn't appear all that au fait with the stock - these are light, those are darker, she says - but it doesn't matter as I spy a Yorkshire Terrier, which I know fairly well.

Wonder where the party is, she says, looking around the sparsely attended lounge. It's not here, I reply. But it is, soon enough, as the pub fills gradually but surely with an odd but ostensibly friendly mix of locals. From large, gruff fisherman types to younger, aspiring Eastbourners with garish T-shirts, there is a good cross-section of Seaford society rubbing shoulders easily.

As for the beer, it's outstanding. Yorkshire Terrier is exactly how I remember: yappy and snappy as its name suggests. The one beef I really have with this place is the restaurant to the right of the lounge bar. Fumes from the griddle billow straight through into the rest of the pub, but this could be overcome by simply closing the door. Locals nickname this place The Wellie, but for me it'll forever be known as the Smelly until they sort this issue out.

In all honesty, the decor's a mite upmarket for my liking. OK for a lounge or reading room; less so for a pub. I imagined it would be more rustic and am crestfallen when it's not. There are some nice touches, though, including a fake brass plaque on the fireplace, which reads: In memory of Graham 'Wiggy' Haynes, who tended this fire and brought warmth to this pub. Sadly missed by all his friends. I've added the punctuation for clarity's sake, but it's a warming presence all the same.

Next up I try a Springhead Robin Hood ale, which has a whiff of something approaching sour milk. It suffers from tasting like a cross between sour Tutti Fruttis and dentists' waiting rooms. Or even perhaps that stuff they use for taking bite impressions. All this is made worse by the sickening stench of burning pork chops wafting through from the grill. Or are they lamb? I'm afraid I'm unqualified to tell.

Returning from the loo, I find a note has been placed on my table informing me it and the chairs are to be cleared at around 11pm for the midnight session of dancing to classics from the 70's, 80's and 90's [sic]. At this, I decide to change horses mid-stream and opt for a Hardy's & Hanson's Olde Trip.

It's a fuller, maltier affair that has smoothness plastered all over its face and slips down like a pensioner in the big freeze of '63. I can't really smell much due to the now overwhelming stench of charring meats, but the flavour is that of a bruising premium bitter brewed to warm the cockles of sea-chilled old salts' hearts after a long, fruitless trawl or our oceans for fruits-de-mer.

Last knock-ins is Coach House Brewing Company Dick Turpin, a copper sunset-coloured ale that again smells of nothing but fried food, but tastes immediately like liquid Soreen malt loaf. It's as chewy as well. Something in it is making my saliva glands work overtime and my tongue grind against my teeth like an over-enthusiastic teenage smoocher works his way into his inamorata's body at a nite club. Perhaps unwelcomely.

What I can't work out is why they have faux-velvet ropes of crimson on clearly not gold stands outside the main entrance. Maybe they're intended to make the place look classier to deter Seaford's undesireables? The sculpted conifers in vase-like pots don't help much either. It doesn't add up.

The disco lighting and speakers speak volumes too. Of a place that doesn't really know its identity. It feels like a pub, acts like a bar and wants to be a night club. I write this from the soon-to-be-cleared dancefloor.

Maybe that's what Seaford demands? In truth, it's not even a one-horse town and the catchment area is tiny, so it's possibly entirely necessary to have such a catch-all establishment. To a London lad, it just looks caught between several stools and confused. But this is churlish. Overall, I think I'll be back in here. Apart from the 'heavily hopped' (read: foul) Robin Hood, the beers have been brilliantly served and kept. The Wellington's Cask Marque is fully deserved. The ambiance, while rendered a bit sterile by the new paintwork and varnished woods, is amicable enough.

I've enjoyed good beer, banter and had no hassle at all, so complaint is just inappropriate. I just wish they'd shut the ruddy restaurant door.

Blythe spirit

2011-02-15T11:17:00.003Z

Hill prime: The Blythe Hill Tavern delivers
on every level

Finding real love can seem like a task akin to cleansing the Augean stables sometimes. Especially if you're picky, particular or even prone to outright prejudice. So when that rare moment comes along when there's a slim shot at the title, you need to be ready, whatever circumstances or situation dictate.

And there really is no point settling for something barely passable when, just around the corner, something beautiful could be waiting. For sure, it's an emotional minefield out there and there are no hard and fast rules; it's up to you to play it how you see it.

But even when desperation comes calling and you're convinced anything is better than nothing, perseverence can - and it's only can - yield results you could never imagine.

The sharp focus of the first single Valentine's Day I've spent in more than a decade brings this particular truth home even more keenly as I waver outside the Honor Oak Tavern looking for a soothing beer. There's something enticing about the lack of couples in there; the promise of two ales on hand pump. The glittering decorations and welcoming plush furnishing. Yet these are all too often flatteries that stoop to deceive. Promising much but ultimately delivering only disappointment and regret.

I walk on by. Head held high. Prolonging the agony yet inwardly convinced something better lies ahead.

My reward is as welcome as it is almost inevitable. The Blythe Hill Tavern is a good 10 minutes' walk from my new flat, but it already has the potential to be my second living room. Roaring fire and oak panels adorned with all sorts - from clocks of knives to a greying, faded poster of Irish writers - mark it out immediately as somewhere I could spend a long time just drinking in the view.

The bar staff all wear white shirts, trousers and a tie. This isn't usually a detail I'd be bothered about, but this evening it really matters. They've made an effort for me and I'm genuinely touched. And the beer selection is intriguing, covering the whole gamut of flavour from Courage Best to Hepworth's Classic Old Ale. I double-take, taken aback by the range in such an outwardly unassuming pub.

And just when I'm on the tipping point of being smitten, a knowing, smiling, benevolent presence in the form of a brilliantly kept Dark Star Hophead appears before me, cupping my face in it's light, insistent hands and delivering a luscious, bittersweet, tender kiss upon my lips. Sheer bliss. I drink in its beauty, already tipsy on the warm caress of the surroundings. Even its rasping bite at the finish feels laden with good intentions, however much it smarts.

I know it's early days, but already it feels like I've found my ideal mate in the Blythe Hill Tavern. We have so much more to discover about each other, naturally. And who knows how it will develop in the coming weeks? But for now, I'm left with a gaping grin every time I think about being there. And the feeling I'm delighted I wasn't seduced by the first local to show an interest.

It was a dark and stormy night...

2011-02-09T10:21:00.004Z

With eyes like two halves of a pithy blood orange and a bellyful of wind that’s making sounds to give singing, diving, pilot whales a run for their watery money, I stroll into The Rake in Borough hoping for some solace. Instead, I find Dark Star Tripel.

More here.

Dark Star Tripel

That's the gambol

2011-01-28T15:29:00.000Z

There's nothing like revisiting a former haunt to get the nostalgia juices flowing.

Early arrival in town to meet people I haven't seen since the late '90s affords me the opportunity to reacquaint myself with The Lamb in Lamb's Conduit Street, WC1. This was my favourite pub for years, first chanced upon after an all night rave in the early '90s, up until Young's was taken over by Charles Wells and ruined its authenticity.

You used to be able to get Old Nick in here on tap, if I remember rightly. Now you can get Bombardier. Great.

But some innovations must be applauded and one of these is the three-glass paddle. What's that, you say? Quite simply, it's three one-third pint glasses with a different beer in each, inserted into what looks like a cross between a three-leaf clover and a table tennis bat. With holes in it for the glasses, of course.

The three I go for are Sambrook's Wandle and Junction and Young's London Gold. The Wandle is light and fairly crisp, but almost too much like a lager for my liking. But the beauty of this system is that there's only ever a third of a pint to get through, so really there's little to worry the discerning drinker.

Young's London Gold is a feistier affair that snaps like fire-crackers on your tongue. But they're cheap ones bought at Lidl, so there's genuine disappointment when the flavour runs out quickly.

Junction's the heavyweight among them, bowling into you like a lummox stumbling down Lavender Hilll on its way to the station. It's one you'd usually take your time over, especially in pint form, but with the smaller measure, it's much more manageable.

Unfortunately, none of these ales has really hit the mark. Maybe it's because they haven't had time to state their cases before I moved on to the next.

But no matter. The three-pint paddle is a great idea and I giggle still at the memory of carrying it to my table from the bar. You wouldn't want to do it if the place were packed like it usually is, although if they carry on diluting this once fine boozer with unwelcome additions like Courage Directors, then that might not be too much of a problem in future.

Drinking humble pie

2011-01-19T18:06:00.000Z

Sometimes, first impressions are misleading. Just over a week ago on this very site, I damned a pub relationship as doomed. Unsalvageable. Pretty much dead in the water.

But there are times when you have to admit you were wrong about something. Maybe you didn't give it a fair crack or were too quick to judge.

So reeling from my wrongness about Brew Dog and all their beer (sorry guys - Riptide is really quite nice), I'm forced to eat my words about The Crown in Southwark. I hold my hands up. I'm sorry. I was wrong about you. I was being hasty. Can you forgive me?

I'm afforded the opportunity to revisit the place when I hear they've got Dark Star M&M Special Porter - a collaboration between beer writer Melissa Cole and head brewer Mark Tranter - on the pumps. This is a big, singed plum pudding of a beer. Heck, it's almost a full meal, which is handy as it's lunchtime when I decide to try it out.

A smoky spirit-like smell greets you as you raise the glass to your face. First sip delivers a full, smooth flavour that pushes the smoke to the background as your tongue is then overwhelmed by a marauding gang of fruit-laden fullness. The gang proceeds to pour Cognac liberally about the place before casually tossing a lit match into the resulting tinderbox and watching it burn, giggling as it does so. Cinders linger until doused by a raisin fire hydrant and you're left to savour the smoky embers. Magnificent.

Chatting to the Crown's manager, I discovered a real passion for the beer he sells, the plans he has for the place and the philosophy that will shape it in future. And I fancy it. Not only is The Crown dedicated to stocking a wide and ever-changing variety of locally brewed ales, it's also changing its standard range of taps to run a more eclectic range. This will include two given over to beers supplied by Utobeer in Borough Market, supplier extraordinaire to this calendar.

Brewer nights and talk of sister pubs elsewhere fuel the burgeoning passion. So goodbye doubts and awkward silence. We're not going to be 'just good friends'. I've changed my mind about you.

This could well be the start of a beautiful relationship.

Crown of thorns

2011-01-11T21:19:00.000Z

At the great risk of sounding like Swiss Tony, going to a new pub is very much like going on a date for the first time.

You're naturally excited and want things to go well, but wary too. Worried about how things will turn out, whether you'll get on, if there'll be any awkward silences. And as with anything new, you wonder if you'll actually like it or whether it just won't be for you.

That's how I feel as I walk into The Crown in Southwark, a newly converted place on Blackfriars Road that promises much. All the ingredients are there from the outset. Three real ales on tap, large beer garden, reasonably interesting kitchen. But as with the date, there's a crashing sense of disappointment when it doesn't pan out quite how you'd hoped.

Perhaps it's just too new. Maybe it's the way the barmaid didn't quite understand your order. Could be just that the beer garden was closed when you wanted to sit outside. Whatever it is, it hasn't done what I'd hoped and, sadly, it appears I'll have to look elsewhere.

It's almost gutting, as I thought it could be so much more on first glance. Just what I thought I needed. A diversion from drudge and the crap life can sometimes throw at you. A ray of light in an otherwise dark, dingy January. But it's not going to work out between us.

The pub has extended a cold shoulder where a warm embrace would have been more welcome. In all honesty, it did seem too good to be true at first. But in the event, it felt as if all it wanted was my attention, fleetingly at that, then was quite happy to cast me aside for what it felt were clientele more deserving of its affections. And it's difficult to put my finger on why. Perhaps I betrayed too much enthusiasm up front? Did I want it to work out too much? Did it just not like me?

No matter. There are always other pubs. Now some would say it might need more time, but sometimes you just have to admit something isn't going to click and just move on. The beauty of pubs is that their characteristics and general feel can change, so perhaps that's where the date analogy falls down.

Maybe I'll be back in future to give it another whirl, but for the moment, The Crown, that's all you're having from me.

Beer through the year

2011-01-05T11:00:00.001Z

Time and the need to fill it with something approaching enjoyable means I'm going to keep the Beer Advent Calendar going for the rest of the year.

An eventful December pretty much confirmed all I'm really any good at is drinking and talking rubbish about beer. So with a long, likely painful year stretching out ahead of me, I've decided to continue posting about the beer I drink until it's time to do the actual calendar again.

Updates will be in a range of formats. If I'm down the pub, it's unlikely there'll be a 'live' picture as my phone camera is utterly useless. But home drinking will mean you get a proper picture to look forward to. Having planned to do less of this, though, it could mean I need to invest in a new point-and-click.

Some days, it'll just be a link to the excellent Caught By The River website, which carries occasional reviews of beer I knock out every so often. See below for the format (clue: the link is in the caption).

SCCANS IPA

As always, feel free to comment or Tweet and Facebook share if you like what you read.

A worthy claus

2010-12-24T20:13:00.000Z

So that's it then. All over for another year. The last bottle has come out of the crate, which is now looking all forlorn and empty, and the annual beery journey is almost at an end.

Hell of an undertaking that it is, there's always a touch of sadness come Christmas Eve when it's time to finish off the calendar, put the crate away and wait till December rolls around again. It doesn't half take its toll on you as well, both in the untold damage it does to your liver as well as the huge strain it puts on your ability to come up with different descriptions of highly similar colours, for example.

Still, I can safely say this year's calendar has been by far the most interesting to work on since I started out in 2007. December has been a memorable month for all sorts of reasons as the last vestiges of civility have been wrung out of an already frosty relationship. There have been some pretty nasty moments recently, all very undignified, but I guess you'd expect that at this stage. Hopefully January will bring some more definite news about living arrangements and we can start moving on from this.

But despite all the nonsense, I've still had an amazing month, not least due to the really impressive quality of the beers I've tasted. While one or two were disappointing, on the whole they've been of a high standard, making my job much more pleasurable.

Highlights have included the Great Divide Hibernation Ale, the Chimay Tripel, the Anglers Pale Ale, the Hertog Jan Grand Prestige and the Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale. But top of the pile this year was the Kernel Imperial Stout. Such a good beer it's difficult to know where to start. Wonderful smell, huge taste, strong as an ox. It's not just a drink, it's a genuine experience. Definitely a beer fit for an emperor and a worthy Beer Advent Calendar champion.

So an interesting and varied box this year. Let's hope the last one doesn't let us down.

Beer: Harvey's Christmas Ale
Country: UK
Strength: A nice rotund 8.1%
Colour: Christmas crimson and old wooden furniture.
Smell: Pudding, fortified wine, pine trees and chestnuts roasting on an open fire. You get the picture.
Circumstance: Musing on where I'll be and what I'll be doing in a year's time.
Tasting notes: What we have here is Christmas spirit in a brown bottle. The cheery, rosy-cheeked Santa on the label gives you a clue as to what's inside and the smell lets you have a hint of the taste to come. But taste, and you'll soon imagine you've just bitten into a rum-soaked brandy snap following a huge Christmas dinner. It's a dessert course, for sure, as tiny cluster bombs of liquid icing sugar explode all round your mouth like incendiary sugared almonds. And like many at Christmas, you almost feel about to burst through over-indulgence. Fortunately, some kind soul brings in the Stilton to offset the sickly sensation and that scatters just enough salt to clear the path for more.
Drinkability: Not great, in all honesty. I'm struggling here as it's too cloying and full bodied.
Gut reaction: Pleasantly surprising. It's like the beer equivalent of a sweet digestif.
Session factor: Piddling. One's hard work, never mind several. It'd be good with strong cheese like a dessert wine, but otherwise, I'd steer clear.
Arbitrary score: 6.8

Nil Desperado

2010-12-24T14:28:00.001Z

One of the more odd developments over recent years has been the advent of beers mixed with spirits. That is, lager with a shot of something or other in it.

Desperados, for example. Poor Mexican lager with a shot of tequila in it. What on earth are they thinking? I can't work out whether they think it's a good mix or if they're trying to disguise the awful taste of one or both ingredients. It sells, though, I'll give them that.

I'm more puzzled at the people who buy it, though. Just why? Surely it'd be better to buy them separately and mix them in your stomach like everybody else.

So pulling this next one out the calendar was something of a shock. It was given to me by my good friend Matt, who puts together the very excellent Whisky For Everyone blog. But I'm already suspicious. Whisky beer. Hmmm. How bad must the beer and the whisky be to make them want to blend it? I suppose they're not the worst bedfellows in the world, but something doesn't sound quite right.

Heartening, then, that it's not a mixture of beer and whisky at all. Rather it's an actual beer made by the Tallibardine Distillery, which is built on the site of Scotland's first ever brewery. The beer takes its name from the coronation year of King James IV, one of the brewer's patrons, and is aged in the oak barrels used to mature Tallibardine single malt Scotch.

I had a fair few Whisky Macs last night at the works Christmas party, one of the reasons there was no update yesterday, so there's still the faint taste of Scotch in my mouth despite some heavy duty teeth cleaning. I'm not quite sure whether that'll help or hinder, but given it's Christmas Eve and I've nothing to do, I don't really care all that much.

