I have been thinking a lot about the pub; or lack thereof for quite a while.

I was lucky enough to be brought up and witness the end of the pub crawl, a ritual undertaken by all walks of life up and down the country. It was a simple idea really. You come home on a Friday night after a hard week’s graft, and got ready to go out to start the weekend; there was an enjoyment in doing the simplest of things. Changing clothes to go out always had to be accompanied by some good music. Not just anything; but fist pumping back beats and catchy melodies you’ll have stuck in your head for the next hour. Your dinner was prepared quickly but it was never just reheated leftovers from Thursday… it was always something special even if it was just a trip to the chippy on your way home. As soon as you finished your private rituals you set off for the pub.

The pubs back then were laid heavy with smoke, stale beer and perpetually gloomy even though the sun had not yet set. People who ordered food in such places were looked at with disdain; this was a Friday night after all and good times should be had by all.

The first pint was always a risk… most of the time it had been in the pipes since last night so a gut wrenching sour after taste almost always accompanied it. There was no real ale… there was a choice between: bitter, lager or Guinness; all of which kind of tasted the same and you differentiated between them by the cost and alcohol percentage. Now cost, there is a touchy subject, and one I’ll return to later.

But the first pint was always a good one; no matter how sour watered down it may be. It was a symbol of breaking the tyranny of the 9-5 day and recognising you would not need to wake up early to go into work tomorrow. One by one your friends started to gather to be greeted with choruses of “hellos” or in some cases people who you have not seen for a while by cheers.

One pint became two; two became three; and invariably the subject was raised: where to next?

Nights out were never a single pub; there were several pubs; meeting different people in each one your group splitting up, merging from pub to pub. Some pubs were noted for their great jukeboxes; others for their atmosphere. Sometimes another part of our anatomy did the talking and other pubs were suggested simply because we knew other people will be there. Debates were raged over the benefits of each pub and the group flowed from one to another – driven by seemingly random impulses across town.

Towns and cities back then were heaving with revealers relishing the fact it was the weekend travelling back and forth between the many pubs which dotted our towns. I have been out recently and you no longer see the trains of people moving between pubs… just single groups here and there moving between the few pubs which remain. When I first started going out there were bouncers on most pub doors – simply to make sure the place did not become too overcrowded. This was Friday nights out on the town, every weekend; Saturday nights sometimes as well; but that never had the same “just off work feel” that the magical Friday gave.

I’m sorry that people who are turning 18 now cannot experience the pub culture and crawl; in the glimpses of young people I have seen around town these days the entire premise seems to revolve around vodka and how fast you can drink it in a trendy bar with hard lines and cold lighting. Nights drinking sterilised and chemically pure alcohol in various fizzy and fruity concoctions in a cool over-metallic environment. The weird smell of smoke machines and too much Lynx following them around all night.

You are not likely to bump into an old man at the bar who twists your ear about politics; there is no old dusty settee in the corner which had lost all its spring long ago. There is no travel between the different pubs to experience each character. There is no need. There is a bar which has the same type of people and the same layout as the last one. Always too cold; and always the same. Dozens of ramshackle little pubs with less space than an Ethiopian grain storage silo are replaced with sprawling “state of the art” and neon bars.

Have we progressed? I think not. The decent few pubs who remain are always on the verge of collapse with groups of patrons sitting in the corder mumbling in the corner about the prices of beer. When I was 18 I went out with a tenner in my pocket and it was enough for six pints of beer and either a taxi home or a kebab; and that was more than ample to have a good time.

So what does this mean for the Friday night this week?

Well I plan to have a couple of pints in the pub and go home early… perhaps picking up a few cans from the shop. There is no dancing to oasis when you are getting dressed to go out any-more; there is no changing your razor blade for a new one; and there is no more pub crawl… in fact the last pub crawl I was in involved a car… as the distances were too far to walk.

Beer festival · Blackburn · crawl · ethopia · friday · friends · night · oasis · pub · Thwaites · youth

Does anyone drink supermarket own-brand booze? I ask because it seems there are certain products where people just aren’t willing to buy the stuff made by the shops themselves, who cobble together their own version of the leading brands and sell them a little bit cheaper. Baked beans, for example are a no-go; as is cereal. This is not to even mention the crimes committed by Asda and Tesco in the name of my beloved chocolate digestives.

And alcohol is another one of those areas where own brand products are to be absolutely avoided unless at gunpoint at the very least. Once, in a week at University close to the end of term and therefore with the student loan already well burnt through, I attempted to take a swing at getting drunk on Tesco bitter. It was beyond awful. One of the people I was with stated that it tasted of nothing. Wrong. It tasted of shame.

But then we come to the Co-op who have taken a different, cleverer turn in this area. Their own brand ales are brewed for them by such folk as Thwaites and Freeminer and are therefore at least attempting to get on the right side of lovely- not entirely successful if Richard’s lonesome experience yesterday is anything to go by. Today, I’m turning my attention to their cider and drinking it in my garden shed.

Here’s why: the Co-Operative has always tried to inhabit the notions of working people joining together in collective endeavours for the benefit of all. And where do men go to do their finest work? In the shed. Their beloved sheds. Women don’t have this association with sheds but the world of cider is making it’s own strides to address issues of gender roles in contemporary society. I’ll get to that in a few days time.

