I'm beginning to think all baths were designed for midgets.

This challenge started out as a pure accident; and one I have taken a hearty liking towards. Following on From Terrance’s Sticky disaster in the bath. I decided to see if it was all beers/ciders which were going to cause issues or it was the bath in general.

Item 1: The bath is one of those weird corner baths; which as I found to my cost doesn’t allow you to fit in it whichever way you are positioned. In the end I decided on an convention lieing down position with my feet hanging over one side.

One advantage to this bath was the addition of rather large shelf next to my drinking hand so there was never any issues of bath water contamination or beery shampoo to contend with.

Drink #1: Can of Woodpecker Cider

As mentioned above this was a pure chance challenge; I decided on a whim to have the first bath in my house since I moved in; (I currently only took showers). The bath had been cleaned recently so I decided to start filling it up. However since it needs about 20min to actually fill up with sufficient water to cover my gentleman’s area I got a bit bored and opened a can of cider and wandered off to check my E-Mail.

Halfway into my second can I was caught out, and had to quickly adjust the water level to one which was slightly lower than testing an Archimedes principle. In short: I was left with half a can and a hot bath. Not wanting to waste either I lowered myself in can in hand and began to relax.

Now one disadvantage of a hot bath is you sweat a lot; you literally sit in there and “stew” great at getting you clean but can be very uncomfortable after a few min; enter the can of cheap dry cider. Wow, what a revelation! It may not have come directly out of the fridge but the can was cool and allowed me to regulate my temperature much easier and the dry taste contrasted beautifully with the hot steam.

It was savouring this that I remember reading about Terrance’s experience with Jacques in the bath and I would have to reaffirm that a “sticky” or sweet drink in such a situation would be intolerable; but a dry cold cider suddenly added to the experience of bathing rather than taking it away.

Drink #2 : Newcastle Brown Ale (Bottle)

I don't think this picture does justice to how fizzy this drink was.

Now since this is a serious experiment I could not just have one drink and be done with it so the next time I had a bath I made sure one of my favourite tipple was on hand. The taste was a perfect contrast once again so I did not imagine the first time; however; the bottle caused issues.

The narrow spout and heavy glass tended to “overfizz” the nukie at the best of times, lieing in a bath however the angle was much shallower so I managed to fizz some beer out of my nose a fair few times! This was obviously “not on”; and whilst the beer calmed down once it dipped below halfway the need to be extra careful initially put a real downer on the experience.

I would have to give points to it making you gassy. In a bathroom which echos you can get some quite spectacular belches going on; although from a pure comfort factor this obviously is not ideal.

Drink #3 : Crumton Oaks (Cider) in a pint glass

Keeping with the dry cider angle I decided to check if a simple pint glass could overcome the issues with the fizziness which can occur using bottles. Pouring the drink into a pint glass is normally the best way to drink Nukies in pubs or at home; whilst I didn’t have any to hand at the time drinking cider out of a pint glass I could at least test the principle.

Initially all was well… I had a firm grip and I could lie back savouring the heat and reach out take a drink and hardly need to open my eyes. Alas it was not perfect as I was finding to my cost. You see a bath has some degree of soap in.. and soap and glass make for a slippery surface. The pint glass was increasingly hard to hang onto -  the simple can I could crush slightly to get a better grip. The glass however was not as easy to hang onto.  To my credit there was not a single drop of spillage although it came close a few times. Once again like the Nukie I had to sit up and drink carefully… in effect ruining the experience of the bath in the first place.

And so the humble can wins out; its stackable, doesn’t take up much space and doesn’t suffer from the “soap” issue. I personally prefer a dry cider choice but bitters and ales will work just as well.

The day: 17
The drink (s): Newcastle Brown Ale, Woodpecker, Cromton Oaks Cider
The place: The Bath
Positives: The cool dryness of cider complements the bath perfectly
Negatives: Any sort of glass wear with soap can lead to bath disasters.
Conclusion: Even though the choice of a can narrows your choices; it is an experience everyone of us should enjoy at least once in our lives.

Sidenote: Having come up with the title now I have a sudden urge to get a can of Directors Bitter for my next bath….

ale · Bath · Beer festival · Crumpton Oaks · dry cider · fizz · Newcastle Brown Ale · none sticky · Woodpecker

There is something intrinsically beautiful of the marriage between food and drink. You can have the most perfect pint in the most beautiful location in the entire world and yet you can still top or ruin it with the addition of food. The subtle earthy flavours of many a pint have been ruined by your ability to still taste the toothpaste from your rushed attempt to get ready. In much the same way *any* pint can be improved by the addition of buffalo wings or a salted pub snack.

Unfortunately this is not the 30 meals in 30 places challenge; (although; that in itself does sound tempting). So the addition of beer snacks is more relegated to a trivia or stand along entry outside of the challenge; but there is something special which marries the two independent items into one whole which is greater than the sum of its parts.