Beer: Tallibardine 1488
Country: UK
Strength: A Scottish Presbyterian 7%
Colour: Light, clear and golden. Like a whisky, really
Smell: Three parts whisky, five parts Shandy Bass
Circumstance: Post-works Christmas party afternoon already tainted by bad-tempered conversation
Tasting notes: Surprisingly good. Mellow at first, it sharpens up after a short while spent leaning on your tongue, cutting through the debris of last night's excesses with its Winkle-pickers as it buffs its nails on the lapels of its jacket. You can almost imagine it taking a comb out of its back pocket and running it through a lacquer-sodden quiff, licking its finger to straighten out its eyebrows and adjusting its lace-thin tie. Beer as juvenile delinquent, if you will. Doesn't taste of whisky at all, but there is a faint smokiness about the finish that completes the '50s lout image quite nicely.
Drinkability: Pretty high, actually. I'm amazed at how easily its going down under the circumstances. Eminently quaffable.
Gut reaction: I wouldn't want to put too many to the test, but this one is reasonably innocuous.
Session factor: You could easily rattle through a few of these despite the relatively high alcohol content.
Arbitrary score: 7.9

Mint imperial

2010-12-22T21:12:00.001Z

This week has been one in which I've had a fair few discussions about feedback. And not the type provided way back in the day by the Jesus & Mary Chain either.

Blogging can feel like a pretty solitary pursuit, especially when you craft something you think is sure to provoke comment, only to see it wash blithely by like a stray twig caught in a current.

And there's seemingly no real pattern to it either. One day can be barren while the next brings forth a volley of feedback that fair knocks you off your feet. There's really very little you feel you can do to influence it, short of being deliberately provocative, and even then there's no guarantee.

What drives this need for feedback and the apparent reticence of people to give it? Something I've made a real point of doing this year is telling people when I think they're great, whether it be due to a live performance, something they've written or even just how they are. Not once has this been unwelcome, I think, although on occasion there has been some reluctance to accept my praise. So why do we feel so awkward about giving and receiving it? Is it a British thing or is everyone as useless as us at it?

I rarely waste my praise on people who don't measure up to my arbitrary standards and, as a result, I often think they must be used to hearing it. Yet I'm frequently faced by people who demure from the fulsomeness and try to do down their own efforts. Sweet, and quite remarkable, but it doesn't really help matters.

Well, we're not like that here at the Beer Advent Calendar, I can tell you. We drink in praise like it's a freshly tapped barrel of our favourite ale.

Good, then, that in the past week, two respected commentators have seen fit to big up the calendar. The editor-in-chief of a well-known consumer magazine declared his love for the blog and asked if I had any interest in writing about bikes (another passion of mine). Not sure how clear I was about how much I would be interested, but if you're reading: I am.

Then today, out of nowhere, the guy who runs Kernel Brewery tweeted that this is his favourite beer review site. Coming from one of London's, if not the country's, most interesting artisan brewers, this is extremely welcome.

I was genuinely taken aback by both bits of feedback, but reckon I've the good grace to accept it in the manner in which it's meant. And brag about it, of course. Well, why not?

And in an amazing piece of serendipity, next out of the calendar (admittedly substituted on Saturday for another that I'd already drunk - I know, cheating, but what are you going to do?) is Kernel's very own colossus of a beer, the Imperial Stout.

People overuse the word awesome, but at 12.5%, this really does inspire fear.

Beer: Kernel Imperial Stout
Country: UK
Strength: A truly worrying 12.5 bastard %
Colour: Blacker than my current mood. With a fearsome brown head.
Smell: Eight week old cottage cheese and dying embers
Circumstance: Back end of an awkward relationship conversation that isn't the first and doubtless won't be the last. What better frame of mind, then?
Tasting notes: The way it gloops out of the bottle has me wishing I'd bought something else. Tarry, thick sludge almost folds itself out of the neck and splots down into the glass. As you bring the glass to your lips, I swear you can hear the noise of an engine running smoothly thanks to this liquid and the first sip brings a giant flaming redwood of flavour lumbering down on to your tongue. It's cackling flames burn their way through your helpless tastebuds and the salty, charring, spitting sparks bite down like an army of dogfish threshing away at their quarry. Then burly fire-fighters slosh their hoses of dousing, foamy spray willy-nilly for a mind-meltingly imperceptible period before the angry flames bicker out their last dying flickers. Eerie calm descends like the settling ash of a once fiery passionate embrace that's now done.
Drinkability: Forget wine. Really. This is just as strong and I've never had a sensation like it from any bottle, cheap or ludicrously expensive. Utterly incredible and with the kind of character you'd quite happily spend an entire Trans-Siberian Express journey with.
Gut reaction: Not sure about that. The thickness would tend to lend itself towards a steadying influence, but given this the equivalent of drinking three pints of Guinness condensed into 330ml, I wouldn't go giving a chance to anyone unfortunate enough to be sharing my bed this evening.
Session factor: Stupid question.
Arbitrary score: 9.5

No-hassle brown

2010-12-21T20:09:00.003Z

It rarely ceases to amaze me how much I can get done in a day when there's just a fleeting sense of focus evident.

This is the bleak midwinter and, while frosty wind and snow pelted the streets of London, I went about the task of sorting stuff out in a brisk yet purposeful way that surprised not only me but colleagues and family as well. Normally speaking I'd be achieving great things if I stuck my head above the parapet on a day like today.

There's no real way of knowing how it all came about, but I've cleared and sent a magazine to press, put pages into design, briefed two ads, handled one awkward client, done all the kids' Christmas shopping, bought in the last of the necessary provisions, gone for a swift, rewarding pint and still have time to post this review early.

Guess I must have gotten off to a good start, but however you explain it, there has to be some element of destiny about it all. Now usually I won't have any of that nonsense, but it really feels like everything's come together today in a way it has singularly failed to do for most of the year. What seems even more odd is that the poor run I've had over the latter part of 2010 seems to have coincided with the summer solstice, while I can genuinely feel the beginnings of an upward curve now winter has arrived.

Bunkum, really, though it really did appear like someone lit a blue touch paper, stood back and watched the results with a knowing nod. But however it's come about, I'm happy to accept it. Which brings me on to today's beer. I fished this one out at Utobeer because it had a nice label with barley on it and a picture of a fish. No other reason. That it came out today was slightly strange as it was the one out of all of them about which I knew nothing.

Yet what a revelation it's been. For all the world, it looked dull and lifeless when poured, but once let loose, there was no stopping it. Off it shimmied like a freed grayling bolting for the chalk depths. Fantastic.

Beer: Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale

Country: USA

Strength: A tomahawk-wielding 7.2%

Colour: Browner than brownstone in a sea of brown brownness. With some red in it.

Smell: Stewed tea and thick, black treacle

Circumstance: Relaxing on the sofa after a relatively stress-free Christmas shopping expedition, listening to the wonderful Marthas and Arthurs.

Tasting notes: Now I really didn't like the look of this one, but judging by the cover couldn't have been more inappropriate. It feels like the brewer has got everything just right. The beer eases out of the glass and on to the tongue like a Hollywood starlet slipping into something more comfortable. There it drapes itself, luxuriating in the soft fur of your taste buds before rolling around seductively and giggling so coquettishly you're immediately under its spell. This is beer noir, though, and the sting isn't far behind. As you're gazing longingly, a hop-laden henchman creeps up from behind and thuds a thick cosh into the nape of your neck and the bitter blood from your bitten tongue threatens to choke you. It's only when you're rolled out the back of an early 50s Buick Century that you realise your wallet and all your papers are gone and all you're left with is the memory of that satin doll honey who double-crossed you.

Drinkability: Easier than falling off a stack of finely balanced, greasy logs wearing roller skates. You, that is, not the logs.

Gut reaction: This is the oil that calms all troubles; a thick, gloopy, viscous agent that suppresses all volatility.

Session factor: Not high, as there is way too much about it. But like staring at the seductress, I believe I'd hazard at least one more shot to make sure.

Arbitrary score: 8.9

Ancestral vices

2010-12-20T21:59:00.000Z

Pessimism. Malaise. A cloying sense of inevitability. The constant battle between what you hope for and what you feel will happen instead. Morale-sapping, mood-killing unremittingly dark thoughts.

There are many reasons why people drink and, while I've felt all of the above keenly in recent times, none apply in my case when it comes to beer. I just genuinely enjoy the taste.

It could be that's an inherited trait too. Some months ago, I sat alone in a pub drinking and thinking, with only my Moleskine as company and it's astounding what cod theories find their way into your notebook in such circumstances.

One of these was inspired by a contributor to the Caught By The River site, one Jude Rogers, who has a regular column called Lines Made By Walking. I duly nicked this and called my theory Lines Made By Drinking.

For me, it's almost like the folk tales of beer. When I drink beer, I tap into my father, grandfather and their forebears. Their beer. What they wanted to block out or round off or blunt. The Eden they sought to gatecrash or stumble blindly across. This is my folk; my tradition. There is a line stretching back generations of disappointment and unfulfilled potential that I can follow more clearly through the dulling of my senses and hazy musing.

Whether or not this is a worthwhile pursuit is open to question, but in my book, it beats taking a depressant to cure depression any day of the week.

Beer: Hertog Jan Grand Prestige
Country: Belgium
Strength: A soporific, dulling 10%
Colour: Dark night with the dim, distant red glow of embers through thick fog
Smell: Sponge fingers soaked in neat vodka
Circumstance: Trying desperately to drum up some enthusiasm for the week ahead.
Tasting notes: Within moments, I feel like I'm being water-boarded with crusted port. Just a small sip multiplies in your mouth exponentially and you're gagging in seconds trying desperately to swallow yet desperate to maintain a grip on some of the flavour. About the latter, it becomes manifest there is nothing to concern you. Just as the sweet, fortified grapes have made their mark, a wave of sharp cherry tang washes it away. Once that's retreated, only the tingling, swishing, shingling of the retreating Morello tide remains. Genuinely sensational.
Drinkability: Amazing. This isn't a fruit beer, but it wields all the flavour and sharpness more commonly associated with them.
Gut reaction: Seems fine, but all that flavour and fortitude must extract a price.
Session factor: One day, I'll test this out, but my suspicion is I won't need that many.
Arbitrary score: 9.3

Quadrupel whammy

2010-12-19T21:24:00.004Z

Today has been a tough day. Without doubt one of the hardest in the history of the Beer Advent Calendar and definitely one of the most difficult in my recent memory.

It didn't start well. A longish taxi ride home went sour within moments as the Sat Nav sent us down a long, snow-covered road into a dead end. I managed to sneak five hours' sleep before rising, still none the better for the rest, and prepared to head out into Frozen Britain again. My mission? Pick up some provisions from Sainsbury's and purchase a Christmas tree.

Fuelled with strong black coffee and a solitary mince pie, I set out on my quest, quickly realising it would be much harder than I'd bargained for when I took a tumble on the front steps. Slow moving traffic should have been the second warning sign, but I was in such a spin I didn't realise. Until too late. A packed car park meant what should have been a five minute quick-and-dirty visit to the supermarket ended up an hour long trawl through an army of anxious last-minute shoppers.

Getting the tree was just as bad. Is it me, or has the price of scrawny-looking pine rocketed during the last few years? I swear you could get a tree the size of a house for less than a tenner at the turn of the millennium. Not so now. So what appears nothing more than a fat upright branch has set me back the best part of 30 quid. And I had to shop around for that particular bargain too.

But by far the most tricky task of the day has been presented to me now in the form of a bottle of La Trappe Quadrupel. I can't begin to describe how low my heart sank as the unmistakeable Gothic font Q stared up at me from the top of the bottle; a beery gauntlet slapped around my face and thrown to the ground.

In my present state - barely able to keep my eyes open - it's foolhardiness to attempt this. You see the sacrifices I go through to keep this thing up to date?

Beer: La Trappe Quadrupel
Country: Belgium
Strength: A totally unreasonable 10%
Colour: Murky brown like the frightening eddies of the lower Thames
Smell: The sweet, cloying aroma of sodden honeysuckle
Circumstance: Coming to the end of a long, hard day of recovery, sitting in an armchair, watching the darts and admiring the Christmas tree.
Tasting notes: Oh, what have I done? This is sure to end in tears. It tastes genuinely toxic, with an immediate overpowering kick that feels for all the world like you're going down under the influence of chloroform. A sickly sweet baclava coats the inside of your mouth, finding every one of that orifice's nooks and crannies and burrowing its way in like bichos de pé (if you're not a fluent Portuguese speaker, use Google translate). Then something strange happens. Instead of hanging around like a substance whose decay is measured in half-life terms of at least 20 years, the beast rears like a spitting, striking cobra and stings deadly venom into your tongue. Mercifully, the pain is short-lived and the paralysing effect quickly takes over.
Drinkability: Not that bad, considering it's like having a third of a bottle of wine in a refreshing, effervescent format.
Gut reaction: Unsure. Under normal circumstances, it might not be too much of an issue, but on the back of last night's excesses, there are some deeply strange sounds coming from the bowel region.
Session factor: If you're used to quaffing the venom of a thousand serpents, fine. Otherwise stick to one.
Arbitrary score: 7.5

The thirst Noel

2010-12-18T16:36:00.003Z

Nostalgia's a funny old thing, isn't it? Somehow manages to extract all the crud and leave you with just the good bits of anything you're remembering.

Way back in the 1970s, hods of snow before Christmas was the norm, but successive years of Conservative governments put paid to that and it was only latterly under New Labour that we started seeing even the threat of a White Christmas. Well, in London anyway.

As a child, snow was the ultimate luxury. It would turn adults into cavorting infants, lay waste to any plans of travelling to unfancied destinations and, most importantly, would cause schools across the land to close, meaning long days filled with sliding, snowball fights and snowman building.

Now it's a blummin' pain in the arse. A big night out planned for this evening looks likely to be sparsely attended as transport infrastructure buckles under the weight of a feeble few inches. Traffic chaos clogs the arterial roads, while overground trains turn their noses up at heavy frost, never mind actual, genuine snow. London is staying in tonight.

I wonder if I'll block any of that out when I look back at this winter in years to come or whether I'll remember every minute detail. My suspicion is I'll romanticise about it in some way, which is probably for the best all things considered.

And the same can be said for the beer I'm having before setting off. I used to drink Jenlain beers when I lived in France, straight from the litre bottle like the urban sophisticate I was. It was one of the better ones, if I recall correctly, although beer was much of a muchness out there. Still, this one had more character and I believe they did an 'ambrée' version too, which had genuine taste.

Tried one last year and it tasted foul. So having pulled out their seasonal 'Bière de Noël', I'm not entirely relishing drinking it.

Beer: Jenlain Noël
Country: France
Strength: A rosy cheeked 6.8%
Colour: A deep, crisp, even Cognac. With a white fake fur-rimmed hat.
Smell: Apples and rum-soaked fruitcake
Circumstance: About to brave the icy tundra that is the Old Kent Road in a bid to make it to north London. I'm just going out for a short walk, I may be some time.
Tasting notes: The apple rolls out of the nose and down into the mouth with a large, satisfying plop. And with a faint hint of ginger wine, a cheery, red-nosed reindeer-riding portly gentleman flumps down on your tongue, lifts a glass of sherry to his lips and polishes off a nice, warm mince pie. It's Christmas eve and all around is still, silent and smothered in a blanket of white crystal fluff. But on your tongue, it's another matter. A million liquorice stick elves argue and bustle their way about, bumping into each other and spilling hastily gathered presents of caraway and juniper all over the mouth floor. Being elves, it takes them an age to tidy up, so you're left with the chaos for some time.
Drinkability: With all the complexity going on, you'd think it would be a struggle, but this slips down like an unsure-footed pensioner negotiating an icy supermarket car park.
Gut reaction: So far, so good, but there are rumblings off that must surely be the sign of mild disturbance on the horizon.
Session factor: Relatively low, although I do feel I'd like another couple to make sure.
Arbitrary score: 7.6

The vampire strikes back

2010-12-17T21:14:00.001Z

There's a track by the Leisure Society called Last of the Melting Snow that seems oddly appropriate at the moment, especially given the current wintry weather.

Ironically, it's one my wife and I would sing together in the car or while cooking during better times between us. It's a beautiful melody that hides a deeply sad lyric and it's one I'll listen to a lot during the new year, I expect.

And it's something about that contrast that seems pertinent at the moment. In all honesty, I haven't had a great week and, thinking about it, this year's been a struggle from the off too. I'll be glad to see the back of it and hopefully start smiling properly again in 2011.

But despite that, there have been three or four outstanding moments that I'll never forget and will undoubtedly have a bearing on how the next year shapes up. Putting the calendar together isn't one of them, but it has its moments every now and then, especially when you pull out a corker or get some nice feedback.

Tonight's first looks terrifying. A badly drawn vampire bares its teeth at you from the blood-red label and the ABV figure leaps out bat-like, launching its fangs straight for the jugular. A likely story of Cumbrian legend accompanies the brewer's address and best before date, in which a vampire apparently kills a local woman whose screams are heard by her brothers who hunt down and slay the villain. The town of Croglin has never been bothered by vampire's again as a result. Discuss.

