A GAME OF TWO HALVES or THE BEER FESTIVAL PART ONE (3/4)

3:30
They had Salopian's Oracle on and it was in good form as always. I took my drink upstairs for a rooftop smoke. It was windy but I managed. I took a big swig of my pint of fruity floral golden bliss and looked up at the clouds. I remembered with glee the man beginning with, ahem, V, and how he once told me to read a certain sci-fi novel. "It's the greatest book ever," he declared, to which I laughed and questioned, "what, better than the movie?"
It was then I was apprehended by a glass collector, "Are you OK, Sir?"
Talking to myself again. My biggest fear was that the man beginning with Z didn't turn up, he never fails to bring along complete madness with him. After noticing a sniggering couple looking at me, I supped up and went in search for the real beerfest, keeping one eye over my shoulder for.... Him.

5:30
I had a sneaky whisky for the road and my instincts took me back to the decrepit football ground. This time there was an even bigger queue to get in. A special needs overweight ogre in a security jacket, leather man bag and some kind of earpiece stood snarling at everyone. He looked the part. I finally got in and found a cracking cherry mild. Then it happened.

Stood minding my own business in the outside terrace, two haunting figures glided in to view and stopped right in front of me. It was Zip! And this time he'd brought with him a vagrant known only as Krusty Ken. Krusty Ken has permed hair that hangs halfway down his back. When he turns his head drops of some kind of brown slime fly everywhere. He chews chewing tobacco which drools into his empty pint glass. When it's full he looks for someone who's drinking dark ale and switches with them when they're not looking. He calls it the old cockadoodledoo based on the average victim's reaction. He prides himself on being constantly drunk yet never bought a pint in his life, or won a bet in his life; the bookies love him. The football team that used to play at this very ground have been begging him to sign up with them and this gives him a great enthusiasm for life in general, despite being unlucky, down - and - out by nature and penniless. And he can't play football.

"John boy! Long time no see," Zip initiated.

Krusty wiggled his eyebrows at me in a knowing fashion. I looked to Zip for some sense.
"And I've brought this fine specimen with me."

I shook their hands and the vagrant belched. I noted his flowery shirt.
During some general chit chat and catch up, the vagrant enacted his cockadoodledoo trick on the poor bald man stood behind me. Asked him, inquisitively, "So, vagrant, how's work?"
The bald man spat his drink out: "What the hell!"

All hell broke loose. Baldy got me in a headlock. Zip poked Baldy's mate in the eye. The vagrant's grassy locks got caught around someone else's neck. The scuffle spilled into the pitch and someone threw a football on. Zip flew up the wing and Baldy came in with a sliding tackle, which Zip dodged with ease. He squared the ball to Krusty. Krusty nutmegged Baldy's mate. The crowd were going wild, 'vagrant, vagrant, vagrant...' He passed to me. I had an open goal. I shot. I missed. Baldy got the rebound and scored. His mate held him aloft and carried him off the pitch.

I was ordered onto the sub's bench but I spat my dummy out and went for another drink.
Mongo the security guard spotted me at the bar and asked me to leave so I made a sharp exit. I went to a couple of other pubs, who served me, and somehow ended up back at home.


19:00-22:00
And so it began, and was surprisingly busy even at this early hour.  I glazed lovingly across the headers searching for something fruity and then another wonderful memory splashed across my mind, Quantum were here.

I sped feverishly towards ‘Q’ hoping for a mountain of delicious beer offerings and I was not disappointed; 6 supreme ales to choose from (which for those of you not in the know is a superb turnout for a brewery!).

14 pints later…

Myself, The Grey One, JT, PT, TT and GTi all present and with a bunch of brown sticks knocking around and fruity air-cobblers in full flow, things were mighty fine.  Conversations ranged from the ludicrous to the omnipotent with jesting the main currency of verbal exchange, and with the copious amount of beer being swigged such as Quantum’s UK Light (3.6), Mandarina Bavaria Pa (4.5) and Citra/Amarillo IPA (5.5), my tastebuds were satisfied handsomely.

Another 9 pints later…

With a comedy football match later and verbal competence now clearly an issue (plus the influx of even more part-time plebs in the venue) certain members of the posse were developing itchy toes and with the amusingly fruity, although largely pointless, contretemps between JT, PT, TT and GTi regarding the whereabouts of the Unicorn pub in Stockport, and whether the Ultras would be there this night, only myself and The Grey One remained… or so I thought.