What am I talking about? Why the cooking with drink approach! Not the set the house on fire with a chip pan approach but the incorporating the subtle (or not so subtle) flavours of your favourite tipple into a meal. This has been done many many times: Sherry in Christmas Cakes, beer batter; but the “big one” which stands out is coq au vin; which is literally chicken (well… roster) cooked in a bottle of wine; sometimes adding brandy to the mix.

It's all Greek to me.

So, which bottle did I choose to cook my whole chicken in? A traditional Burgundy; an extravagant Champagne or a cheaper New World wine? In the end I turned to Greece Port. “Laverodaphne of Patras” to be exact; which is classified as a “Sweet Red Wine”. I partly choose this bottle partly as I wanted a rich sweet wine to add to the sauce it will invariably create; and partly because I liked the label with it half been written in Greek.

Knives are fun

So onwards to the cooking; I got hold of a small full chicken, shallots, chestnut mushrooms, birds eye chillies, potatoes, tomato purée and some lardons (erm… bacon cubes). As you can see they are all arranged in nice neat little bowls – something I never do in reality but I wanted to make it look all smart for the camera.

To anyone who hasn’t prepared a whole chicken before I can highly recommend it; although a few Kung Fu sound-effects may have escaped my lips whilst I set at the poultry with a large carving knife. Although the actual finished product looks largely tame the cracking of the bones (along with my own attempts at a “Sun-character Rushing Strike Attack” quickly reminded the vegetarian that he had more important things to deal with.

I know Kung Fu

After the chicken was on the tray it was time to add the “au vin” part; the cock part was dealt with in the last paragraph. Here is where the meal is actually created and a single mistake or miss-calculation can ruin a perfectly good piece of chicken very easily. Thankfully I had come prepared; in no set order I added:

• shallots (peeled only)
• 4 birds-eye chillies disesteemed and chopped (keeping seeds)
• 1 knob of butter (sliced it looks worse than it is)
• 1 tsp of crushed garlic
• 1 tbsp of tomato purée
• Lardons sprinkled around between the chicken
• pinch of rosemary
• pinch of thyme
• And the most important ingredient… about three quarters of a bottle of port.

Perfect fit!

Carefully lifting the now nearly full tray it went straight into the oven on a “medium” temperature; it’s gas.. I have no idea what the numbers mean; but it went on the squiggly line in the middle of the dial.

Now I could relax and put my feet up on the sofa and began to enjoy the port. Considering it is Greek who are well known for their fine wines the actual port had nothing bad about it; but then it didn’t; have anything good about it either. Since I had spent the better part of an hour chopping and preparing however it was a welcome relief.

After 30 min however I was brought back into the kitchen by the sound of the smoke alarm; now don;t be worried we have the most sensitive smoke alarm ever created and any addition of any combination of steam and/or smoke sets it off. I did need to be reminded to have a look at my creation (who needs oven timers when your smoke alarm is better!)

Look no fire!

I don’t mind telling you now it smelt good! Carefully stirring the juices with a spoon mixed up the final ingredients and back it went in the oven again. The more the juices are reduced the thicker and richer the sauce becomes. Anyway onwards to the rest of my meal; I lightly fried off the chestnuts mushrooms flavoured only with a touch of salt and pepper and a dash of Worcestershire sauce. At the same time I started off my potato chopped into small cubs for faster cooking!

After the mushrooms were cooked I took out the tray again and layered on the mushrooms on top of everything. With a dash of olive oil drizzled on the top I whacked it back in the oven this times turned up to full. I was in the home straight now and the entire house was smelling like Christmas The curry smell from the street of takeaways nearby finally banished to the netherworlds.

Shroooms!

A quick drain and mash of the potatoes later and out it came for the final time. I do not mind admitting my mouth was watering by the time it was time to dish up. This version of the recipe is a lot shorter than the traditional “soak chicken in wine for a day” kind of preparation but it had taken me close to 2 hours to get to this point.

At times like this a picture is worth a thousand words and I can only wish you could have smelt it when it was removed from the oven for the last time – you will just have to contend yourself with admiring.

Mmmmmmmm

Served and ready to go!

I won't lie... it was good!

Now what did it taste like? I won’t lie; it was good. Bloody good! Even with the multitude of herbs, spices onions and mushrooms I could still actually taste the port underneath it all. I was right a sweet port brings the sauce alive and this was no exception. Like a cold shandy on a warm summers day I had found the exact location for port. Don’t drink it its passable at best; cook with it! Throw it into any dish and the flavours come alive as it adds a rich depth to whatever you are cooking.

The day: 16.
The drink: Laverodaphne of Patras (Port)
The place: Coq au Vin
Positives: Used as a cooking ingredient it brought what can be a dull dish alive with flavour.
Negatives: As a drink it fails.
Conclusion: Its fun to dismember a chicken and drown it in port.

cooking · coq au vin · food · port · wine

I recently claimed on here that the French are no good at beer which is actually a tad unfair, as well as being entirely accurate. You see, en Francais they can’t make a decent pint to save their lives, probably because they’re all far too busy committing exhistalist acts of adultery whilst guzzling decadent pastries and smoking 300 Gitanes a day. However, they do have an apperatif, called Picon.