Beer: Croglin Vampire Doppelbock
Country: UK
Strength: A monstrous 8%
Colour: The red brick of terraced housing in the north west of England
Smell: Rancid malt vinegar and eggy farts
Circumstance: End of a difficult week but the darts is on, I have good music and at least one beer I don't have to write about cooling down to cellar temperature.
Tasting notes: Massively full and viscous and not remotely like it smells. The rounded fruitiness sticks to the inside of your mouth, coating it like a big pot of yacht varnish. Then the malt kicks in. Gently at first, then more insistent until you feel like a malt alien has planted one of its sticky eggs full in your mouth. Fortunately, these eggs are soluble in saliva, so instead of choking you to death, it gradually melts away leaving the merest of sour remains.
Drinkability: It's quite heavy going as you'd imagine. Strong, strident, sturdy, you won't get any breaks and it certainly wouldn't yield in a stare-out contest.
Gut reaction: Disturbing. I'm only halfway through a 330ml bottle and I've belched three times.
Session factor: Not good. Far too strong and possibly a bit sweet for my liking as well.
Arbitrary score: 6.1

Paine in the neck

2010-12-17T00:02:00.006Z

Apropos of absolutely nothing, I'd like to pay homage to a dear old friend of mine who's wit and wisdom came to me as I was battling the elements this evening.

Tony 'the chisel' Leigh is an Oldham-based guitarist of some repute. He could genuinely have been a 'contender' had it not been for his fondness for a few beers and less-than-dedicated attitude. I'd model myself upon him if I could muster the enthusiasm.

During many a bored evening, I'd spend time drinking and watching the man as he'd play deft cover versions of songs rarely trotted out in that half-horse town. The more drunk he got, the better he played. I once saw him leaning on the guitar he was playing to avoid falling over, adjusting the notes he was picking out as the neck of the guitar bent and threw out the tuning.

But an at-least equal part of the overall package was the inter-song banter he'd engage in, seemingly ambivalent to the audience's reaction. All sorts of modern life was dissected for the general amusement of the listening public, much of which sailed over their heads, but most of which produced much mirth nonetheless.

His finest example is below. I'll make no apology. It could be a case of having to be there. But whenever he told this tale, I couldn't help but crease up.

"The wallpaper maniac. Sounds silly and corny dosent it?

"Well consider this then. You're enjoying a pleasant stroll down a country lane as dusk is descending when out from a hedge emerges a man. He is six feet tall, obese, and sweating profusely. You catch a fleeting glimpse of your own terrified reflection in his blue-rimmed NHS pescription glasses as he produces a roll of B&Q top quality vinyl on a roll and begins to bludgeon you to the floor with his shrink-wrapped, improvised weapon, smashing your jaw and, with his tasteful yet colourful, hard-wearing, washable wall covering, delivering another gut-wrenching, sickening blow to your genitalia.

"NOT SO SILLY AND FUCKING CORNY NOW, IS HE?"

Tony, wherever you are, this one's for you. *raises glass*

Beer: Harvey's Tom Paine Ale
Country: UK
Strength: A notch above normal 5.5%
Colour: Fag-end bright tan
Smell: The soaked carpet of a long-neglected old man's pub in Walsall.
Circumstance: Wondering at the world and wishing it weren't so wilfully wonky. (I've told you about this alliteration - ed.)
Tasting notes: Oh now this is a slow burner. It smelled silly and corny, but while I was sitting here minding my own business and watching the darts, out of the glass emerges a beer. It's six feet tall, obese and sweating profusely. And as I'm gazing into its golden depths, I catch sight of my panic-stricken eyes as it produces a roll of orange linoleum and proceeds to smash the granny out of my remaining tastebuds with its hop-laden, sherbert dip-mimicking rolled-up lariat. The finish is your flavour receptors gibbering and whimpering on the floor having taken a proper kicking from the father of the American Revolution clad in tangerine-tinged jackboots..
Drinkability: Strictly for the masochists or followers of American history
Gut reaction: I'm more worried about my mouth, quite frankly.
Session factor: Poor, really. It's nice and all that, but there's only so much abuse a poor tongue can take.
Arbitrary score: 6.8

Uinta warmer

2010-12-16T22:17:00.001Z

I love beer. I love the way it tastes, I love the variety and I love the way it it can provoke debate, especially in pubs of a certain ilk.

This evening's snow gave me the excuse to visit the Royal Oak in Borough, one of London's finest juicers and the only Harvey's-tied house in the capital. Having missed two buses, there really was no alternative. First off was a pint of Pale, followed by a quick look at the bus stop. Seeing another go by meant I was doomed to return to the warm, soothing breast offered by the boozer.

I followed it with a pint of Old Ale, which immediately drew a comment from an older gentleman perched next to me. We began talking about ale, breweries, the pub trade, Hertfordshire, computer support and a fascinating-sounding exhibition currently at the British Library about the evolution of English. Terrifically entertaining, thought-provoking and genuinely friendly. I'll never see or talk to him again, but there was a sharing of thoughts that would never have happened if I hadn't been drinking proper beer.

Unfortunately, I still needed to get home, so a half-hour wait for the bus did enough to remind me that not all is warmth and light out there. Feet are still cold, so here's hoping the next one out of the calendar does something to warm the cockles.

Beer: Uinta Anglers Pale Ale
Country: USA
Strength: An intriguing 5.8%
Colour: The glow of a traditional London boozer
Smell: Parma violets and cherry lipstick
Circumstance: Thawing out after an evening spent giggling at the huge flakes of snow landing on my nose.
Tasting notes: As finely put-together a pale ale as you could care to imagine. Joyously soft on first sip, it spreads its tentacles once ensconced in your mouth, spreading it's flowery petals far and wide as if dishing out lottery winnings. It's not like a Badger beer, though, in that the floral flavour ducks out at exactly the right time before becoming overpowering. A sidewinder scatters sands of sharpness as the finish snakes its way off into the gullet. Fantastic.
Drinkability: Stellar. This is eminently drinkable and gives you all you'd ever want from a beer.
Gut reaction: I don't really care. Whatever happens in future, I'm happy with the here and now.
Session factor: Ambiguous. Might stretch to a few, but would be OK to experiment with several given the right circumstances.
Arbitrary score: 9.2

Gordon tenet

2010-12-16T01:30:00.001Z

Inspiration comes in many forms. An overheard conversation, a few choice words, even a fleeting harmony.

I was lucky enough to have all three lay themselves at my door this evening and have taken steps already to incorporate that inspiration into some of what I do. Needless to say none of that hippy nonsense will be allowed to encroach upon the calendar. No chance. This is strictly for the purists.

But there's something about being pleasantly surprised that definitely gets the creative juices going. I went to a gig this evening in the hope I'd see someone I was inspired by a couple of months ago. No luck. She wasn't singing with them this evening. Instead, I was treated to something much more memorable. A band so lovely you couldn't pick holes in them if you tried. And as confirmed cynical git, that was difficult to take.

Wasn't expecting it at all and it fair knocked me off my feet. I'm still flying. And that's nothing to do with the few pints of Old Hooky I felt the urge to drink while there either.

So even faced with the enormity of what came out of the calendar yesterday, but was sadly unable to be shared, I feel I can face it full on. With a gaping smile on my face as well.

Regular readers will, of course, be no strangers now to the roller-coaster ways of the calendar, but there's a distinct upward trend I've detected that I hope continues with this beer and on through the next few. Could be the approaching weekend that's helping, of course, but I'd like to think it's more sustained than that.

On verra.

Beer: Gordon Xmas
Country: Belgium, I think, though my eyesight's failing somewhat
Strength: 8.8 sodding %, for Heaven's sake
Colour: Clear conkers brown
Smell: Soaked bread and not much else
Circumstance: Smiling and now at home listening to Low Life by New Order
Tasting notes: Crikey. Like the unexpected great support act, there was no portent of what was to come. Waiting for as dull a taste as I got scent, instead I'm flattened by the malt juggernaut that bowls into my tongue almost as insistently as the number 21 bus tried to guide me off the road this morning. I pull over and stop to remonstrate, only to be greeted by a tirade of sharp, cutting invective practised only by south east London bus drivers keen to keep to a schedule no matter what's in their way. Once unpleasantries are exchanged, all that remains is the sour stench of bitterness and recrimination that lingers longer than a louche layabout lounging lasciviously like a lovelorn lingerer (that's enough with the alliteration - ed.)
Drinkability: There's plenty to keep you interested and the sting in the tail provides just enough impetus to persevere.
Gut reaction: I fear for my poor insides. This is strong, belligerent, unforgiving and gaseous.
Session factor: Somewhere underneath a dachshund's stomach.
Arbitrary score: 6.9

Massive attack

2010-12-13T22:57:00.000Z

There comes a time when you've just got to step up to the plate despite whatever fate has thrown at you, take it on the chin and get on with it.

The Beer Advent Calendar is doing just such a thing right now. Having cast off the memory of a desperately disappointing previous instalment, it's onwards and upwards with a new ale.

And what a contrast this one is. As weedy as the last one was, so is the current bottle an absolute hulking giant of a monster. Brewed in Cornwall for people with big hands, this ale tips the scale at a quite mind-numbingly stupid 10%. That's about the strength of a white wine from the '70s.

But there's where the comparison ends. There's more body in this beer than in a Germany of nudist camps. I swear you could pour it into a bowl and eat it with a fork. It's not especially complex - that's not what this kind of ale is about - but what it lacks in subtlety it definitely makes up in brute force.

It's the kind of beer that wouldn't think twice about manhandling you out of its premises if you gave it a funny look. It'd probably add a swift kick of its size 10s too, just to make sure. But after the insipid nature of the previous one, I really don't mind that sort of treatment.

In fact, I've almost convinced I want to go back for more. Now that's what I call stepping up to the plate.

Beer: Sharp's Massive Ale
Country: UK
Strength: A quite ridiculous 10%
Colour: Brooding, ominous deep red
Smell: Overpowering, like a brewing, charring cauldron of molasses
Circumstance: Just getting on with it after the disappointment.
Tasting notes: Like the name suggests, this is a huge bowl of flavour from the off. Gasp as the molten lava of gloopy treacle envelops the tongue in its slow, deathly embrace. Marvel at the scalpel sharpness as it cuts a swathe through the thick tar the lava left in its wake. Fear the rush of dark spirit finish that threatens the very ecosystem that once grazed happily among your tastebuds. As a marauding pack of Vandals, this beer lays waste to anything and everything in its path.
Drinkability: Relatively high considering the punishment your mouth gets while you quaff it. It's certainly going down quicker than the Moosehead.
Gut reaction: Again, my clumsy hands of concrete have disturbed the sediment, so coupled with the lack of dinner this evening, this beer is liable to cause upset and less-than-solid bowel movements in the fullness of time.
Session factor: Utterly negligible. I'm halfway through and it's like I've poured neat ethanol directly into my brain.
Arbitrary score: 7.8

Pale imitation

2010-12-13T21:36:00.001Z

It's usually around this time of December that apathy kicks in, both in the calendar and among readers.

Perhaps it's overload. Maybe it's me running out of ideas. Or it could be just that the idea is better than the execution. Whatever it is, mid-December sees hits plummeting and a corresponding dip in my enthusiasm. I'm a sensitive soul, you see.

So when I got back from the Purple Radio Christmas party in Nottingham yesterday, I found it impossible to muster up the will to update the calendar. A bit of disappointing news didn't help either, but I'll keep that to myself rather than bring the mood down any further.

Today's been a difficult one as well, but the bright spot on the horizon was the chance to update the calendar with a couple of ales and wash away the general feeling of malaise.

And, in the words of the Buzzcocks, what do I get? A glassful of beer so insanely dull it's pitched me straight back into a state of mild melancholy. I have not done anything to deserve this. Here's hoping the one scheduled for this evening provides a bit more of a spark.

Beer: Moosehead Pale Ale
Country: USA
Strength: An flat 5%
Colour: Anaemic cider
Smell: Day-old damp dishcloths used to mop up stale ale
Circumstance: Playing catch-up and finding it really difficult to get into with any kind of enthusiasm
Tasting notes: Not particularly impressive. It has the unmistakable flavour of warm Stella Artois that you've bought from a 24-hour booze emporium. There's so little about it, it's hard to describe what it tastes like in any detail. It's so uninspiring, I can't even come up with a cutting put-down.
Drinkability: There is nothing about this beer that would make you want to even finish one, never mind have several.
Gut reaction: Gassy, chemical overtones and light enough to get through you like cheese through a goose.
Session factor: Low. It's so nondescript, but still weighs in at 5%. Almost the worst combination you could imagine.
Arbitrary score: 3.2

Kernel mustard

2010-12-12T16:35:00.000Z

In the lounge, behind the curtains, love to drink it. Love to drink it.

With apologies to Ride Committee featuring Roxy, but the combination of what sounds like a Cluedo character with a room in a house begged the reference.

And given the fact when I post this, I'll be up to my neck in dancing loons, it seemed even more appropriate.

I'm delighted it's one of Kernel Brewery's beers, though. If there was ever a beer that wouldn't be too much hassle after already tasting two for the calendar already this evening, it would be something finely crafted by Evin, a knowledgeable and friendly south east London beer artisan.

He's evidently a fan of pale ale, since he brews about four or five varieties. I've already sampled one in this calendar and it was pretty sensational, so I'm really looking forward to seeing what this one's like.

Beer: Kernel Brewery Pale Ale
Country: UK
Strength: A placid 4.7%
Colour: Cloudy tangerine
Smell: Beastly skunk. Again. I swear this man brews beer from hybrid marijuana.
Circumstance: Moved on from morose and into American folk in the form of Arlo Guthrie. When you read this, I'll be off my crunk on cake or some such.
Tasting notes: King of grapefruit, Lord of citrus, conqueror of the holy lime of Judah. I'm not sure you could cram any more citrus in a drink if you tried. As it's at the weaker end of his usual output, there's more upfront fruit involved here, but it's not long before the intense bitterness mauls your tongue like a big bag of ferrets listening to a mid-eighties Elvis Costello album. You really have to stand back and admire the sheer ferocity of something so innocuously named. If you've ever tasted the intense pain of infidelity or unrequited love, I don't need to tell you how long the crunching, crushing clasp lasts. More fortunate readers can just go and taste it for themselves.
Drinkability: I've had a few beers this evening, yet I could merrily carry on were more of these available.
Gut reaction: I'll be happy if I survive the night intact as I've mistakenly spilled some of the sediment into the glass. Who knows what untold havoc this shall wreak.
Session factor: Good. I'd love to tackle a few on a summer evening, but it's equally at home spicing up a cold winter night while your bored at home.
Arbitrary score: 9.1

Wrecking cru

2010-12-10T23:17:00.001Z

And worse I may be yet: the worst is not so long as we can say: "This is the worst."

For many, many years, I used to trot this line by Edgar out of King Lear to people when they weren't feeling great. It seemed to fit. Almost like a cultured, Shakespearean 'cheer up, it'll never happen'. I was understanding and wearing my education on my empathetic sleeve, bidding people that their situation wasn't so bad and had the potential to be far worse.

It is a truism, of course. How can you know what the lowest point will be? You can think nothing else could make you feel worse than you do, but then something else rocks up and puts it all into perspective.

So having hammered the miserable records I own, I'm beginning to think that, in all seriousness, things might not be as bad as I imagine. I'm living the roller-coaster existence, but the troughs are so much more shallow than the peaks are high. And amid some pretty shitty lows, there have been unimagined highs that I've scarcely had time to appreciate.

All of this, I'm ashamed to say, is embodied in this next beer. Trite as it may seem, drinking this has made me re-live, in beer form, the fluctuating fortunes that life throws at you without cease. Harsh, caring, sweet-smelling and cruel. But available in bottles so you know how much you have to deal with, which is where the analogy falls down, I suppose.

Still, at least it's interesting.

Beer: Rodenbach Grand Cru
Country: Belgium
Strength: A 'could be worse' 6%
Colour: The deep dark red of stagnated blood
Smell: Sour cherries, vinegar and cat-piss stained low-rent accommodation
Circumstance: Listening to the most downbeat records I can dig out in an effort to get some perspective.
Tasting notes: Quite honestly, I thought I'd just had a blast on an inhaler of Vicks Sinex. The sheer, bold-as-brass foot-stamp of tang flew up from my mouth and hassled my nostrils within the first gulp. Smacked me round the face, grabbed my chin, ruffled my non-existent hair and pulled my earlobes before I'd taken the glass down from my lips. Gets the zangers going too; that is to say, it evokes the first glug of orange or grapefruit juice in the morning. The jaw muscles lurch into spasm and an aching pain radiates outwards into your cheeks. But as if sensing your discomfort, a cherry lipstick-clad nurse breezes over and administers a calming, cool palm on the brow of your tongue. But what with all the cuts and that, her time is short and she disappears before you've tasted that beautiful respite. Then the sour cloy of the medicine kicks in and you're left in your hospital bed; nodding, appreciative and still wondering when the torment will end.
Drinkability: Addictive as the harsh sting of freshly ground chillies and perfect for cold winter evenings and balmy summer nights. Alarmingly drinkable, despite what it sounds like above.
Gut reaction: On its own, it's unlikely to overly trouble you. I'm worried about its effects on top of what I've already had this evening. Don't mix and you should be OK.
Session factor: You'd have to be some kind of masochist to get through more than a couple. But like lemon fizz-bombs, it has a distinct, insistent pain element that could be construed as desirable under certain circumstances. Like if you've been a bad, bad boy, for example.
Arbitrary score: 7.9

Chicago blues

2010-12-10T21:43:00.001Z

Bartender, I'd like a Manhattan please. Each time I hear it, the cloying sense of my future plays itself out in the form of a beautiful duet between Tom Waits and Bette Midler.