THE FAILED ATTEMPT or QUICK ONE, UP THE HILL AND ENTER (2/4)

11:00

Instead of the proper seven percenter, I chose a session strength IPA which was quite forgettable. That's it.

Three men with huge beards walked through the door and as I watched them bound face first through the pub I stifled my laughter through gritted teeth, then realised this made me look crazy. Nobody in weatherspoons seemed to notice though. In a vain attempt to look accustomed to the place I sifted through a copy of Opening Times. I read about someone's pub crawl, which was rather one dimensional, factual yet unbelievable. Glad I wasn't on that little non adventure, I thought. Then I found and advert for the beerfest. I supped up, and caught the tramp truck to Stockport.

The Jolly Crofter is a bit of a shit hole. The locals speak a strange tongue and the choice of ales is either John Smiths or Boddingtons. I decided the latter was the lesser evil and thankfully it was so cold I could not taste it at all. I promptly moved on.

I knew the general direction of the goal and followed the other 28 days later freaks. We followed a dirty brown stream down a ravine until we came to an old disused football ground. There was a large crowd and they were all buying match programmes. I figured I would have a few pints until the match kicked off and then move on. I had about six pints waiting for that game to start before the announcement for half time. Confused, I moved on to the magnet.  JT

18:00-19:00
Beer beer and more beer. Having quickly quaffed 3 pints of Manchester’s best bitter in a local hostelry in 20 minutes, I was sorely tempted to keep the pace up alone but before I knew it and I was off down the road to the nearest tramp truck stop to catch a horse and cart up to the festival.

As I stood waiting for transport I began day-dreaming of what a delicious solo venture might have been like; pint after pint in warmth, peace and quiet, the Opening Times under arm and thoughts of what my next screenplay masterpiece will be about.  Such thoughts were soon dispelled as the wagon pulled in, I got on and greeted Krusty with an open palm: “Salutations!” I beckoned to all and sundry before squatting beside The Grey One.

Succeeding a sun-baked 30 minutes of important discourse and the rampant 'sniffing-up' of peasant fumes, it was time to get off and start the arduous walk through the squalor of Edgeley village.  Sheeeeeeeeet.

A few moments of stomping later I had to slow the pace as The Grey One began struggling with the incline. ‘It’s disgusting how we treat our elderly these days’ I thought, 'making them walk up steep hills like this', but then it dawned on me; the hill was the test, it was the hard slog we had to endure so that the first pint would be the sweetest and most delicious of the week, it had to be earned then enjoyed like a farrier after a hard days hoofing.

In this mindset, the stomp soon breezed by and as I approached the steps with the Grey One on my back and the wind in my hair, we coughed up the beer tokens for entry and marched straight to the bar.  ZIP

THE PILGRIMAGE or HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE BEER (1/4)

10:00
The previous weekend I had put myself through some pretty rigourous training. Having been sober a couple of days now I felt as ready as I could be. The big day had arrived and I was about to embark on the annual pilgrimage. All those raised glasses towards the divine south east felt justified: blessed is the beerfest. My particular morning ritual consisted of a warm-up pint in weatherspoons but first, the shave.

Hardware: Simpson brush in best badger, 'the colonel'; Merkur 38c DE razor, loaded with Polsilver Super Iridium blades.

Software: Tabac soap, grated and pushed into an empty wooden Geo F Trumper's bowl (coconut); Pinaud Clubman Virgin Island Bay Rum Aftershave Splash; Nivea Sensitive fragrance-free aftershave balm; Nautica Voyage edt.

Now it was time to commence the most sacred of traditions, the year-long wait was over and the most traditional of men's age-old traditional things was pulling my trouser leg and holding up a beer, begging 'drink, drink'. Whilst stood admiring my own handiwork in the mirror, however, I had unwittingly been caught up in conversation with myself about politics. I have been told that I'm getting 'better' and making 'slow progress'. My time in weatherspoons was drawing near, a cultural, historical convention of immense importance and I abruptly snapped out of my self-indulgence when my dad shouted up the stairs, "Do you want a lift or what?" JT


17:01 - 18:00
After a hideous time of wiping arses in work all day I’d originally assumed that the insurmountable misery the working week had brought me would have had finally rendered me dead by Friday evening.  Alas, and to my saviour, the best memory I’d recalled in a long time banished such negativity, aches and pains and informed me that soul-affirming revivification could be found in the squalid suburbs of Stockport town tonight, on the old haunted grounds of the legendary ‘Stockport County Ultras’, the mighty Stockport Beer Festival 2015.

