I don't really do festivals any more. Too much standing and queueing. Just the really cool Lager ones at Butcher's Tears. Then again. Amstercam's Brettanomyces Festival isn't a beer festival.
A celebration of all sorts of wild shit. But that's not what I'm going to talk about.
Which is going on a proper, old-fashioned piss-up. A long session of ordinary-strngth beer. Which slipped down so well, I was shocked when my third shout came around. In my round with John Clarke and Sebastian Sauer. I make that 11 pints each, at least. Unless my maths brain has melted.
It brought back memories of Friday nights in Leeds. Where the session started at 17:30 opening time and ended at last orders at 23:00. With lots and lots of Tetley's Mild consumed.
After listening to an enlightening talk about Prize Old Ald by Henry Kirk, we - a ragtaggle bunch of brewers, geeks and me - flopped over to Paleis Straat. Where there was a block party going on. And Bierkoning were serving beer the way god intended. Straight from the cask.
Good stuff, too. Like Zehender Kellerbier. And other things. I forget what they all were. I was too busy talking crap and supping down.
Fuck me. Is it really 20:00?
Posts
3 comments:
John Clarke drank eleven pints at least. Well, I never thought that day would dawn.
There’s only two places I’ve ever managed eleven pints: Franconia and the Black Country. And there it seems easy at the time.
It is a miracle people stayed thin then after a rake of pints.
Oscar
Post a Comment