For those unfamiliar with the Asylum years, I Never Talk To Strangers has for some time been my go-to track when I wanted to remind myself how good it was to be married. It's perfect. Sums up the desperation and sense of hopelessness you feel when love's gone sour and you're looking somewhere else to satisfy that very human need.

But towards the end of that track, you're given just the briefest hint that salvation may be round the corner. It's left ambiguous, but hope is discernible among the bittersweet vocal harmonies.

Tom Waits is an ideal companion for maudlin drinking, so I decided he'd be the ideal accompaniment to this evening's calendar updates. Someone I care about got some disappointing news today and, for one reason or another, I feel kind of powerless to make it any better despite wanting to do just that. Which makes me feel disappointed. And let's face it, this calendar is essentially all about me, not the beer, so you'll have to indulge me in this.

Having now written myself into a corner, it's time to relate this to last night's beer. I feel I let the calendar down last night, although it wasn't entirely my fault. A lack of camera meant no pictures, which are definitely a necessary part of the whole, I feel. So I'm playing catch-up tonight, but I realise it's not the same. Still, it'll be a duet of beer, so the tenuous tie-in with the Tom Waits track just about works.

On the plus side, there will be two beers and, if I can muster up the inspiration, two rambling bits of nonsense beforehand as well. What a treat. First up is Goose Island's Harvest Ale from Chicago. It's a stranger to me, as is the second, which is as yet undiscovered.

Beer: Goose Island Harvest Ale
Country: USA
Strength: An above average 5.7%
Colour: Ruddy
Smell: Homemade balloon kit and stewing apples
Circumstance: Midway through Foreign Affairs, a few sheets to the wind after leaving-do drinks and gulping at the enormity of the task ahead. And feeling sad for someone else. So massively receptive, then.
Tasting notes: Actually just not good enough. Most of what makes a good ale is here: nice hoppy smell, brief taste of *sigh* malt biscuits before a temporary lashing of sharpness. But it's half-hearted. There is no passion. Instead, it delivers a check-list of desirable flavours, none of which are tough enough to meet their remit. I feel deflated. If the brewer can find all the necessary ingredients, why can't any of them be purposeful enough to hit the target? I had a pint of too cold Old Speckled Hen earlier and I'm having trouble telling them apart, which is criminal for a beer of this supposed stature.
Drinkability: Easy. Especially if you're a fan of the innocuous.
Gut reaction: It's too middle-of-the-road to make you worry about any potential uneasy effects.
Session factor: Relatively mediocre. You could feasibly drink quite a fair few, since it doesn't taste anywhere near as strong as it claims to be. Nevertheless, you just wouldn't want to.
Arbitrary score: 4.6

Chimay, Chimay not

2010-12-09T10:00:00.000Z

They may not get much better, but I'll do my best to ensure they don't get any worse than that.

I'm writing this the night before. It's a terrible confession to make, but I need to open the calendar the day before as I'll be out on Wednesday 8th at the Caught By The River Christmas social evening and doubtless won't want to put more beer into myself when I get back. The way I see it, that's got to be better than having to catch up, right?

So on the back of the Faro I've just had, I go and pick out a Chimay Tripel. It's a benign label for a genuinely frightening beer and I'm immediately thinking I may have gone too far too soon.

It's the same with my personal life. Hot on the coat-tails of realising my marriage is over, I'm beginning to get the feeling I'm falling for someone else. I've known her for years and never really thought of her in this way before (OK, I did a bit), but lately I'm beginning to feel that line between friendship and desire has been crossed. By me anyway. Time will tell whether anything happens, but for now, I'm really enjoying the uncertainty.

And speaking of uncertainty, I'm really not sure what to think of this one. I've had the brewery's blue and red-labelled beers, both of which were delicious, but this one doesn't look like the others. They're dark and brooding, while this one is opaque, blonde and altogether more deceptive looking. I hope it has the character of the other two, but I'm doubtful. It may or may not. That, too, remains to be seen.

Beer: Chimay Tripel
Country: Belgium
Strength: A colossal 8%
Colour: Golden blonde
Smell: A bizarre combination of cumin and aniseed at first, leading to wet thistles and caramelised honey.
Circumstance: Watching the Ashes highlights (again) and getting ahead of myself (also again).
Tasting notes: Is this a good sign? It's amazing. A jack-booted miscreant smashes the door to your tastebuds down with his size 14s and he's in, windmilling straight away before taking a great big hoppy cosh and pummelling the rest of your mouth with impunity. He then sits down and for all the world looks around wondering what all the fuss is about, calmly pulling out a can of fizzy grapefruit juice and spraying it everywhere while he tokes on a just-lit roll-up. Outrageous behaviour. What neck.
Drinkability: Well if you like that kind of onslaught, yes. It's great. And I do. Really well made and with the right level of bite to insist you keep glugging.
Gut reaction: Strong, fizzy, complex and with a depth charge of sediment waiting to pounce on the clumsier pourer. Tread carefully.
Session factor: Minimal. I'd like to think I could go a couple, but it's 8%. Unwise to attempt more, I think.
Arbitrary score: 8.4

Mere Faro

2010-12-07T22:10:00.000Z

Some years ago, I spent some time in Toulouse writing about planes for a well-known aircraft manufacturer that isn't Boeing.

In the immediate area around my flat, just before I moved in, there had been a terrific Belgian bar that served all manner of beer. This had been forced to close down due to the building of an extension to the underground railway, much to the clear disgruntlement of the owners, who had grafittied their feelings all over the hoarded up building.

So all that remained were bars selling a wide range of beers, to wit, Pelforth, Heineken or Stella Artois. Then there was the faux Irish bar owned by two Frenchmen, which sold Guinness at great cost. But it also sold Faro, evidently a refugee from the place opposite.

Now Faro is a kind of sweetened Lambic beer (here's a Wiki link, I'm not about to explain it now) and it came in an ornate bottle with a cork instead of a bottletop and was poured into a nifty little glass. How I enjoyed the long evenings drinking with the lonely engineers gazing longingly at the barmaid and thinking of home. They piled through the 'English' lagers like there was no tomorrow, while I sat dreaming of anywhere but home and drinking 'sophisticated' beer. I still got as drunk as them though. And in such moments tried to catch the barmaid's eye too.

Thing was, Sam (as we'll call her. Because it was her name) had dual nationality. Her father was French and her mother was English. From my home town. So while the engineering fraternity would try their damnedest to vie for her attention, I'd just wander in, pull up a stool and have a beer waiting for me by the time I'd sat down. The guys must have hated me.

When I left Toulouse, I heard she'd become engaged to one of the engineers. I know there's a lesson in there somewhere; probably something about no one liking a smartarse.

Beer: Timmermans Faro Lambic
Country: Belgium
Strength: A whispy 4%
Colour: A dull, light copper of turning leaves
Smell: Cider vinegar and bruised apples.
Circumstance: Day full of achievement and diplomacy at work, brutally cold cycle home over the Col de Crystal Palace. Ready for this.
Tasting notes: It tastes of the Melting Pot, the faux Irish bar that took much of my wage. The Faro I used to drink was more cloying, but this one gets the sweet and sour balance right. It is fairly gushing at first, though. Like an over-keen new girlfriend you're not entirely sure about. This is soon put right when her dad comes in, rips the needle from the record player, clips her round the forehead and chases you down the stairs with the sound of his daughter's plaintive but ultimately fruitless pleading ringing in your ears. Yes, it's a short, sharp shock. But you'll be back for more.
Drinkability: Excellent. A pleasure to drink, not too sickly and the finish leaves you hankering for more. See above.
Gut reaction: Looked initially like it'd cause some damage, but the fizz has subsided and it now feels OK. That said, the cider-leaning tendencies may cause discomfort further down the line.
Session factor: Not great, really. And here speaks the voice of experience. Having several of these is akin to being five years old and finding yourself left alone in the cake room. Yes, I know there's no such thing, but believe me, too many and you will be sick. I'm beginning to gip already and I'm only half way through it.
Arbitrary score: 6.8

Woh oh oh oh Camouflage

2010-12-06T22:00:00.001Z

Things are never quite the way they seem, as the great Stan Ridgway, formerly of Wall of Voodoo, once sang.

Stan knew a thing or two about appearances sometimes being deceiving. The track referred to in the title, in truth, sounds a right old plodder. It's only when you listen to the words more carefully that it turns from a gung-ho military paean into a Big Joe and the Phantom 309 for the Vietnam generation. Trouble is, it takes some perseverance to give it the time of day.

So where does this beer fit in? Well apart from the brewery almost sharing the Ridgway name, it's also a deceptive little number that many would take a fair deal of convincing to drink. The brewery is named after an ancient road that follows a low escarpment across the south west of England, laid way before the Romans turned up.

And you feel this is the kind of beer the druids who built that road would have given their blessing to, maybe even drunk themselves given it's weakness. But what it lacks in strength it more than makes up for in complexity of flavour. You wonder how the brewer packs so much into something that really shouldn't taste so rich.

I like the label on the bottle too. A fairly plain, pastoral scene with a pale sky and no real drama. No tasting notes or recommendations for what temperature at which to drink it either. Almost like it trusts you'll be guided along the right path merely by having chosen it in the first place.

Beer: Ridgeway Thames Valley Ale
Country: UK
Strength: Merely 3.4%, though it punches well above that
Colour: Lyle's Golden Syrup
Smell: Yeast almighty. It's some seconds before it begins to smell like a beer and not a proving loaf of bread.
Circumstance: It's been a long, toiling Monday without much in the way of reward. The enormity of my workload and various other aspects of my life is beginning to become clearer. But there were uplifting moments, not least reading my daughters to sleep with The Elephant and the Bad Baby.
Tasting notes: Can you describe a beer as tasting like it's fleet of foot? Well I'm going to anyway. It ghosts its way on to your tongue with a scattering of pollen, like a fat bumblebee buzzing its laden way back to the hive. Then as a frightened mouse skitters away to hide, so the hint of fullness disappears across the horizon as if fleeing approaching Mongol hordes. It's replaced with a tiny dash of peppery freshness that crystallises momentarily, then sinks without any hint of ever having been there before.
Drinkability: Tremendous. I honestly think I could drink this all day long.
Gut reaction: Too weak to be disturbing.
Session factor: Dizzying. A real session ale, this, with its low alcohol content and high interest flavour.
Arbitrary score: 8.2

Where there's mug...

2010-12-05T21:08:00.002Z

... there's brassica. I'm a fan of sprouts. I like the way they're maligned. I enjoy their crispness. I'm happy to go along with the arduous ritual of preparing them. I can even cope when they're water-logged and overdone.

But I'm not sure even I would mix them with lager. And from the first few glugs of this latest beer - disconcertingly called Mug - it appears that's just what the Scheldebrouwerij has done.

I've been down the road of this brewery's beer before (scroll down). That was a funny old stick too. Its label was somewhat bizarre and there's no change with this one as well. a balding, bearded gentleman of the road in bed wakes up to find a caveman who looks suspiciously like a 70s era Gerry Adams wielding a large club.

So it's little wonder the beer itself is something of an enigma. For all the world, it looks and smells like an off lager, which hasn't got me remotely excited. In fact, I'm beginning to feel like I've been taken for a mug, quite literally. The label claims this beer is special in some way, but I'm not getting that from the look and feel of it.

But as they say in Belgium, il n'y a qu'une façon de savoir. Or rather, er is maar een manier om uit te vinden. Or maybe both where they brew this stuff.

Beer: Scheldebrouwerij Mug

Country: Belgium

Strength: A reassuring 5%, perfect for a Sunday evening

Colour: Worryingly lager-coloured. Looks like a drop of the amber nectar.

Smell: Vinegar at first, although that dissipates fairly quickly. It does have the fearful reek of posh lager and boiled sprouts, though. And that's off-putting.

Circumstance: The hour of 'the fear' has arrived and I've just eaten a bean casserole with some of Dave's Insanity Ghost Pepper Sauce in it. So perhaps not the ideal preparation for savouring the subtle nuances of beer.

Tasting notes: What a cunning deceiver the nose can be. What the aroma called as an unexceptional Duvel-style amber ale, the tongue corrects. Gently, but firmly and with the quiet admonishment of a doting nursemaid. Oh no, Master Calendar, this is a natural, unfiltered, unpasturised beer, delivering refreshing hoppiness and rounded, near sculpted flavours that delight. But is it lager? Does that matter? It's definitely more interesting than most I've tried, but that slightly tinny finish still feels like my tongue's been shat on by a small, metallic dung beetle.

Drinkability: Rather easy. It's flavoursome and just about complex enough to encourage further investigation.

Gut reaction: Fine, but beware the effects of the sediment that's made the remainder of the drink opaque.

Session factor: At 5%, you could have a few if you like, but I'm not sure I'd really want to. I've nothing against it, but it's just not quite interesting enough to make me want another. Might work better with curry or in hotter weather.

Arbitrary score: 5.4

Sleep of the just

2010-12-04T23:08:00.001Z

A not entirely unwelcome by-product of the end of a marriage is that you feel considerably less duty bound to get out of bed.

Having stayed up a little too long watching the serene progress of England's batsmen against the pop-gun Australian attack, I found this morning's lie-in a real boon. Coupled with a to-do list only one item long and it added up to a highly relaxing Saturday.

Given that one item was a trip to Utobeer in Borough Market to pick up the remaining beers for the calendar and you begin to see how well the day has taken shape. Utobeer is a funny old place slap bang in the middle of a bustling, way-too busy market. It took 10 minutes on the train to London Bridge and another half an hour from there to push my way through a sea of slow walking shoppers with way too much time on their hands.

The shop itself is a collection of about five shelves stuffed to the rafters with as wide a range of beer as you can get in London. At least, I think so. I definitely haven't found anywhere else with such a choice. It's friendly service as well, but then I guess if you're laying at £40 on beer, you'll be well received in any establishment.

And it's one of theirs I'm sampling tonight, a great big bear of a beer from Denver, Colorado. The bottle looks fantastic; just the kind of understated label I like, although I'm discomfited somewhat by the best before date, which shows I should have had this just over two and a half months ago.

Oh well. Perhaps the high alcohol content will have preserved it a bit longer.

Beer: Great Divide Hibernation Ale
Country: USA
Strength: A disconcerting 8.7 ruddy %
Colour: Mahogany red, like a piece of fine furniture
Smell: Like a great big bear of a beer that's been using fortified wine as a deodorant
Circumstance: Mid way through making a hearty bean stew.
Tasting notes: Oh. Wow. This is the kind of beer I'd like to spend time with; cold evenings in by the fire cuddling up on furry 1970s white rugs. It coats a thick film of spirit-laced molasses instantly, almost like it's been drinking Kahlua and then stuck its tongue in your mouth. This sensation stays with you a while and it's some time before the sweetness subsides. And I want more. Finally, a whisky tinged bitterness lays itself across your tongue and you're called by the Sirens to drink from the cup again.
Drinkability: Heavenly. Genuinely smooth, flavoursome, complex and moreish.
Gut reaction: With it not being overly volatile, it tends to have a calming influence on the gut. Time will tell whether the best before date was strict or not.
Session factor: At 8.7%, you won't eat more than three in one sitting. I'm only half way through and hibernation seems an interesting prospect.
Arbitrary score: 8.7

Faron Young +1

2010-12-03T23:48:00.000Z

You give me Brew Dog Saint five in the morning. With massive apologies to Paddy McAloon, who wouldn't have had any idea I'd nick and bastardise the chorus of the opening song on possibly Prefab Sprout's finest LP in order to introduce a beer review.

But bear with me, Paddy. And the rest of you. For I will bend Heaven and earth to link the two in a wholly tenuous way that has most sane people raising their eyes skywards in disbelief and, quite probably, dismay.

This evening's offering is by Brew Dog, a company with which I have a few issues. Now I totally understand what they say they're trying to do and, in a way, we're coming at beer from similar angles. Perhaps that's what rubs me up the wrong way. Readers of the excellent Caught By The River website may have seen my review of Brew Dog's Tactical Nuclear Penguin some months ago, at the time dubbed the strongest beer in the world. Which was essentially a dick-measuring competition with a German brewer in which our pals at the Scottish brewery eventually invoked references to World War Two. Great work, guys. Why not pick one of the greatest human tragedies of our time to try and flog beer?

I know they're trying to wipe away the stuffiness of beer and bring it to a wider, less Fairisle jumper-wearing crowd, but doing the beer marketing equivalent of chanting Two World Wars and One World Cup is frankly crass at best and downright distasteful at worst. Much like the beer itself, in my opinion. I'll give them Punk IPA X, but otherwise they can really go and whistle.

So opening the calendar and seeing this garish red bottle staring back at me has genuinely got me itching for an argument. Given there's no one else here, it'll have to be with the beer itself. Now I freely admit to having bought it with the express opinion of giving it a proper kicking, but on reflection, that's really not the Beer Advent Calendar way. It'll have to work hard for a good slagging off, I reckon.