On it’s own, it tastes of burnt oranges and looks like the sort of cough syrup that Victorian nannies gave to pauper children in the workhouse to shut them up till they died of cholera or something. It’s not really very pleasant when knocked back by itself and it doesn’t really work with a typical mixer but throw it into a pint of blonde biere and things get decidedly engaging.

I first got a chance to try a picon biere out in La Rochelle earlier this year after having a pop at one of my favourite holiday pursuits- Foreign Beer Menu Pontoon. Basically you sit at one of those lovely European cafe bars, out front on the pavement if you can, and peruse the menu which, if it’s a good establishment, should have 6 or 7 beers on there that you’ve never heard of.

Picon- the apperatif that doesn't have a funny caption

Now the idea is to start working through them trying to have a better drink with each successive choice. If you pick one of those awful dark Europen beers that tastes of treacle and death, or if you’re really unlucky and pick the non-alcoholic lager, you’ve ‘bust’ and it’s time to leave the bar. Trust me, it’s fun.

Anyway, one such game on the French Atlantic coast lead me to order a Picon biere and be confronted shortly afterwards with a sort of orangey brown and moderately fizzy pint. Intriguingly, the addition of an orangey liqeur to continental lager creates a drink with the taste of a nice pale ale but the cool, sparkling refreshment of a shandy. It was confusing and alluring at the same time, like a wet dream about a second cousin.  I was hooked.

Upon returning to France the other week, and after the success of the floating Leffe, I decided to source a bottle of Picon and intorduce everyone else in the villa to the majesty of it’s marriage to lager. One problem- the drink I’d had in La Rochelle had been served to me out on the pavement so I’d not seen it being prepared. I therefore had no idea of measurements, of how to mix the two ingredients, of the order in which to put them in the glass and even of the best beer to use.

This is what Picon bieres should look like. NB- serving in glasses with the names of astronomical phenomena is not strictly necessary

What followed was, as a suitably appropriate sequel to our previous engineering project in the pool, the beer equivalent of Crick and Watson figuring out the structure of DNA. Yet again the gentlemen of the house descended on the task, this time in the kitchen and tried to decipher the exact way to create a drink that only one of them had ever tasted and the flavour of which had been described as ‘like a wet dream about a second cousin’ which, to be frank, wasn’t helping anyone. The label on the back of the Picon bottle seemed to offer some guidance but only a couple of us involved understand any French and neither of us did a GCSE in the language that covered the manufacture of regional beer cocktails.

Did we crack it? Not really. Obviously the secret of nailing a perfect Picon Biere is a closely-guarded secret passed down from father to son in the bars of the Loire Valley. As well as being printed in detail on the back of Picon bottles to be read by anyone with a decent level of French comprehension.

But, by God, trying to nail the recipe was addictive. For a while a kitchen in a French farmhouse turned into a ramshackle version of a British micro-brewery as 4 men battled with a few simple ingredients and measures to craft a perfect drink. Different continental lagers and blonde beers were tried, along with a variety of measures of Picon and every conceivable form of mixing technique. Frankly, that last one got a bit silly and a genuine attempt was made to mix the drink using a food blender. Oddly, this turned out to be one of our best tasting attempts.

But the drink I’d had earlier in the year proved elusive. No matter what we mixed, or how, it didn’t taste like it did sat outside that cafe in the back streets of La Rochelle. And, of course, unless I was back there it never could.

Are the French bad at beer? No, they aren’t. They just don’t have to make it as interesting as ours, because they’ve got much better places to drink it.

The day: 15.
The drink: Picon Biere (sort of)
The place: Near Decartes, France
Positives: Trying to figure the way to make Picon Biere out is as close as drinking has ever got to a spiritual quest for me.
Negatives: Quest ended in ultimate failure.
Conclusion: Everyone should try Picon Biere. But get a French bloke to make it.

biere · France · French beer · lager · picon · picon biere

Oh, so I drank one
It became four
And when I fell on the floor …
…I drank more

We all know Morrissey‘s lyrics are thought provoking, at some times baffling, and occasionally outright racist (in a daft way); but this phrase has always stuck with me as it epitomises the so-called “binge” culture which tends to vilify anyone who considers enjoying themselves on a night out. A culture which looks down on anyone who mentions they like beer or had more than a single bottle or can in an evening. Admitting to being a “bit rough” at work can often land you with counselling sessions, and if you’re not careful loose promotion prospects indefinitely.

Winston Churchil : The Original Boozer

Now the question is does this stop you from succeeding noting you enjoy a tipple or two or three or is it as soon as you sniff the barmaids apron you are doomed to a life of stale vomit and holidaying at her majesty’s pleasure. In Tony Blair’s recent autobiography we see he had a “drinking problem” as he enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine in the evening to unwind. In this country he has been shown as “weak” and parallels have been attempted to be drawn between his political decisions and after he “had a couple”. In other countries if he had admitted the same The French wouldn’t have cared the German’s would have slapped their leather pants and the Russians would think it was wrong if he wasn’t shown to be completely incapable at least once a month.

