Across to Adelaide

An early start today, as checkout is at 10:30. I'm up at 9. I manage to rouse Andrew at 10. Luckily, he mostly packed yesterday. He looks like zombie with insomnia. But with crazier hair.

Straight after checking out, we get a taxi to the airport. Arriving at the airport 3.5 hours before our flight. Checking in and security only take a few minutes, leaving us with stacks of time.

"Fancy a pint, Dad?"

"Not sure about a pint. I wouldn't mind a drink, though."

Andrew has obviously woken up a bit.

"What about this place, Coffee Quarter? Despite the name, it seems to be licensed."

We park our arses and Andrew fetches himself a pint of Swan and me a cola zero.

I'm feeling totally exhausted. Not sure why.

"The cola should perk you up, Dad."

"I hope so."

“You must be feeling bad if you aren’t drinking beer.”

Loads of people are wearing hi-vis jackets.

"I'm guessing that they're miners. Mining is really big in West Australia." Andrew remarks. "I always take my hi-vis off as soon as I leave Schiphol."

A bloke sitting next to me has what appears to be a bacon sandwich. It looks really good Consulting the menu, it seems to be a breakfast bun. I ask Andrew to get me one, without ketchup, when he goes for his next pint.

"They can't do the buns without ketchup. They come ready done." Bugger. I get myself an egg sarnie instead.

Andrew has moved onto Stone & Wood. He works his way through four pints before it's time to board.

Which is very early. 45 minutes before departure. The flight isn't that full and soon everyone is on board. We leave 20 minutes early.

We're flying Qantas so it's full service. We get a fairly decent pasta dish and an alcoholic drink, should you so wish. I just go for a cola. Andrew has a beer.

“Still feeling bad, Dad?”

“Yes, how do you know?”

“You didn’t get a wine.”

There's free wifi. Which is pretty cool. I browse the Guardian website a bit. As well as dozing.

It doesn't take us long to get our bags and be in a taxi rumbling towards the centre of Adelaide. 

“There are pubs here, Andrew.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?”

“Er, yes.”

“How surprising.”

“You must have noticed all the pubs I dragged you around when you were a kid.”

“I was taking the piss.”

Not much later we're ensconced in our rather nice hotel room. easily the best of the trip so far.

"Can you go to the shop, Andrew? I'm feeling totally knacked."

"It's literally just over the road."

“Really? Because I’m a poor, weak old man.”

“Yes, really.”

"OK then."

Turns out that it's not "literally just over the road". It's a good few hundred metres. And much further than I feel like walking.

To another Woollies and BWS. I get a fruit salad and a sarnie. And some Kentucky whiskey. Andrew opts for Coopers Sparkling Ale and Japanese alcopops. He does like his Japanese alcopops. Especially Strong Zero. He drank gallons of the stuff in Japan.

It’s much busier than Perth. Tough that’s not difficult. And has much more of a big-city feel.

“This is more like it. With a bit of life.”

“Unlike you, Dad.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Yes, ‘tired’.”

“I haven’t drunk a drop yet today.”

We spend the remainder of the evening watching TV in our room. Including a rather amusing Aussie Rules programme called the Front Bar. 

They keep showing this horrendous collision from a game the previous weekend. Where a player, running at full tilt, smashed his shoulder into an opponent’s face, knocking him out cold, breaking his nose and sending a tooth flying. It would be a straight red card in any other sport. Not in Aussie Rules, though. As there’s no sending off in the game.

We have a side order of snacks and drinks with the TV. They match perfectly.

I turn in just before 1 AM. Andrew is still up. As always. 

Pirate time

No rush to get up today. I drag my lazy arse out of bed at around 11. Andrew is still away with the fairies, obviously.

I make myself a cheese sandwich while I fiddle with my fliptop. Writing up yesterday. I’m being so diligent.

What are we going to do today? Visit a brewery. I look up where the ones that have been recommended to me are. All well out of town. A quick search reveals that there's one at the other end of Murray Street: Pirate Life. That'll do. It's about a 10-minute walk.

It's raining again. It's barely stopped since we arrived.

"Ooh look - there's another brewery over the road." I remark.

"We can maybe drop by there later."

"Seems like there are more breweries than pubs. Weird."

Pirate Life is pretty empty. Given its enormous size, it looks deserted with just half a dozen punters. A bit of a strange name for a brewery. Makes it sound like some sort of weird pirate-themed place. Which it isn’t.

There’s a long bar along one wall. With the shiny brewing stuff along the wall opposite, sunken down a level. It’s not enormous kit. About what you’d expect for a place of this size. 

We begin with a Bright IPA for me, Pilsner for Andrew. My beer is pretty decent. Andrew is drinking his so enthusiastically, I assume he likes it. Or just very thirsty. Or a pisshead. You decide.

