The age of Porter

This week my blog has come of age. I can no longer remember everything I've posted.

It's the weekend. A cold Sunday afternoon. I'm on my third St Bernardus Abt and it's still light outside. Not the time for original research. Though I was a good boy this morning. I finished transcribing the Guinness output figures from David Hughes's excellent "A Bottle of Guinness, please".

I always return to Porter. This is such an obvious post, I feared I'd written it already. But I hadn't. I just checked.

The last London Porters. Until Fuller's revived theirs. (Didn't Young's flirt with a Porter, too? I suspect that may have been first. I would check, but it's Sunday afternoon and that St Bernardus is reaching my fingers. I'n mot typnig sow ell.) A table of London Porters from the 1920's and 1930's.


As examiners say, compare and contrast with Guinness Porter:


Conviction. You might say it's what should happen to me. I like to think it's my driving force. That someone is interested in my endless tables is my deepest conviction. I love them. Like my firstborn. Surely you do, too? Don't you?