So what of the beer? Well the beer was a staggeringly overpriced “John Smith’s Bitter”; which is a far cry from the Tesco value beers which you can get for 12p a can; but its actually one you can drink a lot of very easily and get drunk from; unlike the other cheaper alternatives which is more a test of bladder endurance than anything else.

I cannot describe the entire evening, nor do I want to, but I enjoyed many cans of this fine beverage watched a couple of films, enjoyed a pizza and nattered to several of my friends. This is an evening which I have done before and I will most likely do again. It was nothing to shout about, it was a relaxing evening doing relaxing activities I was warm, content had a full stomach and aside from the every increasing need to visit the toilet went off without a hitch.

Had such an evening been no a street corner; in a park with a group of my friends I would have been instantly deemed as a public nuisance and a picture of modern Britain. Do I feel ashamed for breaking my weekly alcohol limit in a single night over the weekend? No; it is part of the fabric of modern life I wasn’t forced into it nor coerced by advertising I simply had a relaxing night in. Had I been in a public house laughing joking, playing pool before staggering home at 2am my picture may have ended up in the paper the next day detailing how we as a society have come off the rails and everyone should remember to eat “five a day”; never have more than a single glass of wine in one sitting and not raise our voice above a whisper past 8pm.

So this beer is dedicated to the hard working folks who work for a living, pay their tax and support society and may need once a week or so to enjoy more than a single alcoholic drink in a sitting; relax with good company and enjoy unhealthy food. Life’s too hard at the best of times, why make it harder? Lean back crack open a cold one and let the beer wash over you so at least for a short time you can forget your boss; forget the commute and leave the dishes in the sink until the following morning.

I never did quite make the floor, but I did reach my happy place where the rest of the world falls away and I remember what’s important to me.

The day: 14.
The drink: John Smith’s Bitter (several).
The place: Home.
Positives: Warm fuzzy feeling inside.
Negatives: Exponential need to visit the toilet.
Conclusion: Done right a few beers at home over the limits relaxes you and allows you to enjoy the company of friends more; you laugh more you cry; it unlocks your soul to the world you have been missing whilst at work.

beer · drunk · happy · home · john smiths · pizza · society · toilet

Orthodoxy has historically proven to be a trait of a) Greek Christians and b) people whose genome is so lacking in originality they class Phil Cool as cutting edge, spend their existence working to pay for an achingly formulaic semi-detached home and then die, leaving behind children whose memories of them extend as far as “he never turned up late for work”.

Orthodoxy, then, is not for Badpoo. If the world of beer had a map, it would have more avenues than New York and each one needs exploring. It is a shame that in many beer publications the same avenues are strolled down again and again, like an amiable family walk on a warm Sunday afternoon. Orthodoxy is the immediate impression, and it’s a pity because in its very nature beer has the capacity to take a person to great highs and lows and they are by definition more involving tales than the hoppiness of this week’s summer ale.

To it is, then, to the opticians with a gin.

I’ve had a strange time of late, vacillating wildly from day to day but old enough to know how to stay functional. There might have been a 30 Days, 30 Drinks Day 13: drinking in a dark place post in there somewhere, but those kind of tales don’t generally work out for the best so I stayed silent. Coming out of this stage in a better state of mind, and with a renewed enthusiasm for drinking in absurd places for the amusement of strangers, I went to my opticians appointment at noon today with a can of gin and tonic in hand.

Gin. This photo is here purely for your pleasure.

This was a spur of the moment thing, just like my bottle of Traquair by Ullswater. I told a friend last weekend that I had the urge to drink and write but it didn’t happen and that’s been weighing on my mind ever since, so when I wandered through Tesco killing time today before my appointment, and I saw those discreet cans of spirits that have appeared in the last year or two, a sordid little idea popped into my head. The most enjoyable brand of thought, surely.

I walked into the opticians, a new one to me: characterless, vacant, shoppers walking past the vast glass walls gazing in at the four-eyed fools checking once again just how bad their vision is. I spoke to the receptionist, a sad-sounding girl with a look of resentment in her eyes; who wants to work on a Saturday? An irritating wave of empathy flooded me and I began to regret being there, so I took a seat. These cans of spirits, pre-mixed with some kind of nauseating fizzy drink, are quite discreet so I wasn’t overly troubled with it sat in my hand. It looks like you’re drinking one of those miniscule cans of Coke that you see at childrens parties. Quite comfortable.

By nature I am subtle, quite quiet, somewhat reserved, not fond of attention. This is why sitting in an opticians with a can of gin troubled me quite greatly. I felt a curious blend of exhileration and fear, simultaneously enjoying the absurdity of having a crafty short while having my eyes checked out and utterly dreading what would happen if that poor receptionist challenged me. I don’t know which I enjoyed more: the simple comedy or the thrill of the chase.

