Having really enjoyed Manchester’s winter beer festival at the weekend, I’ve spent the afternoon looking over the web to update my calendar of festivals this year. They’re not something I want to do every week and I already have Pendle lined up for the weekend after next, but when I spotted Bristol on the list I felt tempted straight away. I have a mate down there and having been last year, loved the place. Perfect, I thought – a nice weekend jaunt with a few mates in mid-March.

But, hmmm, hang on. Where’s the “times and prices” page so familiar to every other festival website? It’s just a one page affair, a block of black and white. And the system for getting tickets… well, maybe I’ve had a long day in front of the computer, but it took me a good few reads to get my head round what they’re doing. I’m still not quite sure if I’m eligible, or if they even want me to come. There are lots of bold bits about places and times which are pretty meaningless to me. Given that you can only buy them in person I presume this is strictly a local festival for local people – no outsiders, please.

This deeply saddens me as on the evidence of previous years, Bristol beer fest is a honeypot for MILFs.

Women do not do anything more attractive than smile with a pint. Fact.	Thanks to science, we now know females can safely drink ale.
Mmmm... strict but friendly English teacher making you stay behind...	When God invented "phwoar", he was philandering with this woman.

Once again it’s a kick in the teeth for the grim old north. I feel like Kes in a version of Kes where he gets invited down to London to be best mates with a lion-zebra hybrid but when he gets to the zoo it’s had a really awful fire and he can just smell charred raccoon meat, an acrid stench which never quite leaves him for the rest of his life. That’s like me and my MILFs, that. Well stuff you, Bristol, with your elaborate ticketing system and gaudy display of your MILF’s wares. There’s nowt so bad about a bit of black pudding and a nice warm Northern lass.

Rest in peace, Blanche, you quick-witted Northern bastard.

Beer festival · Beers · Bristol · MILF

Binge-drinking reaches the polar ice caps

It’s three weeks into the new year and I’ve taken my first step in resolving to stick to beer where beer is good, and not pour any old crap down my neck just because there’s no other choice – I must confess I am capable of drinking John Smiths Smooth if it’s the only beer going. Along with Rich and Shakes I went along to the Manchester winter beer festival at the Sheridan Suite. This is the Wembley of pubs, the Maracana of bars, the Krakatoa of quaffing. Bearded pilgrims made their way down Oldham Road in threes and fours, probably suspecting that any area with a community centre with a brightly painted mural on the wall isn’t going to be the safest. Tower flats loomed on the other side of the road and the manic shopping of central Manchester suddenly seemed a world away.

And then, the Sheridan Suite. From the outside it looks like a 1990s suburban leisure centre, the kind of place where otherwise decent people collect to play badminton badly against one another and Gordon Brittas rules with an iron fist. What a deceptive appearance, though. Passing through the doors you’re met by a group of volunteers taking the £3 entrance (£2 for CAMRA members, more of which later) and then an elevator up to the arena. The noise of a thousand chattering people grows and then the sheer scale of the place hits you. I am sure the Great British Beer Festival is held in a larger space, but this was by far the largest festival I’ve been to. My domain is usually the marquee-tent-in-a-farmer’s-field kind of affair, with 20 barrels hoiked over a bit of scaffolding and a deafening blues band pitched up at one end. This, by comparison, was industrial festivaling.

A view of a man's back.

The sheer size of the bars probably worked in their favour. We were there for the afternoon session so probably didn’t see the busiest of the day, but there was never any trouble getting served. The volunteers had the usual charming absent-mindedness, as if Help The Drinkers had sent a busload of their most regular customers down to help out for the weekend. (And what a charity that would be. Fuck Haiti, text 80450 to donate £1 to victims of Fosters near you.) The Indian food, at £5 a tray, was enough to split between three to keep us going.

And on to the beers. Half glasses were in order and they were the best I’ve ever seen with a sturdy base and a handle that made you feel less of a ponce by eliminating that rogue floating finger you get with a usual half glass. Handles were the past and they are the future, I’d say. Shakes started with a Beowulf Grendals Winter Ale at 5.8%, a “sipper”. Rich tried the Boggart 5% Seethy, though the actual name of that one has been lost to the sands of time; damn smudging pens, damn you to hell. I was particularly happy to see a Brewdog beer on the list after so long waiting and reading about them, but to be honest I found the Punk IPA really nothing out of the ordinary. At 6.2% maybe it suffered from its strength as it really isn’t what I’d have called an IPA but for the name.