Which brings me back to Paddy. In many ways, Prefab Sprout mirror Brew Dog. Positioning themselves outside of the mainstream, they started out with the lofty intention of making what was extremely sophisticated palatable to the hoi polloi. Their first effort was hit and miss but had some inspirational moments. The second saw them break in to the big time with something warmly received by the critics. But once that fine line had been crossed and they were the name on everyone's lips, they lost sight of what it was they were trying to do.

I have to add I know nothing of Brew Dog's owners or marketing department, so if they're genuinely lovely people, I apologise wholeheartedly to them and would maybe, at a push, buy them a pint. But your schtick cuts no ice here at BAC towers, as I expect is the intention all along.

Poor old Paddy is now almost completely deaf due to some kind of weird rare brain condition and can no longer hear his own output. There's a lesson in there, guys.

Beer: Brew Dog 5am Saint
Country: Scotland
Strength: Bog standard 5%
Colour: Conkers. But when poured, it looks like an ice cream float. A beery Mount Eiger erupts from the glass. It looks like a chess piece.
Smell: Suspiciously like last night's beer. Citra hops in abundance, maybe. Whatever. It's Skunk Anansie.
Circumstance: Just back from a pleasant evening out in Smithfield with Whisky4Everyone founder Matt Chambers and friends. And a ruddy cold journey home on the bus. Now listening to Steve McQueen.
Tasting notes: Billed as an iconoclastic amber ale. Oh it would be iconoclastic, wouldn't it? Exactly which icons is it breaking down, then? Discuss. I had to bite the head off it, such was the volatility when poured. It wore a pith helmet of froth that tasted like someone had just washed their week-old socks in it. And here's the thing. For something that smells so much like the Kernel before it, the taste just doesn't stack up. There is no rounded, well-crafted balance. It just stinks. Everything's here, but it just feels badly put together. It's sharper at first and the hops scream at you like you're about to steal its ice cream. There is a brief hint of what could have been after the screech subsides, but you're whisked away to the flatline finish way too quickly. And it's a sour finish, not a slow, lingering kiss that anticipates the next.
Drinkability: Beers like this are supposed to make you want more, but this doesn't. I'm disappointed. When I smelled the just-opened bottle, it promised more.
Gut reaction: Questionable in the extreme. After three glugs, I did a fart that sounded like the opening bars of the 'Go Compare' advert
Session factor: No interest.
Arbitrary score: 3 (given before I even touched a drop) 5.3 after tasting. Could do better. I genuinely believe they really could do much better, which is what's worse.

Citra's fruit

2010-12-02T22:06:00.002Z

On a day when Russia secured the *kerching* franchise to host the world cup, I tussled with public transport from Southwark to New Cross Gate in an equally frustrating exercise.

Equally dulling was the bludgeon of a crushing workload. What assuaged this sense of crushing disappointment was the fact that I was required to reacquaint myself with reasons to be cheerful, one... two... three.

Walking to the bus stop home sees me pass three high quality juicers: The Charles Dickens, The Lord Clyde and The Royal Oak, all in London's SE1 postcode. Each had warming ales to ease the now-elongated journey home.

But having indulged in their most warming warmers, I'm presented with 2 December on the calendar. Hope springs eternal that it's not a bruising leviathan.

Beer: The Kernel IPA
Country: UK
Strength: A not entirely welcome 6.2%
Colour: Clarity begins at home: inside of a sleeping bag orange. With the sediment, it's 70s pine furniture.
Smell: Hideously strong skunk weed. If I weren't aware how that smelled, I'd hazard a guess at it being three-week old broken collar bone bandage.
Circumstance: The back end of a cheery walk and bus journey back to south east London. Here's hoping it cuts through the current carpet of clag lying across the taste buds.
Tasting notes: Oh well where do you start? An overriding clatter of grapefruit juice and a twist of lemon straight away, but the skunk flavour is never too far away. This never really disappears, but the character of it develops as the initial sting fades. It's as if your tongue is caught in a citrus mantrap that cripples your senses. But as time wears on and the shock subsides, you're left with an aching pain of the kind you really want to perpetuate. This beer is a wobbly tooth swathed in gum disease that smarts like Hell, but you're condemned to masochistically niggle at that hurt like Sisyphus needs to push the rock to the peak.
Drinkability: Terrific. Sharp, to the point, insistent and with the kind of moreish charm you'd find in Krackawheat or fruit sours.
Gut reaction: If you manage to pour without the sediment, there won't be any surprises. Less careful dispensers will feel the wrath of a thousand baked-bean suppers.
Session factor: While resoundingly strong, the sharpness means you could happily lay into a few before rationality kicked in.
Arbitrary score: 8.1

Elizabethan drama

2010-12-01T22:18:00.000Z

An unholy alliance rules the nation, Britain is crippled by freezing conditions and I just had to run a system restore on my laptop for the fifth time in as many weeks.

Throw in a marriage breakdown, the impending return of a filthy cold and the busiest time of year at work and it all seems utterly pointless.

But then it's 1 December, Mad Men will soon be screened on BBC4 and the Beer Advent Calendar is back with us again. For every yin, so a yang.

The theme this year is 'small beer', that is, bottles no bigger than 330ml. I'm not quite sure why I've limited myself to this; possibly because I'm desperately trying to lose a beer belly in time for heading out into the wild, unwelcoming world of dating again.

But we'll leave that for now and concentrate on the beer in hand, which in this instance is a particularly handsome-looking Elizabethan Ale from Harvey's of Sussex. The bottle itself looks Elizabethan for some reason. Maybe its the purple sashes or galleon on the label. The hefty alcohol content certainly looks Elizabethan. As long as it doesn't taste of rancid ruffs and Shakespearean codpieces, it'll do for me.

Beer: Harvey's Elizabethan Ale.
Country: UK.
Strength: A whopping 8.1%.
Colour: Brightly polished mash tun copper.
Smell: Prunes and unidentifiable solvent; a recipe for fun and games on any park bench. You wouldn't want to be the park keeper, though.
Circumstance: Just done three quarters of an hour on the turbo trainer after cycling home in practically sub-zero temperatures along the treacherous Old Kent Road. So a bit thirsty, then.
Tasting notes: Frightening stuff. Sharp as a tack, swarthy and full of feist. But for something this intimidating, it has a lightness and zest you'd normally expect with a golden ale or IPA. I hesitate to venture too much on the flavour as the exact fruits, malts and bitterness are shrouded in the murky depths this ale clearly borrows from the river by which it's brewed. It's as the flavour ebbs away that the beer really comes into its own, though. A healthy breakfast of unsugared grapefruit skiffs its way across your tongue like a startled pond-skater. Burping only serves to draw out that sensation.
Drinkability: Surprisingly good. I'm not put off by the strength or the rounded edges and the concluding bite it delivers begs another sip.
Gut reaction: I belched within five seconds of the second mouthful.
Session factor: Are you kidding me? They sell this in small bottles for a bloody good reason.
Arbitrary score: 7.6

A dispatch from the front line

2010-10-22T13:08:00.003+01:00

Closing time: is the writing on the wall
for the Wenlock?

It takes a lot to wake the Beer Advent Calendar from its nigh-on year-long slumber, but there is dirty work afoot and we must muster the forces of good.

One of the originals is threatened. It's uncertain what we can do about it bar shouting and gnashing teeth, but if that's all we can do then by golly that's what we will.

It's not every day you find a pub in which you feel welcome from the word go. And for me, it was last night. Criminally, I'd managed to avoid going to The Wenlock Arms in London's N1, despite many good reports from respected commentators. But news of its impending demise was enough to spur the Calendar into action and along I trotted.

What a fool I'd been. In an instant, I discovered all that needed to be found in a boozer. Eight ales on draft, lager a mere sideshow, knowledgeable bar staff, lived-in decor, smelly toilets, ribaldry and a quiz night. I'm told they do food as well, but the sort where pickled eggs are accompanied by outsize bottles of Tabasco, not of the gastro variety. They even allowed a bloke to bring his bike in. A Reynolds 531-framed singlespeed, of course. Well, it is N1 after all.

Naturally, I felt honour bound to sample each of the ales on offer. Most were well kept, except the Dark Star American Pale Ale, which the barman accurately described as Metallica. Highlight was one whose name escapes me, but had a squirrel on the pump. Should have known it was trouble by the 5.6% volume, but at least it ensured I didn't have any more.

But these are trifles. The pub's owners are selling up. London may yet have another much-needed development of flats. Another piece of character smashed out of existence by the need to make money out of where people live. By all accounts, it's doomed. Its loss will be sad, but more than that, it will signal the crossing of yet another line in the sand. If they can take this, they can generally do what the Hell they like.

Not so fast. A small village of indomitable Gauls still holds out against the Roman invader. Two heartbroken souls have begun a campaign to save The Wenlock. The Beer Advent Calendar wholeheartedly endorses this message. It does seem a hopeless case, but it wouldn't be the first time the little man had triumphed against all odds. Can you help? Even if it's to send a message of support or hassle an MP, it might achieve something. Something amazing. Stuff like this shouldn't be lost. We need pubs like this to exist, otherwise we will be nothing. Dust. Only dust.

Beer Advent Calendar will be back in December. It seriously hopes the Wenlock will be there to see it.

Au reboire

2009-12-26T20:20:00.008Z

It's with a heavy heart, but an even heavier beer, that I bid farewell to the Beer Advent Calendar for another year.

Now I'm fully aware this should have been all wrapped up before Christmas, but what with having decorations still to put up and trees to dress and all that, I only really got time for one (and a light one at that) before sloping off to bed on Christmas Eve.

Think yourself lucky; it was a good 11 months before I got round to the last one of 2008's calendar. In the two years prior to that I was clearly built of sterner stuff. Actually I've just checked and it looks like I didn't finish the first one I did at all. Lightweight.

Which brings me around to a subject I'm keen to discuss. Should I just carry on throughout the year? I mean, there's no way I'll keep it up every day, not least because I've got a few mountains to climb on a bike in July, but the idea did occur to me the other day while knocking back a pint in the Market Porter. Carry on rattling off some words about beer for the rest of the year until the next calendar comes around. But it'll be a sporadic effort by design as well as necessity. And habit, of course, as I'm not the most fastidious when it comes to prompt, painstaking daily updates as I'm sure you've noticed.

Anyway, all that remains this year is to finish up the last one and thank you all for tuning in over the course of the last month. I've had some nice comments and been pointed down a couple more avenues to explore that may or may not materialise, but it's been all good. Most of all, I've had some really tasty beers and rarely paid handsomely for them. A quick tally puts the final figure at around £30, which you can't argue with for 24 ales of mostly high quality.

Cheers.

Beer: Asda Whitechapel Porter
Country: England
Strength: A not particularly brawny 5.2%
Colour: Mahogany, a singularly faithful-sounding colour if ever there was one. But with a hint of scarlet, the brazen hussy
Smell: Maltier than a box of Malted Milk eating a Malteser on maltloaf sandwich. With Marmite on.
Circumstance: Boxing Day evening and not remotely the worse for wear after a strangely sober Christmas. With the missus being practically teetotal nowadays, that's hardly surprising.
Tasting notes: I'm getting Christmas cake, I'm getting sweet plum pudding, I'm getting delicious dark fruit flavours. And I'm coming over all Jilly Goolden. Thankfully, the kids have gone to bed. This really is a winner from the word go. Its label claims it's got underlying roasted malt flavour with spicy hop notes, but I think that's mostly claptrap. If anything, the malts are sweeter and fuller than more roasted ones, while there isn't a great deal spiciness at all (OK, maybe a bit at the end). The finish is characterised by a good kick in the face from a pair of treacle toffee hobnail boots, of the type the top-hatted gentleman thug on the label appears to be wearing. It's only right at the death that you get a hint of sharpness; doubtless the stiletto said bespectacled doorman is twisting into your cranial lobe as he plunges the flavour into your chest for good measure. Fantastic.
Drinkability: For a beer as dark as this, it's surprising how easy it is to down. I have a sore throat at the moment and this feels like a bottle of alcoholic Strepsils, soothing its path downwards as I swallow.
Gut reaction: Been belching already and I've not really over-eaten this Christmas, so there's something in the beer that's potentially volatile.
Session factor: Right now, I could gladly polish of a fair few. This is definitely a winter by the fireside drink, though. Not sure I'd be all that happy drinking it in any other month.
VFM: 9.9. Overall value winner here. Only a quid for a fantastically tasty, complex, smooth, satisfying, moreish, great-big-jumper of a beer. I'll be laying in some more tomorrow.

Brakspearean tragedy

2009-12-24T21:51:00.005Z

Well, it was a close-run thing. Dropped a bottle on the steps outside but weirdly it didn't break.

It's double-dropped as well, so that potentially makes it the first triple-dropped beer I've ever had. Would have been a sickener if it had smashed, capping off a day in which our last-minute food shopping was nearly derailed thanks to a fire at New Cross Sainsbury's. Thankfully, both our victual-gathering and the beer survived intact.

This is, of course, the penultimate beer in the calendar, which means I'm still one day behind schedule. But given today's exertions, I'm only planning on shifting the one this evening, so you'll have to wait till Christmas Day for the final update. Something to look forward to after the Queen's Speech and Eastenders, eh?

Looking at the label tells me this is a fairly low maintenance ale that shouldn't trouble me too much, which is exactly what I need. I ended up pouring just under half of last night's down the sink as it was just too strong and, well, not very nice. I don't think I've done that on the calendar before, but the combination of works night out and poor-tasting beer wasn't one I wanted to perpetuate.

Still, I better get on with it as I need to start preparing tomorrow's food. We've decided to dispense with tradition and have curry, so I'm getting as much out of the way tonight as possible to make tomorrow a bit less stressful.

Beer: Brakspear Bitter
Country: Oxfordshire, England
Strength: A reassuringly weak 3.4%
Colour: Russet
Smell: Bit vinegary to be honest, but there's a saving grace of yeast riding to the rescue
Circumstance: Still trying to get everything done in time for Christmas having successfully fought off a hangover all day. And listening to Purple Radio, of course.
Tasting notes: To say it's on the lighter end of the scale, it's surprisingly tasty. Fairly one-dimensional, though - all about the refreshment and bitterness - but it dries out towards the finish and is moreish as a result. I can just make out a dash of orange in there too, but this isn't the complex, fragrant beer its label claims. No bad thing, though. You can have too many things going on in a beer and this doesn't suffer from that.
Drinkability: Excellent. Pleasing to the tongue and has that lovely hook at the end that draws you back in.
Gut reaction: Too weak to cause any problems, I'd have thought, although it's slightly gassy and belch-worthy as a consequence.
Session factor: Ridiculously high. At only 3.4%, you could easily polish of a fair few without realising. Lightly chilled, this would make a terrific summer afternoon tipple.
VFM: 9.5. Another pound-a-bottle bargain and potentially session beer of the calendar.

Fair to Middler

2009-12-23T23:45:00.006Z

I've heard it said that Bette Middler can't sing. A few times.

And when you hear Wind Beneath My Wings, you could be forgiven for believing it. And rightly so on that evidence.

But having stumbled back after a surprisingly enjoyable works Christmas do a few sheets to the wind, I decided to put on a Tom Waits CD that includes one of the greatest duets imaginable. I Never Talk To Strangers, featuring Tom and Bette, swooning drunkenly over each other in a captivating vocal contretemps.

I can't remember who it was who claimed that our Bette couldn't sing, but all they need to do is listen to that and then shut up. Magical. Brings a smile to the mouth and a sentimental glint to the eye at the same time.

That it's followed by Tom Traubert's Blues shuffles me even further towards maudlin reminiscence. Clearly some beery cheer is needed.

But before that, I'd like to raise a glass to my colleagues. After a ridiculous year full of late nights and almost unbearable stress, they're still smiling and happy to be with each other. There's an amazing esprit de corps there that's often amiss among so-called team mates. And despite the latent jealousies, it would appear there's a real affection underpinning everything. I'm staggered and touched by it in equal measure. However much I don't enjoy much of my time there, a big part of me is kept sane and in good humour by the people who work there. Big up 'em; not that they read this, of course.

Many of them are still drinking awful booze in a just about acceptable juicer as I type this. So this one's for them.

Beer: Shepherd Neame Christmas Ale
Country: Kent, England
Strength: A genuinely frightening 7%
Colour: The orange of a thousand hangovers
Smell: Hellish skunk and piddle-stained polyester trousers
Circumstance: Listing awkwardly after a works Christmas party and listening to Asylum Years. Ideal combination, then. Is it just me, or does Kentucky Avenue make anyone else weep about their own slightly disjointed childhood?
Tasting notes: Marzipan-clad Christmas cake. Of the kind that doesn't need embellishing with such extras. There's no escaping how strong this one is. From the very first moment it grips like a rabid Jack Russell with lockjaw. It doesn't matter how much your tongue tries to shake the alligator clip of months-open cream sherry, that gift is here to stay. No relent. No release. It'll take a rough-grade file to scrape some of that cloying melted polyurethane away and that's before the smoke-stained finish kicks in. I'd probably like this if it were the first beer I'd had today, but it's suffering almost as much as I am.
Drinkability: See above comment. But even given a clear run, this isn't something you'd hoy down with any kind of abandon.
Gut reaction: Cistern-spatteringly bad. Bog roll's in the freezer already.
Session factor: Nil. One's enough for anyone, no matter how hard they say they are.
VFM: 7.2. High alcohol content to minimal cost ratio makes this a winner. Hold your nose and you'd be forgiven for thinking it's quite nice as well. Another one for the itinerant contingent.