That small can stayed with me throughout a battery of eye tests by the first optician I have ever met who doesn’t have the breath of a decaying dog, it stayed with me throughout my tests on a machine which essentially simulated Picard’s fearsome “four lights” scene and it stayed with me as I looked round at frames afterwards. They must have known what I had. I think I did it because of the intrigue of drinking on an allotment; in a strange way, the risk of being caught made something so actually meaningless quite interesting. I would recommend drinking gin in an opticians to people who find everyday life quite predictable and seek a small thrill of a weekend, but not those who think drinking gin while you’re having an eye test is inherently stupid.

The day: 13.
The drink: gin and tonic in a can.
The place: Optical Express.
Positives: felt a wave of excitement I had not in the past few weeks.
Negatives: the constant ponderance of what I would actually say if challenged over my behaviour led me to distraction and detracted from my enjoyment.
Conclusion: I’ll probably get wrong glasses because I was drinking gin during my test.

Blackburn · gin · Optical Express · tonic

What’s the most depressing thing someone could say to you? “It’s terminal”? “The bouncy castle’s got a puncture”? “Put Emmerdale on”? “Hello”? (If that person is, say, Nick Clegg.)

For me, without a doubt, it’s when you’re in a group and someone says “let’s play cards”. Basically, it’s a shorthand, 3 word way of saying “we’ve run out of things to do and I don’t trust our friendships or the power of simple conversation to get us by for the next hour or so.” Anyone who is in a group of people and suggests playing a card game should be shot for a basic lack of imagination. To illustrate my point, here’s a very brief list of activities which are more fun in a group than playing a card game:

1. Absolutely anything.

All card games are games of chance and therefore there’s no point playing them. They all get dressed up in convoluted rules about aces being high and whoever has the three of clubs has to start and you have to eat a face card on a Wednesday but essentially all these rules serve to do is define who, when the cards are dealt, has the best hand and then to begin the grinding, convoluted tedium of working through them till that same person who had the best hand to begin with is deemed the winner. Why everyone doesn’t just show their hands once they’ve been dealt so everyone can work out who’s won without doing anything is beyond me.

At least that way we wouldn’t have to put up with the recent resurgence of poker which has gone from being the grubby pastime of bored security guards in fingerless gloves battling for matchsticks by candlelight and has been transformed into a pursuit which presents itself as being as cool and as laced with danger as wrestling a tiger while wearing a tux and bedding an heiress/ninja. It’s still just a game of fate, luck and circumstance that these people are gambling on. They might as well play the Biscuit Game and bet on that instead of playing poker. It certainly would have made the first time Connery says “Bond. James Bond” in the casino in Dr No a very different scene if he’d done that.

Luckily, while on a recent jaunt to France with a group of people, I had an escape route when the deck of cards was brought out and the lengthy description of whatever archaic game someone suggested was embarked upon. There was a pool and I had some beer. Even better, I was in France but the beer was Belgian. The French have much to recommend them as a race and country but they’ve still never nailed beer. Their most renowned ale export, Kronenbourg, tastes purely of fizz and misery. Mind you, with all the wine they make, they don’t really need to bother fermenting hops. There’ll be something on drinking wine on my French expedition to follow soon.

La Verdonniers- near Decartes in the Loire Valley. Site of the greatest Anglo-French innovation since Concorde.

Meanwhile, back to the swimming pool and, as a consequence, to the role of alcohol in creative engineering pursuits. Picture the scene- it’s a baking hot day in the Loire Valley and I’m sat in the pool, my normally bleached white shoulders sizzling away nicely. Then, someone lovely brings me a beer- in this case Leffe Blonde, which normally packs a weighty Belgian punch but turns out to be curiously refreshing when chilled and consumed in water as the mercury rises. It’s also 6.6% and so was perfect for engaging with that most British pursuit of fuelling the effects of sunstroke and heat exhaustion with alcohol.

I sat at the side of the pool with my beer and relaxed. Every now and then I’d wander further into the pool, then wander back to the side for my drink. After a while, once my comfort levels had been suitably adjusted to those of a decadent Roman senator, I decided all this going to-and-fro was a dumb waste of my precious time. Surely, with all the inflatables in the pool, I could fashion a device to make my beer float. N.B. any man who is in a pool with a beer for longer than 10 minutes and doesn’t attempt to find a way to make it float along with him wherever he goes needs to be jettisonned off the planet immediately. Seriously. People like that have such little imagination they’d probably play card games for fun.

A child’s armband of questionable origin (since there were no children in the party) seemed like the obvious choice for a beer floatation device. Naturally, every man in the group was drawn into this particular operation as the ideal way to fit the bottle into the armband was formulated. The only other time you’ll see men come together in such a pursuit is at the lighting of and cooking on a barbeque which instantly transforms every male nearby into a nuclear physicist as they group around the coals in a reverential semi-circle saying things like “that sausage needs turning” or “blow on the far corner, it’s getting cool” in an attempt to look like they’re engaging with centuries of wisdom which have been passed down from father to son rather than staring at some hot wood.