I'm drinking a bit slowly and I'm only halfway through my pint when Anrew is ready for another. He gets a different Lager. He does like his Lagery stuff.

There's an Aussie rules programme on the TV. Which makes a change from the football continually on TV in South America.

For my second beer I get an IIPA.

"The strongest beer on tap, I see." Andrew says. "What a coincidence."

“Totally.”

“Yeah, right.” 

At 5 it's happy hour. With some beers at $10. Yippee. We take advantage. Obviously.

A few more customers have wandered in. But it’s still pretty empty. I suppose it is early on a Tuesday evening.

On the way to the bogs, I get some idea of how big the place is, stretching far to the back. With one section set up for eating and at the very rear a games room.

After happy hour is done, we decant over the road, to the Generous Squire. It's slightly weird inside. More like a burger joint than a brewery. Not exactly comfortable or atmospheric.Soulless is the word.

Andrew gets a Pilsner and I get a Juicy Lucy. It isn't very good. I’m now thinking that we should have stayed over the road and got food there. All the beers I tried there were pretty decent.

We order some food. Chips for Andrew, crispy pork bites for me. They're pretty good. Unlike my beer. Which is total shit.

“Do you want to finish my beer, Andrew?”

“It tastes that bad?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t be giving away a good beer.”

He’s a cynical bastard, Andrew. Don’t know where he got that from.

“Bugger off.” I’m still as sharp as a pin.

There’s cricket on the TV. Some weird competition with veteran players. England vs West Indies. From Northampton. With about 20 spectators. Real high-power stuff.

We leave at 20:15. Stopping by Woollies on the way back to get some more cola and crisps. The streets are pretty empty. Again. No-one is about. Apart from in Woollies. Oh, and it’s raining again. Or should I say, it’s still raining. I don’t recall it stopping at any point today.

“Where the fuck is everyone? And don’t say that they’re avoiding me.”

“Dodging the rain?”

“That’s better.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Andrew can be a sarcastic git.

Back in our room, we vibe together as we drink some Bundaberg rum and watch YouTube. 



Pirate Life Perth
TOMA/440 Murray St, 
Perth WA 6000.


The Generous Squire
397 Murray St, 
Perth WA 6000.
https://thegeneroussquire.com.au/ 

My tacky merchandise

Just a reminder that you can purchase my wonderful tacky merchandise at Zazzle.Such as the lovely Eisenacher Hell mug pictured below. 

There's lots of other good stuff, mostly DDR-themed. Well, I have to do something with all those DDR labels I bought. And the one depicted below is one of my favourites. Wouldn't it look lovely, filled to the bream with tea, sitting on your coffee table?

Buy some of my tacky merchandise now.

 

Let's Brew - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. 6 R

You may be wondering why Truman brewed quite so many Mild Ales in Burton. As they are very similar beers and aren’t all that different in strength. Maybe they were just mirroring what Bass did.

The recipe is the same as all the other Mild Ales so far. A mix of pale malt from English and Californian barley. Along with a sugar of unspecified type. It is, in fact, identical to the Ale recipe as the two were parti-gyled together.

Er, um, what more can I say?  The hops. Two English types from 1899 and one from 1900. Just like in most of the other Mild Ales.

As a Mild, this was definitely not aged. And drunk within a week or two. 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. 6 R
pale malt	14.75 lb	96.72%
No. 2 sugar	0.50 lb	3.28%
Fuggles 150 mins	1.75 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.75 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.75 oz
OG	1067
FG	1021
ABV	6.09
Apparent attenuation	68.66%
IBU	57
SRM	6.5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

The Doom of the Small Cask

Sounds like the title of a horror story, doesn't it? Really, it concerns the change in packaging of take-home beer.

What they're really talking about is the new type of non-deposit bottled beer. Which, being force-carbonated, was always in sparkling condition. Unlike beer in small casks, which would always tend to be flat when the cask was nearly empty.

The Doom of the Small Cask.
We consider that the small cask is doomed, for since the abandonment of cleansing and the introduction of dropping plant and racking vessels, the over-refined contents of a small trading vessel are generally flat during ullage. The doom of such a vessel, is sealed by the appearance of beer of Lager appearance and natural gaseous condition, that can be distributed in flagons, jars, quart, bottle crates, and other measures in brilliant sparkling fobbing and palatable condition. These beers are sure to become known, and judging from limited experience the demand for them may prove boundless. We note that all over the country energetic firms are making careful preparations for the change, from casks to flagon, jar, and crate. We welcome the innovation in the interests of brewers, the needs of householders, and the demands of educated artizans, so the 4.5-cask or pin will soon be a vessel of the past, and in two or three years we may contemplate tho departure even of the firkin.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 36 1900, March 15th 1900, page 187.

And they were right. Cask beer for home use was starting to die out. Because it was much more fuss than bottled beer. 