Asda way to do it

2009-12-22T21:28:00.004Z

Why? Why did I bother with the pretenders? Asda is truly the king of clippy.

Countless expensive marketing surveys have concluded it cuts more prices than any other supermarket, so why have I been scrabbling around elsewhere for bargains when all along, they were there on my doorstep?

Four beers, four quid. Simple as that. And they're not duffers too, by the looks of it. One's a porter, two are golden ales and the other's a double-dropped best bitter.

There is an element of the nativity about this, if I can blaspheme for a minute. I've been Artaban, the fourth 'wise' man who turned up late at the meeting point because he was tending to some sickly stranger and ended up missing out on the gig. Was it my calling to be tested by the fakers instead of forging on with the quest, to be thus cruelly denied the chance of greeting the King?

Unlikely, isn't it? But I do feel I've had some kind of epiphany. Asda had a great selection, most of which were on three-for-four quid offer and some priced at the ludicrously low sum of one pound. Nowhere have I been more spoiled for choice or so uncertain of what actually constituted the best deal than at Walmart's finest.

So there you have it, folks. If you want cheap beer, go to Asda. Now all that remains is the small but not insignificant matter of tasting one of the offerings.

Beer: Asda Golden Ale (brewed by Shepherd Neame)
Country: Kent, England
Strength: A princely 4.5%
Colour: Gold, frankinsense and myrrh
Smell: Fruity, flowery, honeyed and citrusy. So a pint of Lemsip, then.
Circumstance: End of another long old slog today. This time involving work, Christmas shopping, sorting, child ferrying, wardrobe shifting and tidying. All carried out with a grossly unfair bout of catarrh.
Tasting notes: Oh, this is very good. It's not like the flock of golden ales I pilloried a few weeks ago. Oh no. This is fantastic. It has a lovely, citrusy, biscuity sharpness that's followed by a gush of honey-tinged mellowness before it flatens out like Holland. Cold and bitter (no offence to the Dutch, of course, who are a great people). Hand me my spade, please. But back on topic, a fine flavour of hoppiness lingers for some time afterwards, which is highly pleasing. There's even a suggestion of northern lights in the belch, which is a terrific sensation.
Drinkability: Among the best I've tried so far this calendar. And there have been some excellent beers. I'll be off to spend a tenner on this come payday.
Gut reaction: Who cares? I'll happily rattle out the rectum Revels all day long in return for this frankly top-notch ale.
Session factor: Higher than an ace. It's on the robust side, but think on... it's still weaker than most lagers and is only just stronger than Carling Black Label. You see.
VFM: 9.8. Would have been good value even had it been cack, but for a quid a bottle, you cannot go wrong with this. I'm massively impressed with the amount of flavour and strength available to the beer-buying public for only one pound sterling.

Unseasonal bleatings

2009-12-21T23:29:00.004Z

I've had a read back over one or two comments I've made on this blog so far and I have to apologise.

There's been nowhere near enough slating of stuff going on at all. OK, I ranted about work, but that's only natural in this stressful time of year. What's pissing me off more is that I haven't had the opportunity to really lay into a beer.

Maybe that's because I'm paying barely anything for them, so I don't feel like I'm being ripped off. Last year, I went to Utobeer in Borough Market. A fine stall under any circumstances and one that's looked after me on several occasions when I've fancied a different beer. But the outlay was crippling at more than 60 nicker, even given the 10% discount they generously applied.

For this year's credit crunch calendar, I'm unlikely to spend even half that; sensible drinking as I'm sure you'll agree.

So when it came to laying in the last few for the calendar, I beat a path to Lidl on Old Kent Road. The German discounter is well-known for knocking out decent booze for not much moolah, so it seemed the logical choice.

The Marston's Burton Bitter you already know about if you read the last post. Coming next (perhaps not tonight) is Shepherd Neame's Christmas Ale. The third was a trickier choice, but I settled on Wychwood's Hobgoblin as it felt vaguely from the same season as Christmas, although it dubs itself the official beer of Hallowe'en. Yeah, OK.

I've had many a Wychwood beer, so I was looking forward to sampling this one. They know their way around a brewery, this lot, although their marketing and advertising leave something to be desired. No problem, then. Should be a fine, upstanding ale, albeit veering towards the pricey at £1.49.

But I'm sad to inform you that Hobgoblin is the Paul Rideout of the beer world. Such early promise cruelly dashed upon the disappointment that is ending your career at Tranmere Rovers. As it happens, this beer tracks Rideout's career remarkably accurately.

Beer: Wychwood Hobgoblin
Country: Oxfordshire, England
Strength: A handy 5.2%
Colour: Dark chimney red with a touch of Hallowe'en orange (cheers, Tom)
Smell: Dark toffee pudding with vanilla custard
Circumstance: Rising to the challenge of catching up on my beers and still getting up early tomorrow for what will undoubtedly be a tough journey in to work.
Tasting notes: Huge burst of raspberry followed by roasted liquorice and treacle toffee. I thought it was slightly wet at first, but the flavours did take over, although not for long enough in my book. It then peters out with a somewhat disappointing salty metallic taste. Then it feels like you've just had a spoonful of bicarbonate of soda, thinking it was icing sugar. After the great start, this one really lets itself down.
Drinkability: Easy enough to quaff as it's pretty smooth and well-balanced. But that finish can get lost.
Gut reaction: The sour ending of a beer is to gut-rot what bright colours are to potential predators in the wild. A portent of pooey evil.
Session factor: Not great, although if you kept swigging it before the finish had the chance to kick in, you might avoid all the sourness till later. Probably sweeping it under the carpet, though.
VFM: 5.8. This cost a massive £1.49 at Lidl, so it doesn't qualify for any bonus bargain points at all. And the crushing sense of disappointment after having had your expectations built up marks it down further.

Gone for a Burton

2009-12-21T21:56:00.006Z

It's been a long old slog and hard going in parts.

But I'm now safely back after a four-mile hike back from work in post-blizzard conditions and really looking forward to tucking in to the latest from the calendar. Transport for London must have been working overtime tonight, answering calls from irate travellers, as most of the capital came to a standstill.

London Bridge station closed, buses crawling at a sloth's pace, cars tippy-toeing with breathtaking caution. It was life transported back several decades and none the worse for it, I found.

So I donned the walking boots I'd left at work for no apparent reason and set out for home on Shanks's Pony. Many others had given up trying to return home by conventional means and had either repaired to the boozer or were trudging along looking out for taxis or unladen buses, mostly without success.

A fair few were revelling in it, including me I have to admit. For a brief moment, I was five again, plodding in wellies down the pavement and feeling the satisfying crump of compacting snow. An enterprising pair had even managed to fashion a snowman of sorts out of the already melting sludge.

So although tricky, my journey home was really rather enjoyable. This despite having the world's most blocked sinuses. I think I'd find it easier to breathe were my nasal passages filled with concrete.

Still, there's always Lemsip, although I've shunned that so far this evening lest the zest interfere with the beer. Perhaps a couple of ales will shift the blockage?

Beer: Marston's Burton Bitter
Country: Staffordshire, England
Strength: A lightweight 3.8%
Colour: It looks like the cork end of a cheap cigarette.
Smell: What's seeping through to the scent receptors is sharp, spicy and citrusy with a hint of malt; no bad thing in my current condition.
Circumstance: Just walked home in the snow, which was more pleasant than I expected when I set off. Now in the warm flat and listening to the Purple Radio Christmas Crackers mix and beginning to feel festive.
Tasting notes: Exceptionally clean. So clean, in fact, that it appears to taste of very little. But it's all about subtlety, you see. There's a faint suggestion of malty biscuits and tiny bit of mandarin orange pieces that you used to get in a tin. Then there's a tiny lap of bitterness before a trickle of subsiding sherbert drains away on the tongue. I don't think I'm overplaying it by suggesting this is one of the better session beers I've had the pleasure to neck. And I am necking it.
Drinkability: Well, I've practically finished it in the time it's taken me to type this out, so that should tell you all you need to know.
Gut reaction: Doubt it'll be in there long enough to cause much trouble.
Session factor: Ridiculously high. Low alcohol content and great taste combination equals huge session capability.
VFM: 9.7. Only a pound from Lidl, so you can't grumble on that score at all. You could get roaring drunk for a tenner, which in this day and age is a rarity indeed.

The fab four

2009-12-19T19:35:00.012Z

Looks like I've got some catching up to do again.

I'll attempt to get through four tonight, but by my reckoning, that still puts me a day behind. I've run out of beer, though, after my over-zealous consumption a couple of weeks ago, so a trip to Lidl is in the offing tomorrow.

There's also the small matter of a Christmas tree to lay in, so it's a good thing I got the car fixed this week.

Tonight's delights feature such family favourites as Theakston's Old Peculier (sic), Martson's Double Drop (the first I'll have a crack at) and McEwan's Champion, a great bulging Highland games caber-tosser of a beer that weighs in at something like 7.5%. I might leave that till the end, but given the weakest of the lot is an able 5%, sobriety's looking in jeopardy already.

Which is pretty much the long and the short of this week, really. Client drinks on Monday and Thursday night left me in no fit state to even smell beer, never mind pass comment on it. Yesterday was particularly bad, which surprised me given the quality of beer I'd been drinking in comparison to Monday. Maybe bog-standard, mass-produced beers such as Guinness are better for you than the more cottage-industry ales I was sampling later in the week.

Yesterday was also coloured by the painful process of getting a magazine sent to the printers. Not that it's usually as involved, but the client in this instance makes incompetence a way of life, it seems. Instead of just getting on with what he had to do, he spent more time trying to apportion blame to me in case the magazine didn't actually get sent to print that night. Blissfully unaware of the fact he was holding up the process even more as a result, something he's been doing for months now. So I spent most of the day waiting for him to get his arse into gear before a mad flurry of activity at around 5.30pm, then waiting for what seemed like forever for final sign-off. When I did get a call to make changes, they were so picky and insignificant it was almost laughable, to wit: we really need a comma in here. For fuck's sake, just get on with it. Is anyone going to die as a result of that missing comma? No.

Finally got out of work at just short of 9pm, which put me in a foul and uncreative mood, hence the lack of posting last night. Well, that and the fact I was still feeling ropey from the night before.

But on to more pleasurable matters and tonight's first drink...

Beer: Marston's Double Drop
Country: England
Strength: A feisty 5%
Colour: An Irn Bru and Lucozade hybrid
Smell: Berry fruits and spices and citrus and a damp dishcloth
Circumstance: Spent the whole day sorting stuff out around the flat, washing clothes, cooking dinner and generally working hard. The cricket was on throughout, though. Oldham picked up a creditable away point, although 10-man Wycombe Wanderers should have been a three-pointer really.
Tasting notes: Like a beer should, really. It's slightly too cold, having been left out on the doorstep in what are now sub-zero temperatures, but that doesn't bother me too much as it's boiling in the house owing to the heating being on overdrive. A initial biscuity sweetness greets the tongue as this ale welcomes itself through the door, but that doesn't last as this visitor soon reveals its purpose. As if pulling a blunderbuss from its lengthy Loden coat, it sprays the hoppy bitterness around like an industrial sprinkler system, before calmly taking its coat off, wiping its feet properly, hanging its hat on the hatstand and settling down in an easy chair to smoke a fag.
Drinkability: Tremendous. I really wish I'd bought some more.
Gut reaction: I don't think this'll cause too many problems. It's slightly gassy but not enough to cause rumblings in the midriff.
Session factor: Fairly high, but watch out for that 5% kick.
VFM: 9.2. At £1.25 a bottle from Morrison's, this is genuinely a contender for beer of the year in my book, certainly as far as value is concerned.

Beer: Thwaites Double Century
Country: Lancashire, England
Strength: A worrying 5.2%
Colour: Off-lager. I don't mean lager that's off, mind. Beer equivalent of off-white. Oh, make your own mind up; you can see for yourself.
Smell: A sharp sniff of cooking apples with some gooseberry and a tot of melon
Circumstance: Getting to grips with the calendar and listening to Purple Radio. Will be eating shortly, so I'll be switching to the even heavier stuff after a quick stomach-lining.
Tasting notes: Terrifically balanced, with tight citrus flavours mingling naturally with malty goodness and even some summer fruits. Whatever they are. There's a speedy nip of sherbert too before an appealing orangey bitterness rounds off a thouroughly well-brewed beer. If there is a slight criticism, it's that there is a tendency towards milk in the finish, but it's barely noticeable unless you're familiar with the phenomenon of beer beginning to taste like milk after a while.
Drinkability: Extremely good. It's flavours are a show-off juggler keeping more than four objects of varying weights and sizes in the air at once. While whistling Colonel Bogey.
Gut reaction: Calming rather than volatile, I'm certain this isn't going to be coming back to haunt me from either end.
Session factor: More one to appreciate than glug, this. But under duress, I'd happily knock a few more of these back and not get bored. Might feel a bit queasy, though.
VFM: 9.1. Another bargain at £1.25, that score would have been higher but for the dairy undertones. But I do recommend seeking this one out because you won't be disappointed.

Beer: Theakston's Old Peculier
Country: Yorkshire, England
Strength: A now troubling 5.6%
Colour: Red so deep it takes on a looming darkness more usually found at the bottom of the ocean
Smell: Not entirely sure, but it's thick and chemically. I can almost detect a bit of molasses in there somewhere, but that's masked by the noxious odour of DIY balloons.
Circumstance: Hurtling towards midnight and still only halfway through tonight's marathon. I fear the wall.
Tasting notes: Ah, forget the smell. This wipes away all apprehension you may have built up when sticking your nose in the glass. All right, it tastes pretty robust, but there's a misleading lightness about it too, which I think would throw me if I were unaware of this beer's 'depth-charge' effect. It's hard to pin down exactly what it tastes like, but I'll throw Christmas pudding, pickled plums, sweet Marmite and tawny port hats into the ring for consideration. I'm a bit foxed by this if the truth be told. It's lovely, but I'm not quite sure why.
Drinkability: Great if you're not in a hurry, but it's a struggle otherwise. I can't think of any beer-related pursuit I'd less like to take part in than a Theakston's Old Peculier race.
Gut reaction: Treat with caution, for beers of this stature don't usually lie easily on the gut.
Session factor: Behave.
VFM: 9.4. At £1.25 a bottle, you're getting some serious bang for your buck here. Amazingly complex and subtle, yet juggernaut strong. Seek it out.

Beer: McEwan's Champion
Country: Scotland, Scotland
Strength: A frankly ridiculous 7.3%
Colour: Similar colour to the Old Peculier, but greyer, if that makes sense. It looks bloody threatening.
Smell: A swimming baths full of vinegar. And bad cider. I'm almost convinced the beer's off.
Circumstance: After midnight and I'm beginning to reel. In years gone by, this assignment would have been a breeze; now it's beginning to hurt. And I'm certain my sense of smell's on the way out.
Tasting notes: Not as bad as I'd feared, but it's one you'd have to 'get used to'. I'm reminded of German altbiers a little, especially given the damp burning wood flavour. Imagine drinking the smell of charred wood with cheap lager spilled on it and you wouldn't be too far away from how this tastes. In its favour, its strength isn't overpowering. In fact it's lighter than I thought it would be. According to the sleevenotes, this is 'Brewed to those fastidious standards that have made McWewan's a byword for quality beer'. Those who know McEwan's beers will appreciate that comment, I believe. Laughable.
Drinkability: Unremarkable. This is by no means the worst beer I've ever tasted, but I really couldn't see myself drinking it again, save for checking whether indeed the bottle was off or not.
Gut reaction: The porcelain is liable to receive a sound pebble-dashing tomorrow morning. Even if I stop now, which I'm not going to.
Session factor: I'd rather drink the pus from a badger's haemorrhoidal aris' than drink more than one of these in one sitting.
VFM: 6.7. While you wouldn't seek it out, it's unarguably value for £1.25. Gentlemen of the road take note.

A piddling excuse

2009-12-16T20:39:00.007Z

It's the same every year, so you'd think I'd have learned by now. But no.

Since my weekend trip to Morrison's, I've been out twice and consequently unable to even look at a beer the day after. So I've four to catch up with tonight, although given the hour I'll be lucky to get through half that.

I had such high hopes for this week as well, having planned to neck two on Sunday to make up for Monday's scheduled night out with clients while also hoping to be suitably recovered by last night to be back on track.

No such luck. On neither night out did I feel I'd had too much, but that was patently not the case when the evidence of the following day was scrutinised.

As bad luck would have it, I've another festive client entertainment evening tomorrow, so it's looking likely I'm going to have to work through a few on Friday as well.

It's a hard life.

Just the two tonight, though. Wouldn't want to overdo it, now, would I?