The rush of thoughts of beer and mayhem flooded my mind like fresh river water down an old dusty creek, but it was only just 5.00pm and the venue was still closed.  An inconvenience I thought, with an obvious and easy remedy, but with an evening of potential magnificence on the cards was it worth whetting the whistle before the main event, spoiling my sobriety too soon, and beginning the transcendence into foamy heaven alone?

It’s never too early for beer. The question was ridiculous.

And so after a moment trouser-checking I was off down the street, on a public wagon full of plebs, for a quick pint of goodness with the aim of stimulating my mind and finances for the forthcoming bludgeon of beer.  ZIP

AN ONLINE PRESENCE

PEACH MELBEAR IS SO GOOD

Peach Melbear is so good
I want it for my blood
We lap it up
Cup by cup
Zip, John and Vinny Doublepud

Peach Melbear gives us pleasure
By the pot and by our leisure
Five pints in
We're going to win
A beer erection without measure

Peach Melbear is the best
Better than all the rest
Ten pints of it
Turned to liquid shit
Our colon's it did test

Peach Melbear is the best
Until I was sick all down my vest
My pants fell down
In the middle of town

…and I can't remember the rest.

ROUGH AS A BEAR'S ARSE: PART 1

Every now and again, the hobbyist drinker in Stockport can be treated to a most enjoyable experience by spending the evening in a particular pub famous for it's logistical obscurity.  The pub we speak of is of course: The Navigation, which is also frequently referred to as: That Bastard Up The Hill We Can't Get To Because We're Too Pissed. (or the BUTHWCGTBWTP for short).

As you can imagine due to it's tricky location, The Navigation is frequently bypassed when swigging in Stockport however we are pleased to say, not this time around!

After a bit of fortuitous haggling we managed to cadge a white-knuckle ride to Stockport on The Beer Bus.  All hail The Beer Conductor for getting us there quicksharp and in one piece (if not a bit lighter in the bowels!).  We salute you!

We pulled up just outside the pub, crawled from the now Brown Beer Bus and raised our eyes and hands to acknowledge the pub with a doff of the imaginary cap.  It really had been many moons since last I swigged in this hostelry, but I am pleased to say that the decor, jukebox and regulars were all intact and just the same as they always were, as was the wonderful array of Beartown's bears on offer to us.

For those of you familiar with drinking in Stockport you'll likely already be aware of the pub, but for those of you who aren't, especially those who might live locally, might we recommend you pay a visit soon to sample Congleton's finest, it's well worth the trek up that wretched hill!

As the barman hobbled towards us we decided to start with the ever delicious Kodiak Gold, the stalwart and popular flagship brew of Beartown.  It's complex, fruity and zingy bitter notes were most welcome to our parched throats so much so that we drained two pints each in just a few seconds.

Start as you mean to go on as they say.

Next was a new brew (only been available for 15 months apparently) and was called Beartown's Best Bitter; a rather dull name considering Beartown's reputation with brew names but this didn't deter us from ordering a couple. We watched in anticipation as the dark deep malty goodness filtered and settled in the pot before chugging joyously through a most rich, earthy and satisfying pint of beer.  A very welcome addition to Beartown's range.

Several more pints of the Best Bitter and Kodiak Gold and we were well on our way to reaching enlightenment.

Tune in next time for part two of 'Rough As A Bear's Arse' where our troupe visit the legendary The Arden Arms to swig the gas-inducing Robinson's Unicorn, drunkenly piss up the side of a wall, grab some balls, and then end up on The Bus Into The Abyss!

A PINT IN HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE TAP

BIRD IN HAND, MOBBERLY, CHESHIRE.   NO BIRDS IN THESE BUSHES UNFORTUNATELY.

Christ, where are we? Mobberly; a beautiful (if quaint) little leafy Cheshire village next door to Knutsford, which itself is situated somewhere in between larger Cheshire towns: Stockport and Crewe.

Although not on the hunt for a pint that day, no trip is complete without at least 8 foaming pints of deliciousness so we popped in for a snifter.  And what a good decision that was!

I must say that it's nice to find a pub you've never been to before.  Visiting your usual local favourites can become stale from time to time, regardless of how good the beer may be, so a trip out into the country (or into the city) can be a refreshing change for the jaded drinker.  Nothing wrong with some new faces, new beers and new experiences now and again.