Pubs didn't generally use casks as small as pins or firkins. Beer was mostly delivered to pubs in barrels and hogsheads. Unlike today, when even a kilderkin is considered a large cask.

The change to bottles sometimes also meant a change in the beer. As special versions of beers were sometimes brewed for bottling. Usually weaker than draught versions. That sold in crates of four quarts could be quite a bit weaker than the versions sold in pubs.

There were also special types of beer brewed specifically for bottling, such as Light Dinner Ale and Luncheon Stout. These were low-gravity beers, weaker than those served on draught. 

 

 

 

Ghost town

At nine I notice Andrew is asleep in a chair. I rise around 10:30. And write up the first three days of the trip. What a good boy I am.

At 13:30 I give Andrew a kick. He mumbles something and falls straight back to sleep. I try him again 30 minutes later. With more success.

“What have you been writing?”

“Just notes about the trip.”

“Putting words into my mouth again?”

“No, I do that later. When we get back.”

“So, you admit that you make things up?”

“Not at all. You’ve said all the words I attribute to you. Just not necessarily in the same order.”

“Nothing I actually said, then.”

“It’s in the spirit of what you say.”

“Next, you’ll be telling me that it’s an ‘homage’.”

“That’s it exactly.”

“Fuck off, Dad. Homage is just a euphemism for plagiarism.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

He should be more grateful for me immortalising him in print. The git.

What's the plan for today? Go to Woollies to stock up on food. At least to start with. It's only just down the road.

It's fascinating to look at the prices. Meat is still dirt cheap. It's frustrating to see all the lovely, cheap roasting joints. If only I had access to that meat in Amsterdam. They even have instant roasts. Hot roast chicken and roast pork in a bag.

We can’t find any sandwiches so ask a member of staff. The relevant shelves turn out to be empty. That’s why we couldn’t find sandwiches in the first place. We go for go-it-yourself, buying some rolls, sliced cheese and ham.

The prices aren't quite so cheap in the attached BWS (offie). Andrew gets some Swan Draught and cider. While I pick up a bottle of Kentucky whiskey and one of Bundaberg rum. It comes to an eye-watering $175. Ouch.

We chill in our room for a while and make sandwiches.

There seem to be very few pubs in the city centre. I’ve spotted some former pubs while walking around. But no live ones. 

“Where are the pubs?”

“I’ve found one, Dad.” 

“Where?”

“On the internet.”

“Very funny. You know what I mean.”

“Not far. A 19th-century pub.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Exactly. Your sort of old man pub.”

“Traditional boozer.”

“Yes, old man pub.”

“Not coming, then?”

“Of course, I’m coming. I like old man pubs. You’ve taken me to enough of them.”

“I’ve been such a good father.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Around 4 PM we head to the Royal Hotel. By pure coincidence, it's happy hour and pints are $10. Which sounds like a bargain to me. Especially as that applies to craft beer as well as industrial swill.

The Royal is a typical big, old Aussie pub. A handsome corner building with large cast iron balconies. Sadly, the ground floor has been taken over by a pizza place and the pub relegated to the first floor. Where several rooms are served by the same long bar counter. There’s also seating outdoors. 

We sit om a balcony overlooking the main railway station. Commuters bustle around below us. A giant advertising screen blasts out light. It’s the busiest I’ve seen the city.

“I think I’ll try the Melbourne Bitter, Dad.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering what it’s like.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s crap. Maybe even worse than Vic Bitter.”

“I’ll find out soon.”

I have a Balter XPA. Which is fine. Unlike Andrew's beer.

“You were right, Dad. It is crap. Not as bad as Bavaria Pils, though.”

“That’s a very low bar. Nothing is as bad as Bavaria Pils.”

Surprisingly, he opts for something different for his second pint. Something that turns out to be a sludge IPA. Though it actually isn't that bad. For a sludge IPA.

We manage to get three pints in before the end of happy hour. Then stay for another round. Of $14 pints. We chat and watch the world go by as the light fades.

I'm a bit hungry when we leave. And suggest going to Arirang, a Korean place I spotted yesterday. You can’t go wrong with Korean food.

I order a street food platter, which we share. It's pretty damn good. The fried chicken, especially. Andrew has a Cass beer. And some of my soju. The thieving bastard.

“I didn’t say we were sharing the soju.”

“But they brought two glasses.”

“So, I could have one for each hand.”

“No, because soju is for sharing, Dad.”

“You would think that. But have a glass.” I say through gritted teeth.

“Cheers, Dad.”

“Cheers.” You twat. I don’t say the last bit out loud. Obviously.

By the time we're done they're closing. Even though it’s only just about 8 PM. Blooming hell, this is a quiet town.

We walk back to our hotel through pretty much deserted streets. 

“Why is it so quiet?”

“No idea, Dad.”

“It can’t be blamed on Sunday.”

“Maybe word got around that you were in town.”