Anyway, after much deliberation, trial and error- during which miraculously no beer was spilled in the pool causing the filtration system to explode, we cracked it. If you want to make your beer float in a swimming pool using a child’s armband, simply wedge the beer into the centre of the armband, with about half an inch of bottle protruding at the bottom. Then tilt the bottle to the front of the armband slightly by about 10 degrees. Et voila, a beer that floats. Naturally, you’ll have to drink it still in the armband, which is surprisingly tricky to absolutely master straight away, but it works.

This is what the combination of a beer, a swimming pool and cheap inflatables can lead to. It'd make Brunel weep with pride.

It worked so well that I didn’t move out of the pool for the next 4 hours, by which time I was covered in chronic sunburn which only proceeded to get worse as the alcohol wore off. I didn’t sleep that night, just lay in the bath with my legs in the air and my shoulders under the water. It was agony, like I’d fallen down a spiral staircase made of cheese graters.

Next time, I’ll just play cards.

The day: 12.
The drink: Leffe Blonde
The place: A swimming pool in a farmhouse near Decartes, France
Positives: Made beer float in the pool, for God’s sake!
Negatives: I now have the shoulders of a leper with an abrasive loofer
Conclusion: Beer, sun and engineering do mix.

30 days · decartes · Leffe · swimming pool

The Good Life: ultra-spaf Felicity Kendal and bumbling middle class peasant Richard Briers.

This little challenge of ours seems to be taking a rummage through my subconscious because once again I’ve ended up drinking in an unusual place and realising the day after that I was outdoors. I’m like Ray Mears answering the call of the wild, only without a fishing rod and with strong ale.

Last evening I went to my allotment after work to drag some timber around, hoik spadefuls of earth from one patch to another and strenuously do whatever I could do to banish the soul-haunting misery of office life. For eight hours a day I have a window to the entire world right in front of me but I’ve never seen anything that compares to a single moment in the breeze, sun falling over the back of your neck, waist deep in piles and piles of horse shite and mud.

Earlier in the day I’d spent an awkward amount of time stood in the beer aisle of Morrisons weighing up whether to take a bottle down to the allotment. It crossed the two minute barrier in which I’ve normally just picked four bottles at random, and forced me to move to the wine section for a look even though I’d no intention at all of buying wine. I just felt a bit daft staring at beer for more than two minutes without picking anything up. After a moment I circled for a brief disinterested look at the lagers and then back to the beers for strike two. The problem was that the social rules of allotment drinking are as hazy and undefined as whether you’re allowed to jokingly whistle in appreciation of your cousin when she turns up at a party looking the bee’s knees. Is it okay? Does everyone get that your whistle is platonic and not a mating call, or does her husband still feel a flicker of competitiveness kick in? Nobody knows.

Thus it came to pass that I stood for quite some time in that aisle pondering whether cracking open an ale among the turnips would be perfectly fine or if I’d be ostracized like a man who’d battered a sheep to death. There was no definitive moment that swung it either way and made me pick one up – I just started feeling really daft for still being in that aisle and needed to get out of there. A bottle of Holt’s Humdinger was on offer and sounded like the right kind of beer to go with a bit of graft. You know the kind of image I was getting – me, sweating on the farm, earning an honest day’s crust and quenching the thirst of graft with a bottle of beer, and then oh, what’s that on the horizon, is that the farmer’s daughter? She looks pleased to see me, out here in these lonely fields, far from prying eyes…

I came to in the tinned vegetable section and realised if I am ever to have children, I must stop romanticising a world where I am a Victorian farm-hand bit-of-rough to a well-spoken English rose.

Science fact: fresh mint is little-known as a stimulant more potent than amphetamine * caffeine * Kris Akabusi.

Later, down on the allotment, I felt that weight of social expectation in action. It seemed as if I’d smuggled some dangerous contraband on to the plot that I could not reveal. Eventually, after sitting for a while surveying the scene, I took the bottle from the bag, opened it and left it on the floor for a little while. Nothing much happened, but I could feel the eyes on me already. They were all looking at me, weren’t they? The inner dialogue kicked in. “You’ve broken the rules, Richard. You’ve left the pack.”

Shaking my head to wake me from the grip of this silly fear, I took a spade and went to work. I felt as close to a Victorian farm-hand as Michael Winner does but hey, isn’t that what fantasies are for? Every so often when the aches began to kick in I’d stop, have a drink and put the bottle back down, conveniently out of view next to the shed. No point attracting unnecessary attention, surely.

Drinking on the allotment is possible, but I wouldn’t call it something I felt comfortable doing. This forces me to question where I really stand in terms of going along with the group and playing by the social rules that dominate everything we do. Truth be told, I work by exactly the same principles as everyone who has the normal functioning social senses – I pick up what will be frowned upon and decide whether what I want to do is really worth the hassle of dealing with that disapproval from the group. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t – that’s all it boils down to for me rather than needing some character analysis. Having a beer on the allotment was worth it to me, so I went for it, but I wouldn’t start drinking at a festival at 9am while everyone else is having tea – I’d feel uncomfortable.