BEER, IT'S DELICIOUS… SO SAID ARISTOTLE.

In the Bird In Hand the beer was a familiar sight: Sam Smiths, and needless to say I went straight for the bitter.  It was creamy, wholesome and bursting with flavour for having been served at the perfect temperature.  It's nice to see that here out in the sticks standards are just as high (if not higher) and the locals know what they're doing when it comes to Real Ale.

LAGER DAVE ENJOYING… WELL, LAGER

Having consumed the first pint in around 7 seconds I had to double check the percentage as the flavour was so good that I thought I was dreaming when I first ogled at the 3.8% ABV on the label.

ZIP ZIP SWIGGING… AS USUAL.

Nope I was right, 3.8%, blimey.  Just goes to show how good a pint it was, and perhaps how well deserved it was after an afternoon of shovelling pig shit into the back of a truck.  Then, there's the price…  £1.53 a pint.  Bargain.  Nothing more to say really

Venue?  An old stone pub probably built before the first world war.  It had charm, character and plenty of space, giving us a cosy feel with it's low ceilings and dark wood decor.  Could have done with an open fire to really round things off, but that's nitpicking in all honesty.

Widdled and after a couple more pints and we were off, back north into Lancashire for another pint in more familiar territory.

It's probably obvious but it's always worth saying: 'a fun day out was had by all'.

NEW BREWERIES: BIG COCK BREWERY

 

Brand new local brewery focussing on traditional real ale with a hoppy twist.  We look forward to tasting their exploits as they should be available in pubs and bars around the 'Northern Quarter' soon!

BEARTOWN: UNBEARABLE

Unbearably obscure.

SAM SMITHS :OLD BREWERY BITTER

Outstanding value.

DARK STAR BREWERY: WINTER SOLTICE

From the heavens.

ST PETER's BREWERY: ST PETER'S RUBY RED ALE

A Real Ale gem.

MARSTONS BREWERY: PEDIGREE

Dee-lish!

BUXTON BREWING COMPANY: BUXTON SPA

Exceptional deliciousness.

SOLTAIRE: BLACKBERRY CASCADE

Fruit + Beer = Delicious.

PICTISH BREWING COMPANY: ALCHEMISTS ALE

Follow your nose indeed.

BAD BEER MEANS BAD DRINKING AND A FURORE OF MOANING

Just look at the face of this poor Beer Soldier.  Sorrowful eyes with a dashing of melancholy and depression; this is what bad beer does to man.  Hats off to you my good sir, 10 out of 10 for effort, but despite soldiering on through what was clearly a foul pint, there was simply nothing good to say about this experience.  The beer was expensive, poorly kept, incompetently poured, lifeless, headless and foul tasting.

It's just not on.

However for me, having predicted such travesties (and having unfortunately wasted my money in the past), the most disturbing element of this ale session wasn't the undrinkable ale, but the social championing of said undrinkable ale by certain members of our party (obviously not by our friend in the picture).

I appreciate that everyone's allowed an opinion, fair enough, that's how it should be, but that doesn't mean it has to hold much value.

After a interesting debate discussing the rancid contents in the glass, being spoken down to, and being the victim of various untrue assertions, I came to the conclusion that they clearly don't understand the difference between a 'good' pint, and a 'bad' pint.

Disturbing indeed, especially considering it comes so naturally to anyone with taste buds!

Worryingly, I fear that it's this attitude that may usurp all the hard work 'REAL' Real Ale people from all sections of the industry have made.  This ignorant clique which seems to revel in it's own ignorance seems determined to ram their uninformed opinions down your throat in an attempt to force you to agree with them… which tastes nearly as bad as the beer they were promoting.

Frighteningly, this is becoming more common as Real Ale gains popularity.

It's a shame that as we move forward with the Real Ale Revolution, this kind of attitude has embedded itself into the 'trendy' side of Real Ale, and instead of listening, learning and understanding from more experienced, educated Real Ale drinkers, they're more focussed on dictating and forcing their inflexible views upon you.

And I thought CAMRA were bad, but at least they're in it purely for the beer, and no other abstruse reasons.

COACH HOUSE BREWERY: BLUEBERRY BITTER

It's almost impossible to describe how wonderful this ale really was, but I've given it a shot.  More reviews to follow, including the archive from yesteryear.