Beer: Wyre Piddle
Country: England
Strength: A ungenerous 4.0%
Colour: The ruby end of chestnut
Smell: A faint scent of wet pine forests and a large dose of spilled lager. There is some citrus fruit in there somewhere too.
Circumstance: Mistaking the light at the end of the work tunnel with the light of an oncoming train.
Tasting notes: More like a can of British Rail-issue 'bitter' than I've come across in the 16-odd years since it was privatised. It's sharp from the off and has a faintly metallic taste that's not unlike over-cooked spinach. There's not much in the way of body or spirit and the flavour drains away like disappointed football fans towards the end of a three-nil drubbing. That said, it's inoffensive, but it's more a beer-flavoured beverage than an actual beer.
Drinkability: Reasonable, but you'd need to be stuck on a pre-privatised train somewhere just south of Lichfield Trent Valley station to really appreciate it.
Gut reaction: I fear for my stomach as this one has both gas and vegetable water written all over it.
Session factor: Great if you're on a train. Not so good anywhere else.
VFM: 5.2. It was £1.25, so really not a huge sum, but it doesn't have much to say for itself either.

Beer: White Horse Wayland Smithy
Country: Oxfordshire, England
Strength: A fine 4.4%
Colour: Copper tun orange
Smell: The bastard lovechild of thick, treacly parkin and slovenly maltloaf. Covered in yeast and stinging nettles.
Circumstance: Watching True Blood and thinking about catching up further, although I am feeling bloated after the first one, so that's looking unlikely.
Tasting notes: Seriously hoppy and considerably more crisp and responsive than the last one. It has the attack of McVities Ginger Nuts and the same masochistically addictive quality too. It's hurting, but I want more. The bitterness stays with you long after you've swallowed and doesn't fade until several seconds later, by which time it has pulled up slightly. There's nothing too complex about it, either. A good straight-up-and-down ale that performs well over hurdles and isn't too shabby on the flat.
Drinkability: Good to soft. But schooning a few down while the dappled sun kisses the rolling summer meadows would be a firm favourite.
Gut reaction: I'm concerned the sizeable yeast element might give the innards a good shoeing later. Especially as I'm carrying a bit of extra weight.
Session factor: Middling. It's a bright, breezy effort, but I'm not sure I could handle it furlong (that's enough now - ed.)
VFM: 7.6. Another of Morrison's keenly priced ales, I'll gladly weigh in to a few more of these in the new year.

Up the junction

2009-12-12T18:47:00.007Z

Longer ago than I care to remember, I spent endless summers roaming the fields and towpaths of a place called Middleton Junction.

Bikes were ridden, canals were swum in and landlord daughters were all lusted after as we waited for the day we could finally enter the licensed establishments in the area, of which there were many.

As unstubbled sixteen-year-olds, we longed to be able to walk manfully into those pubs and order a pint of Lees's. I think I even practiced ordering it with as deep a voice as I could muster. And when the day finally came when enough courage had been plucked up to enter the one that 'anyone could get served in', we were all duly ejected with a terse warning never to try again.

So when, finally, I was able to procure my first pint of this Holy Grail of beers, I marvelled at the way it settled; drunk in with my callow eyes the beautiful counterpoint between head and ale; breathed in deeply the intoxicating scent of fabled liquid. Then tasted.

It was rank. I almost spat it out there and then, but the fear of ejection forced me to swallow it down. Not one of us liked it, you could tell. And yet we all finished our first pints of Lees's. Then calmly placed the glasses on the bar and left for the santuary of the local off-licence, from which we bought some cans of Breaker to drink by the canal.

That should have taught me a valuable lesson in life - not to build things up too much in case you get disappointed. But almost a quarter of a century later, I haven't learned. And it was with a keen sense of anticipation I opened this bottle after seeing it for sale in Morrison's on offer. It really was too good to resist, unlike yesterday's self-proclaimed offering.

But now, I'm left rueing the decision and cursing my naivety for even thinking it could possibly work out.

Mind you, I think they do a nice one called Moonraker...

Beer: John Willie's Premium Bitter
Country: Lancashire, England
Strength: 4 point bloody 5%
Colour: Redbrick brown, like the houses that surround the brewery.
Smell: Vinegar and canals. OK, that might be what it reminds me of, having grown up near the brewery and also a canal-side Sarson's factory. To the neutral, it'll be malty and fruity and musty.
Circumstance: Gearing up for a night out and celebrating a rare win for Oldham Athletic with a beer from round that way.
Tasting notes: Lacklustre at first, it's prods itself into life briefly with a jolt of ashtray bitterness before subsiding back pretty quickly into its previous torpor. I used to drink John Willie Lees bitter when I started getting served in the pubs round our way and it wasn't any good then. It was cheap, but it gave you gut rot and was only to be consumed in times of financial trouble. This one's seemingly not much different from the original, although it is stronger. It just doesn't seem to go anywhere, much like the football team its brewer used to sponsor.
Drinkability: Unsurprisingly not great. You could down a few, but why bother when there are much better alternatives? If it was the only beer in the pub, you'd probably get up and leave after two or maybe three at the outside.
Gut reaction: I don't know yet, but I fear for my innards on account of this beer's chequered heritage.
Session factor: If you fancied an afternoon depressing yourself, go to Middleton where this brewery's based, sit in any of the JWL-tied pubs and drink this. As with the drinkability, you could... but you wouldn't. Not in your right mind, anyway.
VFM: 4.5. First of a few I laid in from Morrison's at four for £5.50. It was less of a ball-ache than I imagined it would be as well, the store being strangely deserted for a Saturday afternoon teatime. But cheap as it was, this stuff hasn't got enough about it to trouble the upper single figures.

World's best beer

2009-12-11T19:48:00.005Z

A massively bold claim and, in fact, overstatement for this beer, dubbed Irresistible Premium Ale (IPA for short, then).

But it works terrifically hard and I respect that, especially after the week I've had. And I admire that in a beer. So never mind that it's really not the best ale in the world, or even particularly irresistible, as it claims on the label. It has soul.

Which brings me to another beer that I will include in this year's calendar: Shepherd Neame Master Brew. Now I've had people whose opinion I mostly respect have a real dig at that poor, much maligned tipple, but it's got to stop. There's honesty and integrity in middling triers such as these - who are we to smite them down just because their names make claims they can rarely back up? We don't scoff at people named 'King' who aren't really actual kings, so why castigate a beer that has the audacity to call itself something slightly grander than it actually is? The world needs beers such like Master Brew and Irresistible Premium Ale. No matter that they aren't the best - they're tremendous at what they do.

I know Master Brew isn't the best beer in the world, just like this Natural Brewing Company Irresistible Premium Ale is entirely resistible. But give it some credit; it's aiming at the stars. And performing its role to a fault.

But back to tonight's ale, which is brewed by one JJ Herrington (Brewmaster). Now it's unlikely JJ is the greatest brewer on earth, but I don't for one second begrudge him dubbing himself a brewmaster because he's really come up with a solid beer here. It's even more than a trier - it's achieved already. So much so that I'm already contemplating heading back to Sainsbury's to see if there's any left.

That's all the success this beer needs. And I raise my glass (of it) to it.

Beer: Irresistible Premium Ale
Country: England
Strength: A hardly irresistible 4.3%
Colour: A ruddy, autumnal gold that screams fireside
Smell: Mildly singed flapjack with a side-order of fresh peaches
Circumstance: At the advent of the weekend. A night of slouching and listening to Purple Radio beckons, through the power of the mighty RadioTuna. And seemingly mid-pimp as well.
Tasting notes: Sharp as a tack with undertones of grapefruit and Malted Milk biscuits. There isn't too much in the middle before it tapers off, but that's no bad thing. It's a quick hit of bitterness that's really refreshing and exactly fit for purpose. It's not irresistible by any means, but it's extremely good for gulping down. And that's pretty much what I'm doing.
Drinkability: It's in the top three I've had so far this calendar and that's no mean feat considering the company it's keeping. From the first sniff to the last vestiges of the finish, it ticks all the boxes you'd want in a glugger.
Gut reaction: There is some gas about it, so I wouldn't down it as quickly as I appear to be doing right now.
Session factor: Considerable. It cuts through thirst, tickles the tastebuds and wipes its feet on the way out. Thank you, may I have another?
VFM: 9.7. The only thing that marks this down is the relatively low alcohol content, i.e. it's not gonna get you roaring after a couple of bottles. Otherwise, at £1.5o a pop, it's nearly unbeatable.

All the gold I could eat

2009-12-10T20:44:00.008Z

Time to roll out the heavyweights, especially given the weekend's fast approaching.

In response to a certain retailer's mean-spirited price hikes (see yesterday's entry for slightly more details), I decided to make my selections based purely on alcohol content by volume. Up yours, Sainsbury's. I'm one step ahead of you, you miserable Scrooges.

This may or may not have been a wise move. While there's every chance just one bottle will make me feel light-headed, there's no guarantee beers this strong won't end up tasting like the entrails of a long-dead skunk. I steer clear of some of the less well-known names and choose carefully as a result.

Sadly, I don't think British beers can do stupidly potent beers of the kind of quality the Belgians seem to be able to churn out with the ease. Almost all I've tried have tasted like Gold Label Barley Wine, a cheap and remarkably efficient way of seeking inebriation as a teenager if ever there was one.

But given I'm on a credit crunch calendar this year, I've little choice but to extract value from wherever I can. This evening, I've gone for the strongest I bought, but the other two are no featherweights either. A combined a.b.v. of 21.4% for the princely sum of £4.66 is a good return in anyone's language.

Up to now, I've worked out, my beer advent calendar has set me back £13.90, plus whatever I paid for the Greengrass which I frankly can't remember. For 10 beers, that's not bad at all.

Must make an extra-special effort to bring the average down below £1.50 a bottle, though, which I expect will mean a visit to Lidl.

Beer: Fuller's Golden Pride
Country: London, England
Strength: A malevolent 8.5%
Colour: Menacingly deep amber with a chestnut jus
Smell: Rich fruitcake stuffed to the gunwales with fortified wine. With a rake-load of freshly mown lawn clippings and a small hit of amyl nitrate. Frightening.
Circumstance: Seeing light at the end of the long tunnel of a work-weary week.
Tasting notes: Ouch. That hurts. It packs a punch bigger than that Ukrainian giant Nikolai Valuev and is about as welcome on the tastebuds. There's a brief moment of sharpness when you're convinced it's going to go quite nicely, but suddenly it veers awkwardly and plunges you down into the abyss of a cloying, malt-heavy liqour ravine. There's little respite as a wave of cheap, strong vodka crashes through before gently, but slowly, ebbing away. The weird thing is, it's actually going down comparitively well.
Drinkability: Difficult. Worth persevering with, though, as I am beginning to enjoy it just under half way through.
Gut reaction: Nothing to fear too much here, except for the immense strenth. Moderation should see you through safely, though. Which leads me on to my next point.
Session factor: Negligible. I doubt you could stand more than two in a single sitting. It's really not a session beer, being infinitely better suited to insouciant sipping than reckless glugging.
VFM: 8. Good value due to its potency and usual price tag, which is somewhere above the £2.20 mark.

My 'dinger fling

2009-12-09T21:12:00.008Z

OK, a little forced, but I really struggled with the pun tonight. I blame the day job.

The run-up to Christmas creates all manner of false deadlines that mean everyone has to work three times as hard as they really ought. All of a sudden, publications that are barely read at the best of times are rushed out ahead of schedule, with the result they're even more likely to find themselves straight in the bin than they ever were before.

Welcome to the world of in-house magazine publishing. Where company policy and HR initiatives dressed up as 'news' are force-fed down people's throats as corn is to geese in south-west France. Work all hours God sends and you might even get your picture in the rag, holding some poxy certificate that hasn't even got the decency to spell your name right. Course, the photo will be taken by Sarah in HR who doesn't know one end of a digital camera from another, so she'll just take it on her new iPhone. Yes, of course that's fine - we'll be able to print that. Don't worry yourself over trivia like resolution, brightness or picture composition.

In what parallel universe do the people who pay for this crap really think it'll be read over Christmas anyway, when staff finally manage to escape the clutches of their corporate captors? Not one I've ever encountered, that's for sure.

So much for seasonal goodwill to all men and all that.

The more eagle-eyed among you will notice I'm drinking this from a different glass tonight. The old faithful finally went the way most precious-yet-fragile things seemingly do, breaking as I tried to clean it. If the one pictured lasts half as long, it'll have had a good innings.

Beer: Joseph Holt Humdinger
Country: Manchester, England
Strength: A typically stingy 4.1%
Colour: Pleasingly copper
Smell: A rain-soaked pair of just-washed woollen trousers with a pocket full of crushed gooseberries
Circumstance: Another day, another marathon work effort. Now I know how Hercules felt.
Tasting notes: Large spoonful of honey - like a tablespoon of the stuff - that makes you fear for the rest of the glass, but this soon fades. You're then treated to a swift increase in sharpness and bitterness, doubtless from the hops (he guessed), and a long, lingering, tantalising drying out laced with spices that cries out to be doused in honey. And so around we go again.
Drinkability: Good. Highly sinkable, this. It's got enough about it to keep you interested without being so over-complicated you don't want to subject your tastebuds to another examination.
Gut reaction: Soothing and calming; I don't anticipate any issues with this light and sprightly beer.
Session factor: High. The honey isn't overpowering and the bitter spiciness creates a quite wonderful viscous circle of a thirst that begs to be slaked.
VFM: 9.7. Last of the £1.50-a-bottle Sainsbury's bargains before the tight-fisted retailer upped the prices in the run-up to Christmas. So much for seasonal goodwill to all men and all that. Wasn't on offer when I went in this evening, so that makes it doubly bargainous. A real find, this, and worth every penny.

Smoke on the porter

2009-12-08T21:13:00.005Z

There was a brief moment this evening when I felt like I actually enjoyed my real job. It was fleeting and didn't last, but it was there and it disturbed me.

A congratulatory event designed to patronise people who've done their job well, it nevertheless showed me why I used to enjoy the cut and thrust of being a reporter. On reflection, what I actually did was butt into people's conversations and stop them enjoying themselves quite as much as they would have done had I not been there. Short-lived job satisfaction, then.

I'm also told that my plans for a front page have been shat on by the weather and various issues with inaccessibility, so all-in-all it's been an unrewarding day. These are becoming more frequent every week; I need to reassess what I do for a living.

Would that I could be paid for this. Would that be fair? Would I come to regard this as mere work to be dealt with? Would it pall? Would routine become the dullness of a million post office queues? Would be worth finding out, though, wouldn't it?

I don't even want this beer tonight, if the truth be known. Not really. I just want to go to bed. But some poor sod has gone out and scraped together seven different malts to put this bottle of Porter together, so I guess I should at least give it a whirl.

This is brewed just down the road in Greenwich, by the Meantime brewery under licence. I've an ambivalent relationship with them. Some of their beers are good, but I always have the impression they're being a mite gimicky with their range. Happy to be proven otherwise, as ever, but I feel their relationship with M&S adds creedence to my notion they're cynically commercial rather than benignly eclectic.

Or maybe I'm just being a miserable sod? Only time will tell.

This post has been brought to you today by the habitual uplifting and jovial demeanour of Mark E Smith.

Beer: Marks & Spencer London Porter
Country: London, England
Strength: A portly 5.5%
Colour: Tarred Vimto.
Smell: Marmite. Marmite used like Bovril as a drink at football matches. In hot water. A faint whiff of shellac too. And a barrel-load of yeast. Offsetting this is a brief hint of brandied plum, so it's not all bad. It's smoky too, like an autumn's charcoal making.
Circumstance: Slap bang in the middle of doing way to much work and have just got some bad news about a cover shot we were trying to set up, so frankly I've felt better. I'm supposed to be doing more work tonight, but it can go and whistle.
Tasting notes: Charred blackcurrant initially along with a generous wodge of cheap sherry. Now I know that sounds unpleasant, but I really like this. Remember those sweets you used to get that were blackcurrant boiled sweets on the outside and licquorice in the centre? Well, this is the beer equivalent. What's disappointing is that it doesn't really develop into much. Not really. It leaves you with a desire for more, which is commendable. But I can't quite work out why, because there's no real complexity about it. A quick and dirty, if you will.
Drinkability: I'd only attempt more than one if you had a long evening by a log fire in the offing. Otherwise, two at most.
Gut reaction: It has the potential to cause all sorts of havoc if you overdo it, I'd guess. But since I'm not going to, I'll never know.
Session factor: You wouldn't. You just wouldn't.
VFM: 6.9. Not bad, I'd say. Quite strong, reasonably flavoursome, £1.63 a bottle and on my way home, so it doesn't do badly. It's not the special one, though.

Danger new XB

2009-12-07T21:13:00.006Z

Like the wreckless divot I sometimes am, I allowed Saturday night's update to turn into a mini session.

And I foolishly failed to take any photos or notes, so half of my remaining calendar was wiped out in a trice. A rough hangover and sheepish feeling held sway for most of yesterday and there was simply no way I was ever going to update the calendar, let alone allow beer to pass my lips. There's a lesson in there for all of us, folks.

Remember to take notes and always have a camera with you.

On the upside, that means I get to have a crack at two beers tonight for the price of one update, so perhaps there is something to be said for irresponsible drinking after all.

