When you're an obsessive, excitement comes in strange forms. Forms that would leave others shuffling away nervously.
Back in the days before beer took over my life, I used to read fiction. Czech and French were my favourites. Someone asked the other day how I learned to read so many languages. Commuting was my answer.
This did have a point. What was it again? Not to worry. I'm bound to remember it before the end of this post.
Barclay Perkins had enigmatic names for their beers. Their Porter, unlike at other London breweries, wasn't called Porter or P. No. At Barclay Perkins Porter was known as TT. Where did that come from? PorTTer? Was it named by a dyslexic brewer?
My reading matter is no longer fiction. Beer book buying binges and Google Books have caught that dead square in the goolies. My literary pretensions are on their knees, ashen-faced and whimpering.
Literary feast? Tonight, I had a meagre supper of Victorian price lists. And what should I find? Another beer called TT. What sort of beer was it? Sixpence a gallon beer. Sixpence a gallon? You rarely find anything under tenpence a gallon. It must have been like workhouse beer.
It doesn't get me any closer to solving the riddle of Barclay Perkins TT. But I do have another TT in my collection. Satisfaction enough for an obsessive.
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