This leads me nicely back to my old favourite, pubs. I think they work because the social rules expect you to drink in there – everything is understood implicitly so the serious English business of this socialising malarky can begin without hinderence or fear of any awkwardness. And so, I conclude, next time I fancy a Humdinger I’ll finish up at the allotment first and wander over to the pub.

The day: 11.
The drink: Holt’s Humdinger.
The place: my allotment.
Positives: renewed my faith in the great English public house; moved a good amount of earth.
Negatives: forced to confront my value system; beer was barely noticeable; missed the sociable atmosphere of a pub.
Conclusion: drinking while farming will not find me a wife.

allotment · farming · Humdinger · Joseph Holt · peer pressure · social drinking · vegetables · Witton

My drinking so far has taken in solitude and excess, two extremities which I’ve found interesting. It was quite novel appearing to be suicidal and the hazy recollections of being wazzocked on 7% Scottish ale made me laugh the next day, so it’s a thumbs up all round. Unfortunately this means that thinking of something to top these experiences is quite difficult, so it took me having a guest drinker to come up with something new and niche to match them.

To the golf course we go. Five minutes from home but a world away. Terraced houses turn into long lines of trees and homes seem twice as large. This is a typical northern town, crafted at a time when you lived and worked near the mill or you owned the mill and lived on the green hills overlooking the endless terraced streets. Revidge golf course sits at the top of one of these hills, two minutes from my house. Even though the mills are gone, the difference is still distinct.

And so we go back to a place I spent many nights during my youth. Right back at the beginning I drank whatever I could afford, normally either two bottles of red wine for a fiver or whatever cans were on sale. A few years down the line I had money and started to buy drinks I actually liked – two bottles of red wine for a fiver and whatever cans were on sale. The company changed over the years but not much else – I’d quite happily just go out there to sit and have a drink with whoever was around that night.

I went back to the golf course after years away. Nothing has changed. The path down still covers mud, concealed dips, aggressive branches and the house that looks like a millionaire footballer’s. At the bottom you still come out to clear skies and the smell of fresh grass, an expanse of green opening up before you whichever way you look. To the right are the holes where I used to play javelin with the flags and to the left are the men in polo shirts talking about business. Nothing has changed in all these years I’ve been away.

We went to the left, to the steps by the trees lit by the club car park. In the distance is Blackpool Tower, the sea and the sparkling lights of the motorway heading north. In a sudden rush all of this comes back to me. The grass in front of me fills with my friends leaping about, laughing, bottles clinking on the floor. The old tensions come back to me even though I don’t feel them any more – wondering what she thinks about you, wondering if he found you funny, old neuroses bouncing back like balls thrown to the bottom of the sea bed hurling back up to be seen again.

The bottle of lager in my hand feels unfamiliar and I’m with someone who wasn’t there back in the day, but everything else feels the same. The view hasn’t changed and it’s still eerily quiet when you stop talking. The only thing that’s really changed is me. My instincts associate this place at this time of night with a chaotic lifestyle, romantic uncertainty and building up the friendships I still have to this day. But those things don’t feel real any more – they’re just cold memories of being someone else. Drinking here, with a different drink and a different person, feels almost like fraud – trying to latch myself today on to something that belongs in yesterday.

Drinking on the golf course was not an unpleasant experience, but it did feel wrong somehow. It was like watching a cartoon from the 1980s and discovering it was really quite bad – it’s not nice to have your rose-tinted memories tarnished unexpectedly. As much as I love the place, I think it’s somewhere that really belongs in my past.

The day: 10.
The drink: two giant bottles of lager, one mostly thrown across the golf course, and an organic ale.
The place: Revidge golf course.
Positives: enjoyed the view on a pleasant evening.
Negatives: experienced a strange series of flashbacks to a drink-fuelled chaotic youth.
Conclusion: I’m glad I’m not still 19.

Blackburn · golf course · Revidge

Right- let’s cut to the chase here. Wychwood’s Wychcraft is very lovely- it’s nice and refreshing and it tastes of beer. I had a pint today. It was nice. It was refreshing. It tasted of beer. And I had it at the Four in the Hand in Didsbury, which is a nice pub- albeit a bit big and airy.

And it’s got a tank in the car park. Just plonked right there in the corner. No fanfare, no signs, no explanation, no velvet rope around it and a Do Not Climb sign. Just a tank. Plonked right there in the corner. Of the car park.

Be honest, how often have you had the chance to have a beer while sat on a tank? Have you ever? Well, if you haven’t, you have my sympathy. It’s brilliant. I could bang on here for around 800 words about drinking a pint of beer while sat on tank but, to be honest (and in a first for BadPoo), there really isn’t anything whimsical and silly to say about it. And there’s absolutely no connection between the nice pint and the tank I was sat on while I drunk it.

I just had a beer on a tank. Sometimes, life really is worth living. Here’s a picture.

Best. Pint. Ever.