Three pleasures in one: Cains, the tranny of the ale world.

Distinctly underwhelmed so far, we went on a ramble and found Mecca: the Cains stand. One summer of my life will forever be associated with the unbeatable sheer quaffability of Cains Finest, and considering that summer was spent in a Last Orders pub you can imagine how much the beer had to do. The bogs may stink of piss and forever be associated with the smashed toilet seat during its days as a gay bar, and the regulars may be cocks who live off peanuts, but with Cains on at £1.20 a pint, it seemed alright.

The Cains stand was three pleasures in one. First, that brilliant moment of seeing it in the distance, an unexpected gift from the gods. Second, the anticipation building as we wove our way towards it, still comprehending how this could be here – could it really be here? And third, hitting the bar, a first taste of Cains for a long time. Rich couldn’t say no to the Finest and gave it a 4 for “good memories”. Maybe I was just having an off-day because I normally enjoy IPAs but again, I found their elaborately-named IPA weak and my only note left against it is “naff”. Shakes found the Mild watery and at 3.2% it’s not a surprise. Perhaps it’s a parable, then, to leave good memories where they best belong – in the past.

We took another wander and found the book stalls; I only just resisted a few knocking about down there. The Derwent W & M Pale Ale at 4.4% was a good session beer and my favourite so far. Rich ended up with a Dunham Massey Xmas Ale and at 6.6% it took some drinking. Shakes meanwhile was on a Stewart 80/-, and his run of bad luck continued with all he could muster by comment being “water”. My next was a Humpty Dumpty Reedcutter, at 4.4% a very caramel beer and far too sweet for my taste; at least it wasn’t another of Shakes’ tar-jugs though, and he’d finally hit a bit of luck with a Lymestone Foundation Stone, calling it drinkable and a good change of taste. Rich maybe made a schoolboy error by going for a big name, a J W Lees Coronation St, flatteringly labelled by him as “gas”.

The notes against the programme beer list begin to betray our decaying state of mind around this point as Rich’s next beer is scribbled down as “ALL GUNS BLAZING”, a 4.3% New Moon from his nearby Leeds brewery. This kicked off the heaviest session of the afternoon as we set up camp at the end of a bar and proceeded to work our way down in a chaotic order, fitting in a Marble Pint (Shakes: “grapefruit piss”), a Marston’s Ringwood Best Bitter and a decidedly-average Molson-Coors Red Shield. The wheels were in danger of coming off as Rich, in a display of patriotism, stuck with the Yorkshire beers, describing an 8% Otley 08 as like “fucking nice wine”. Time to reign things in a bit before we became the first people to be ejected from a CAMRA festival for inciting War of the Roses-based racial violence, and we hit the Stewart Copper Cascade which I could taste absolutely nothing of, the Yale Good King Senseless which at 5.2% Shakes simply said was “right good beer” and the Wells & Youngs Youngs Spl, a tame 4.5%. With a quick MOT under his belt Rich was back on top form and finished off with a Yates Yule Be Sorry, described as “smooth (head feels)”. I really don’t know what that means.

The man who took this zoomed in this close and sent it to a global network of naughty men.

The plan for the day was to finish off with a scrumps and so we did, using Rich’s free half vouchers he won by being the 151st person to join CAMRA that weekend. Don’t believe me? I’m sure he has some proof somewhere… I know the git got a bag with a Good Beer Guide in at least. The band were due on soon, but it was time to make our way home. Reflections? A very well organised festival, a perfect number of people (in the afternoon at least) and some good beers on the go. I’d happily go again at the drop of a hat and have told people it’s worth a look. Well done to those concerned and here’s to next year.

Beers · Beowulf · Boggart · BrewDog · Cains · CAMRA · Derwent · Dunham Massey · humpty dumpty · JW Lees · Leeds brewery · Manchester · Marble · Molson-Coors · Otley brewery · Sheridan Suite · Winter Ales Festival · yates