Another positive to come from today is the news that the people over at the excellent Caught By The River website would like me to contribute some words about beer for a potential guide book they hope to publish. I'm understandably excited by this prospect and will keep you informed of any progress. Really looking forward to working with them and recommend you bookmark the site and keep checking it out, especially if you feel like taking a break from the hectic pace of everyday life.

Speaking of hectic pace, I need to get on with this. Two beers to drink and some advertising copy to knock into shape before bedtime, so without further delay...

Beer: Theakston's XB
Country: Yorkshire, England
Strength: A sturdy 4.5%
Colour: Deep copper mixed with blood orange
Smell: Old man's beer. This reminds me of the first time I ever smelled my dad's beer and didn't much care for it. There's a faint whiff of kiwi fruit in there along with some orangy citrus
Circumstance: About to embark on a night of late work and drinking. I can see this being a difficult week given we're only at Monday
Tasting notes: Deeply malty with treacle undertones and a bit of dried fruit. But after that, it isn't massively full-bodied, as it claims to be on the label. I was hoping for slightly more complexity as well, but that's not evident either. On the whole, it promises much but disappoints. There's no real bitterness about it as well - you just get the rounded, malty taste, then nothing. I check the bottle to see if it's past its sell-by date, but no. Just a fairly average beer.
Drinkability: It's OK to drink as long as you don't expect too much. I might find it cloying after the first one, though, and I don't feel like drinking more than one. I'm reminded I used to drink this in a pub in Newcastle called The Brandling, where it was de rigeur to try and drink nine by 9pm. I succeeded in this venture once, although I don't remember too much else about the night. I'm not sure I could do nine of these in a year these days.
Gut reaction: Seems fine so far, but I'm going to mark it down as I needed to check the date, so obviously I'm none too confident.
Session factor: See above for Brandling escapades. Clearly it's possible, but I don't think it has the capacity to maintain my interest levels over a drawn-in evening.
VFM: 5.3. Another £1.50 scoop from Sainsbury's and rightly so. Was going to the shop anyway, so no inconvenience, but I feel let down by what promised more on first sight, smell and tasting.

Beer: Badger Dandelion Flavoured Organic Ale
Country: England
Strength: 4.5%
Colour: The orange of countless 70s Sunday supplement advertorials about life in Scandinavia.
Smell: Smells like a dog's watered the dandelions, though there is a hint of hoppiness straining through. There's a suggestion of cheesy mustiness as well. Unpromising.
Circumstance: One beer in and still no further with the copywriting. Oops.
Tasting notes: Well I was fairly dreading this, I have to admit. Badger brewery has a nasty habit of infusing all it's beers with an overpowering floweriness that is difficult to ignore. Given this one's actually named after a flower, and not the most glamourous one at that, I'd practically written it off and was sharpening up the claws to give it a real shoeing. With that in mind, I'm slightly deflated to report that this really isn't bad at all. There is a suggestion of meadows as you take in your first gulp, but it's a refreshing breezy flowing cornfield that greets you rather than a sodden ploughed field. Full of blighted spuds. I'm also getting a faint taste of honey, but again it's not overbearing like some golden ales can be, especially brewed by Badger, so I'm pleasantly surprised again. That said, it is drifting into the arena of the lageresque with its colour and gaseous qualities, but I could imagine that isn't all that unwelcome once the weather warms. The dry, ashen finish rounds it off superbly as well.
Drinkability: In the height of summer, I'd go so far as to say a few cold ones of this would go down handsomely. It's not as well suited to winter, but as a sprightly springtime sharpener, it stands up to more established peers.
Gut reaction: Ah yes, the drawback. It's already repeated on me substantially, jumping up and down like a yappy little Jack Russell begging to be noticed. Bless it.
Session factor: Entirely depends on the season. Too lightweight for winter evenings, it'll come into its own as the temperature rises.
VFM: 7.2. Yet another Sainsbury's effort, you cannot fault this at £1.50 a bottle. And there's double nectar points on offer too, for those that do such things, which seems entirely fitting for this self-proclaimed 'fine and dandy' ale.

Old Tom's a-cold

2009-12-05T20:55:00.009Z

Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer.

Although suffer it has. I knew I should have done this last night. But through some clearly misguided sense of loyalty and desire for authenticity, I left it till today. I knew I'd be necking substandard wine this afternoon, so frankly this tasting should have been over and done with way before now.

But did that idea meet with any kind of acquiescence or approval when first mooted? I guess you can guess. But in the interests of and by way of marital harmony, such matters are insignificant, however you want to look at them.

So three or four sheets to the wind, I'm called on not only to deal with moody bus drivers and incredibly uptight offspring, I then need to pass judgment on one of the strongest beers I've seen on special offer in some time.

This is in the same ball park as asking the dog to take the cat for a walk.

On the plus side, it's Robinson's Old Tom, a beer with which I'm familiar. It's even a pleasure to reacquaint myself with a tipple first tasted in Marple and never since given a miss when possible.

It's ruddy hard, though. Literally. And it's colder than I'd have wanted, too.

Beer: Robinson's Old Tom
Country: England
Strength: An ill-advised 8.5%
Colour: When held up at the light, it appears to be Benylin mixed with used engine oil
Smell: Thick molasses and just-baked malt loaf, laced with Russian vodka. And poppers.
Circumstance: Just back from a kids' party. Surprisingly low-key, thankfully. It's the third year in succession I've come back from the same party and had to both drink and review a beer, but you can tell the adults are getting older. And those without kids don't stay all that long. The result is, I'm overwhelmed neither by too much wine nor prone cigarette smoking. As misfortune would have it, though, my eldest wanted to know how a bottle opener works, so I had to let her open a beer I was planning to use for the calendar. Oh well, every cloud, as they say.
Tasting notes: Massive wallop of liquorice straight away. Hint of Marmite, soupcon of Supermalt and little respite for quite some time. It rounds after a while into something of a fortified wine, but you do have to wait for that. You almost have the impression that there's a little imp in the bottle armed with a miniature paint brush and and a pitcher of Marmite that he's eagerly applying to anywhere in your mouth that this stuff will stick. That said, I don't find it unpleasant at all. It's faintly reassuring, almost like a comfort blanket. A good couple of minutes later and it's still there. Reminds me of treacle toffee a bit.
Drinkability: Not something you'd really want to hammer, nonetheless this is a pleasure to take in. No hint of gaseousness, flavoursome and interesting; this beer practically demands you relax in an armchair, kick back in front of a fire and partake. Perhaps with a mature Stilton and a nicely loaded pipe.
Gut reaction: So long as you don't overload, there's not much that will trouble a reasonable constitution. In actual fact, it could well be prescribed for those of an unstable gastric disposition.
Session factor: Nah, I wouldn't. Although thinking about it, I wouldn't mind giving it a crack.
VFM: 9.3. Another £1.50-a-bottle contender and given its strength, it's already vying for the title of value beer of the month.

Gilty pleasures

2009-12-04T20:16:00.008Z

In these days of the information superhighway and social networking what-nots, a blogger has to be careful what he writes.

But it was with an immense sense of pride that I found out a brewer to whom I'd made mention in an earlier post had been sent the comments and, flatteringly, had bothered to read them. That he then pretty much agreed with what I'd written is a real boon, so I've been looking forward to reviewing tonight's ale just so I could brag about it. *shines chufty badge*

Well, obviously not solely to bang on about it; there's a beer to be drunk after all. And from first glance, it doesn't look bad either, although it does have an element of Benson & Hedges about it. Brains tends to be marketed towards the rugby crowd and I'm guessing this one's aimed at the lager-drinking segment of that fraternity. There's been a lot of this from brewers in recent years, doubtless trying to claw back some drinkers from the dark side using the sophisticated method pioneered in the natural world by the humble chameleon. Proper cunning, that.

I've been reluctant to endorse this gold-rush thus far, principally as a result of being a stubborn git but also down to the fact many of these lager honeypots taste almost uniformly dull and dusty. I've high hopes for this one, though. Quite a fan of Brains usually, so I'm hoping they don't fail.

This one's for you, Fergus. Ta for reading and I hope you didn't take offence over the stale tea comment - you've a mostly sterling beer, there. Keep up the good work.

Beer: Brains SA Gold
Country: Wales
Strength: A punchy 4.7%
Colour: Gold, obviously. Could quite easily pass for lager.
Smell: Rounded and flowery with a hint of cream soda and a dash of mandarin orange
Circumstance: End of a long, hard week at work. Must have been stressful because I eschewed the traditional post-work snifter.
Tasting notes: You know what? That's pretty much all you'd want out of a golden ale. The bitterness wades straight in there like an over-eager teenager trying to get served at the bar and ordering a pint of 'beer'. There's little of the promised floweriness initially, but what you do get is a sherberty surge almost as powerful as fizz bombs before this all calms down and delivers an almost biscuity drying out. I can see how this could turn the lager drinker - the complexity doesn't really kick in until your tastebuds have been convinced they're sampling something relatively bland, if fizzy. I'm coming round to seeing this as some sort of 'Orange Stimulator', provoking the lager trout into an aggressive response before reeling him in to the riverbank of real flavour.
Drinkability: Sensational. Truly a prince among golden ales. The a.b.v. tag might prevent me hammering it, but I'd gladly work my way through half a dozen of these in one, albeit prolonged, sitting. Refreshes the parts most lagers have been trying and failing to reach for decades.
Gut reaction: Fine now, but there is some gas to be wary of, so treat with caution and have some food, for heaven's sake.
Session factor: Worryingly high. See drinkability.
VFM: 9.7. Quid-fifty a bottle on offer at Sainsbury's is good in anyone's language, especially given how marvellous it tastes. Highly accomplished.

Umber-achievement

2009-12-03T22:18:00.006Z

I set out this morning with high hopes for the day, but ended up surprised at just how quickly these can derail at the slightest knock.

Train in to work was late, meeting was delayed, then it took too long and ended with me inheriting a bulkier workload. That fairly put paid to the rest of the afternoon and gave me scant incentive to remain dynamic for the rest of the day. Tempted as I was to stick around longer, I made my excuses and left.

So having sought value at Marks & Spencer yesterday and more or less succeeded, I took the lazy option on my return home and decided to sample their wares again. Reader, I apologise. I've failed you by seeking neither value nor quality, but instead reaching apathetically into the fridge and pulling out the first beer that came to hand.

Now there are mitigating circumstances, admittedly. Long day, busy at work and home, stresses of Christmas, etc. But none of those excuses can go any way towards redeeming the brewer of this so-called 'Seasonal Guest' beer. The bottle is uninspiring, the colour is the visual equivalent of dank and it has the fearsome odour of solvent abuse. Only a couple of sips in and that particular guest has already outstayed its welcome and there are still more than 20 days left until Christmas. Leaves a sour taste in the mouth too, especially given the not-exactly-cheap price.

That said, the buggeration factor was minimal, which will of course help soften the blow when it comes to marking it down in the VFM stakes. But I won't be drinking this again.

Beer: Bavarian Winterfest Wheat Beer
Country: Bavaria, Germany
Strength: 5.2%, but you wouldn't think it
Colour: Murky, pale, burnt umber
Smell: Paint and Quink Ink at first, disconcertingly. Then marker pen, then malt loaf and finally marker pen again.
Circumstance: Just played a 'Best of 2009' radio show on Purple Radio, which you can download from here if you like.
Tasting notes: There's a faint flavour of caramelised citrus fruit and a hint of dark, dried currants first off, but this is washed away almost instantly by a wave of sherbert and brackish water. Your poor tongue is left both reeling and floundering in this brine-like solution for some considerable time before that gives way to a mellower, warmer sensation. Much like being saved from drowning, I expect.
Drinkability: If you were thirsty and craved refreshment and you were presented with a bottle of this stuff, you'd rightly hesitate. It's not nasty by any means. No, it's too insipid for that. It just fails to hit the mark on several counts and is essentially disappointing.
Gut reaction: Windy. Wheat beer is fractious at the best of times, but this is downright volatile.
Session factor: Puny.
VFM: 4.5. It just doesn't cut it; certainly not at £1.62 a go. My advice is to spend your pennies elsewhere.

On your marks

2009-12-02T21:12:00.007Z

This is not just a beer brewed under licence, this is an M&S beer brewed under license.

And at a premium too. But then they did have a four-for-three offer on, which brought this particular beer down to a more sensible and even fairly reasonable £1.62.

What wasn't reasonable was the utter soaking I received when I popped out from work to pick up these beers. What had been a greyish yet perfectly acceptable afternoon turned nasty in the time it took me to select these particular bottles, so I received a proper drenching from the the monsoon that was just nipping over to London for a spot of Christmas shopping. Or should that be sopping?

I've been in a foul mood ever since, compounded by being moaned at while working slightly later than planned. Whether this puts me in the right or wrong frame of mind for reviewing today's beer, I'm not sure.

But as there's only one way to find out, I have no option but to crack open another bottle...

Beer: M&S Southwold Winter Beer (brewed by Adnams)
Country: Suffolk, England
Strength: A piddling 4%.
Colour: Roasted chestnut
Smell: Wet, sherried Christmas pudding
Circumstance: Waiting for dinner, still with a fairly sizeable grump on after getting a repeat soaking on the way home.
Tasting notes: Thick and treacle-y at first with a robustness that belies its meagre strength. In fact, it stands up to scrutiny pretty well, although you could probably have it in a fight. There's a flattening and drying out later on that feels like someone's sponged the inside of your mouth down, which isn't entirely unpleasant but it's unexpected and does take you a little off guard. But given how much moisture I've had to cope with today, that sensation is rather welcome, so hats off to master brewer Fergus Fitzgerald for that. Somewhat unnervingly, around five minutes after the first drink, I'm getting a taste of stale railway station tea, which is somewhat less welcome. Could do better, Fergus.
Drinkability: There are no real issues here with sticking a few of these away. In fact, the almost acrid finish practically forces you to swig more.
Gut reaction: I'm guessing the darkness will tell on the way out, but over an evening it shouldn't cause too many complaints.
Session factor: I'd happily have a few, but I might fancy switching afterwards, especially given the stale tea factor. Solid without being inspiring, it's the beer equivalent of David Moyes. Or Rob McElwee off the weather report.
VFM: 6.5. While not expensive, it's not bargain either given the compunction to purchase several to make it vaguely cost its worth.

Festive thrifty

2009-12-01T20:08:00.007Z

Money money money... root of all evil. A haunting refrain of Horace Andy's that rings ever more true in the run up to the festive period. Seems like every year the pressure grows to spend more, consume more, give more, receive more. It's a con that's even more obscene given the treacherous state of most people's and indeed countries' finances these days.

So we're shunning that this year at Beer Advent Calendar towers. Instead, we're going to be offering a taste of the low life for the next 24 days before we can sit, sated and with our feet up, reflecting on a more virtuous December than may have been the case in previous outings. Drinking responsibly, where the purse is concerned.

But while I may be compromising on price, I'll resist a total lurch downmarket taste-wise. There's no point me laying in 24 cans of Ace Lager in the name of thrift because I found it difficult enough to finish last year's calendar, which had both variety and expense going for it. So I'll be seeking value wherever possible and tipping you the nod when I find it. No one minds a bargain.

With that in mind, I'll be introducing a new measure - value for money. This metric will be calculated scientifically using a secret formula known only to me, but it will include such variables as price, strength, ease of purchase, flavour and buggeration footprint. An arbitrary score will be assigned to each beer, which you can discuss freely among yourselves without the faintest hope of changing my mind.

Beer: Daleside Greengrass 'Old Rogue' Ale
Country: Yorkshire, England
Strength: An ungenerous 4.5%. Typical bloody Yorkshireman (no offence)
Colour: Bog-standard amber*
Smell: Like good, honest, wholesome beer. Nowt fancy. Roasted malt if you really put me on the spot.
Circumstance: Watching the BBC videprinter of the Oldham Athletic v Leeds United game and not enjoying it. So I'm cracking open a bottle of beer that I had planned to give to a mate of mine as a present when I bought it in Pately Bridge in April. This hasn't happened and neither has my trip to the supermarket to stock the calendar up yet, so I'm setting about this one first.
Tasting notes: Feistier than I expected from a beer named after a character from the ITV Sunday evening mogadon that is Heartbeat. And cleaner too. Greengrass was played by the actor Bill Maynard, who also starred in the title roles of The Gaffer and Oh No, It's Selwyn Froggitt, all loveable rogues who were fairly tatty round the edges. The beer is slightly snappier dressed, although it still looks like it lives in those one-bedroomed conversion flats in the dark building near the fields that used to be a psychiatric home. And it certainly hasn't shaven in days. There's a terrific late taste of bitterness towards the finish that again points the finger at the kind of faded, broken failure tasted by Maynard's characters. But it retains its dignity throughout, an admirable quality as I'm sure you'll agree.
Drinkability: Hefty like Maynard.
Gut reaction: Becalmed. Presumably like the Boundary Park crowd at the time of drinking.
Session factor: Extremely good. It's taken mere minutes to polish this off.
VFM: 8. Pretty good if you consider I'm effectively nicking it. I think it was a couple of quid at the time, which is fairly pricey for a bottle of beer, but given that was some months ago, I could claim it's only set me back around 15 pence a month, which is just under half a pence a day. Bargain.

*Or even 'wine gum' orange, which is particularly apt given Bill Maynard named himself after the famous confectioner and wine gum purveyor.