The day: 9
The drink: Wychcraft by Wychwood
The place: A tank, in the car park of the Four in the Hand, Didsbury
Positives: I drunk a pint of beer while sat on a tank
Negatives: I’m not doing it right now

tank · wychcraft · Wychwood

If you head behind St Mary’s Church in the preposterously good beer-mecca that is Kirkby Lonsdale, you’ll come to a scene known as Ruskin’s View. It was famously painted by Turner in 1818, and with good reason as it’s an achingly pretty example of the British countryside playing a blinder.

It got to be known as Ruskin’s View, however, because the Victoria art critic John Ruskin saw Turner’s painting and went to take a look himself. He declared it to be “one of the lovliest views in England” and it subsequently became synonymous with him rather than, say, the bloke who took the time and effort to paint it. I can’t help think that Ruskin’s getting a bit too much of the credit for drawing everyone’s attention to this admittedly gorgeous slice of Cumbria.

Turner's picture, which he simply called Kirkby Lonsdale Churchyard since Ruskin hadn't been born yet

It also means that Kirkby Lonsdale Brewery- as run by the owners of The Orange Tree, the village’s mightiest pub (now they’ve got rid of the smell)- have called their bitter ‘Ruskin’s’ rather than ‘Turner’s’. Despite the painting and everything. Honestly, you really do have to wonder what it takes to get your name on a pump-clip these days.

The opportunity did present itself, though, to try a beer in the exact place it’s named after, looking at the same thing that the bloke from whom the beer gets its’ moniker was also looking at all those years ago. And so an attempt could be made at trying to understand an area of brewing that’s always intrigued me- how do you make a beer taste like it’s name? As well as tasting like, y’know, beer.

Staggeringly, after a month of seemingly solid drizzle (which, typically, began on the very same day that the North West announced a hosepipe ban) it was a beautiful morning as I sat on a bench and looked out over the same vista that had so snared Turner and Ruskin. I had the beer kept close by as it was still early in the day and I didn’t fancy having all the passing dog walkers thinking I was a raging alcoholic communing with nature or, even worse, trying to explain to them the whole 30 days challenge we’ve got going on here.

After perusing the label and taking a few swigs it was intriguing to see that the chaps at Kirby Lonsdale Brewery had decided that the most appropriate way to put a drinker in mind of one of Britain’s most famous views is via a 3.9%, easy drinking bitter with a little bit of spice and a finish that’s longer than the school summer holidays. Even more intriguingly, and as a fine tribute to the brewers art, they’ve absolutely nailed it.

Ruskin's View as photographed by me. The beer tastes like this photo. Sort of.

I’ve slugged back many a pint of Ruskins on my trips to Kirkby Lonsdale (as well as the brewery’s other ales which are readily available throughout the town and highly recommended) but with the morning sun out at the place that gave the beer its’ name everything just seemed to make a little more sense. The little bit of fruit which is somewhere in the mix seemed perfect for a bright day, that spice gave it a little bracing kick which is perfect for a bright August morning and, don’t ask me how, but it just tasted like the vista. I really can’t explain how but it did.

I liked to imagine Ruskin himself gazing at the exact same view with a beer in hand too- possibly pondering how he could hijack it with it’s own name rather than the man who immortalized it on canvas. I imagine Turner himself also with an ale on the go as he painted his picture- though not too many or he’d have got a bit squiffy and not coloured within the lines quite as neatly as he did. And I looked across to the other side of the valley and right there is a stone circle from thousands of years ago, erected for who-knows-what reason (personally, I’ve always subscribed in hope to the idea that it was for the crazy, goat-sacrificing, naked-dancing, virgin-deflowering rituals that we all like to think the ancient British tribes indulged in and which live on today in places such as Burnley town centre on a Saturday night).

Historical research (and by that I mean Wikipedia) tells us that beer has been around possibly since as far back as 9,000 BC and was spread through Europe around 3,500 BC. Though I bet even then there was places where you could only get bloody Tetleys. This means that, as I stared across the countryside with an ale in hand, I was probably doing something that a bloke had been doing over 5 millenia earlier, staring back across the valley by his newly built circle of stones and thinking “if I invented painting, I could go up there and paint the view. Then some other bloke could get it named after him”.

This was unexpected. Historical perspective is rarely the result of a beer, even a really nice one, but by sampling this particular brew, in this particular place, I became crushingly aware of my own historical insignificance. Thousands of years ago, a man in this place had helped build a magnificent stone circle to beguile people through the ages. Turner had sat here and created a beautiful piece of art. Ruskin had come here and with a few words, sealed the view’s place in the hearts of so many. And me? I sat here one morning and drunk a beer.

Ruskin’s View- come for the vista and the beer, stay for the grim sense of personal irrelevance.

The day: 8
The drink: Ruskin’s by Kirkby Lonsdale Brewery, 3.9%
The place: Ruskin’s View, Kirkby Lonsdale
Positives: A beautiful beer and a beautiful place to drink it.  This is as good as life gets…
Negatives: …until the crippling sense of personal underachievement kicks in
Conclusion: Fittingly, one of the best towns to drink beer produces one of the best places to drink one.

Beers · kirkby lonsdale · kirkby lonsdale brewery · ruskin's · ruskin's view