For now though, to the shed and to the drink.

The cider in the shed. Accompanied by genuine sense of homecoming.

Straight off the bat, it’s refreshing- tingly rather that fizzy, a little bit sharp and then a sour kick right at the death. It kind of occupies the middle ground between mass produced ciders and traditional scrumpies- as indicated with it’s strength of 6% which will certainly do the job but is nowhere near the mind-bending potency of the cloudier, flatter stuff. This makes it all the better for sloshing back while sheltering in the garden shed from a minor summer rainstorm which is exactly how I came to be drinking this particular bottle. I’d been dimly aware of approaching rain and decided to get a move on give the lawn a much-needed mow ASAP before it came. However, by the time I’d untangled the extension cord- which had been tidily rolled up with absolute precision by myself a month earlier and had remained utterly untouched since and yet STILL came out resembling something MC Esher would draw while pissed- the clouds had gone that heavy threatening grey shade which is the official colour of August in Britain. I charged around the lawn at speed but was still caught short by the weather- meaning I had to immediately fling the extension cable into the shed (literally undoing all the good work I’d done untangling it moments before) and dive in for cover after it.

This left me sweaty, angry and looking at a lawn which was only cut on one side and therefore appearing to do an impression of Phil Oakey from the Human League. So I cracked open the bottle and then it hit me; don’t ask me how it does it but cider is the taste of male bonhomie and endeavour. By the way, when I say ‘cider’ I mean the proper stuff, not Strongbow which is the taste of truants in a bus shelter.

Somehow the sweetness of the apple and the sourness from the fermentation just gives it the flavour of that collective working spirit I mentioned earlier that so sums up both the Co-op and the garden shed. I pondered this for a while as I drained the bottle and the rain passed before, emboldened by now following in the drinking tradition of good, honest outdoor toil, I set back to finish mowing the rest of the lawn.

Unfortunately, I forgot to consider the fact it had been raining so the wet grass of the lawn clogged up the mower and the fact I’d had a bit of a drink meant that a certain amount of precision was removed from my grass cutting technique. Soon the garden was no longer impersonating Phil Oakey and had instead moved on to a passing resemblance to the lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls.

And so, by drinking this cider in the shed I’d learned two things. I’d learned how this drink, in this place, summed up the spirit of good British graft in the fields. And, after knocking it back, I’d learned why we never really manage to get anything much done anymore.

The day: 2.
The drink: Co-op Tillington Hills Premium Cider, 6%
The place: My garden shed
Positives: Chimed in with the heart of British arable workers and their enduring spirit via a very nice and drinkable cider.
Negatives: My lawn is now a right mess, the extension cable’s all tangled up again.
Conclusion: Drink in a shed  by all means.  Just do the gardening first.

Cider · Co-Op · freeminer · Garden shed · Thwaites

We’ve decided to have a go at the second Beer Swap and have begun to pick out our four local beers. I’m hopeful at least two of the micros around here will be able to sort us out with something a bif different, but we’ll have to wait and see. Most people will have heard of Thwaites and probably Moorhouses, but East Lancashire does have a good few other little ones – just have a look at our East Lancs CAMRA page for details. In particular, we know people at Red Rose so it’d be nice to have one of theirs in – but it’s meant to be a secret, eh, so we’ll have to wait and see…

I’m quite looking forward to this one now…

Beer Swap · Beers · Moorhouses · Red Rose · Thwaites

Celebrating the Lake District’s most beloved author, in beer form. 

The list of great Blackburnites is both grand and many. Lee Mack, Carl Fogerty, Corrie’s Wendi Peters. None of these however have ale in their name. Not according to Google anyway. Alfred Wainwright spent most of his days meandering around the Lake District and writing about his jaunts. Lucky bugger. His book was recently turned into a TV show. Much like Coast, but with less boats and that no mental shouting blokes. 

In 2007, Thwaites decided to honour his achievements with an ale. Originally just a seasonal, it proved so popular they decided to produce it all year round. Good call. Like the good man himself, the beer originates in Blackburn and is available unsurprisingly in northwest pubs. If you can’t get to a pub, you can order it online or buy it in Waitrose or EH Booths. 

The notes on the bottle invite us to ‘savour a refreshing golden beer with soft fruit flavours and a hint of sweetness’. As long as the fruit flavours don’t consist of bananas and kiwi fruit, we should be onto a winner. I’m first greeted with a pleasant but light aroma that smells simply of beer. It doesn’t give anything away about the actual taste. There is no bitterness to this drink, if anything sums up sitting in the early afternoon summer sun, probably by a lake or river; this is beer for the job. Very, very drinkable. This is the ideal warm up to evening session or the pint you have with a lunchtime bite. 

This is also where the beer falls down. It’s eminently drinkable; I could drink this by the case. Problem is the taste betrays the 4.1% volume. It tastes so light that I could quite easily neck this without it touching the sides of my mouth. The sweetness provides for a very nice drink, but one I could probably accompany with some toast before leaving for work. I’ve discovered the first drink I can class as a breakfast beer. 

I like this drink, the taste is very refreshing. My feelings are that it should remain seasonal. Brilliant summer lunchtime drink, in March however, I feel somewhat short-changed.

Beers · Thwaites · wainwright