“You cheeky twat.” I come back devastatingly. Andrew just looks at me in awe. At least, I think that’s awe.

Back in our room, we have more quality father and son time, drinking some drinks and watching YouTube. 

I turn in around midnight. Andrew, probably five or six hours later.



The Royal Perth
531 Wellington St, 
Perth WA 6000.
https://theroyalhotelperth.com.au/


Arirang Korean BBQ Restaurant
91-93 Barrack St, 
Perth WA 6000.
http://www.arirang.com.au/ 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. 7 R

Truman was still brewing a large range of Mild Ales in 1901. I’ve always wondered where these beers were sold. Because I’m pretty sure that they weren’t available in Truman’s London pubs. Were they sold in the free trade or in their tied houses in the Midlands?

There’s nothing very exciting about the recipe. It’s just base pale malt and an unspecified type of sugar. Though there were four types of pale malt, two made from English barley and two from Californian. The latter making up around a quarter of the total.

All the hops were English. Two from the 1899 harvest and one from 1900. With around 80% from the earlier year.

The “R” suffix tells you that this beer received no ageing. It would have been consumed within a couple of weeks of racking. 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. 7 R
pale malt	13.50 lb	96.43%
No. 2 sugar	0.50 lb	3.57%
Fuggles 150 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.50 oz
OG	1062
FG	1018
ABV	5.82
Apparent attenuation	70.97%
IBU	51
SRM	6.5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

Perth bound

We rise at nine. Not much packing to do and by 9:30 we're in a taxi.

Once we've checked in our bags and gone airside we get on with important business. Going to the duty free. Where we get two litres of Famous Grouse.

With time left before our flight, Andrew suggests "Why don't we go to that bar for a drink?"

"Fine. Let me just check my bank account first."

Andrew gets a pint of Heineken. Which is 12 euros. I just have a coke. Which is 2 euros. Crazy pricing.

“What’s happened to you, Dad, just having a soft drink?”

“Singapore prices, that’s what. I’d like to have some money left for Australia.”

We wander over to our gate about 15 minutes before boarding. It's very busy. Lots of Australian families. Lots with small kids. Have they been on holiday in Singapore? Seems an odd place to take small children.

“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“The Red Headed League.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“All the people with red hair.”

“You’re weird.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop saying that at inappropriate times.”

As soon as we're airborne, the bloke in front of Andrew tries to recline his seat. Andrew tells him that he's crushing his legs. The bloke then gets into discussions with the cabin crew. I consider changing seats. But the plane is completely full. 

The crew tries to persuade Andrew to stick his legs out into the aisle. Which he, quite reasonably, refuses to do. The bloke is obviously pissed off. Eventually, the crew give him a Scoot towel to placate him a bit. I can see that he’s still fuming. The selfish twat. This is a five-hour daytime flight.

He could have changed seats with his wife, who’s in front of me. But then he would have to pay attention to his two kids, sitting to her left. Whom he’s been trying really hard to ignore. Total and utter arsehole. I feel sorry for his wife and kids. They look embarrassed by his behaviour.

Scoot being a budget carrier, you have to pay for food and drinks. Out of curiosity, I look at the prices. Fuck me, the miniatures of whisky are just 10 Singapore dollars. That's cheaper than on the land. I get two. Andrew gets a Sapporo.

We're lucky to get served. Just after we've got our drinks, we hit turbulence and the service is suspended. Never to resume.

A dad sat behind Andrew is trying to explain smoking to his 4-year-old son.

"Cigarettes have this nasty stuff in them called nicotine. Once you have it, you want more and more of. Like you with chips."

What a contrast with reclining arsehole dad.

It's electronic gates again for immigration. For some reason it doesn’t like my passport and I have to go to an immigration officer. No problem for Andrew, mind.

On the drive from the airport, I remark to Andrew:

“No sign of any pubs. This isn’t the Australia I remember.”

“I’m surprised you can remember anything from that far back.”

“Very funny.” 

Once checked into our hotel, we head to a 7 Eleven. Where we get sarnies, crips and drinks. I need some food. All I've eaten today is a banana. Andrew has only had two beers.

It’s raining. The sort of persistent drizzle you get in Amsterdam. Not the weather Andrew expected.

“I expected a desert.” He sounds quite disappointed.

Despite only being 18:45, the streets are almost deserted. 

“Where the fuck is everyone?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s the rain?”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“Or because it’s Sunday?”

“Possibly. I forgot what day it was. And where are the pubs? I haven’t seen one yet.”

“True. They must have hidden when they heard you were coming.”

“Very funny, smartarse.”

Back in our room, we notice that there are no glasses. No mugs. No drinking vessels of any description.

“Do you want to nip over the road to get some paper cups?”

“Can’t you come as well?’

“Your poor, old knackered Dad?”

“Yes.”

“You heartless bastard.”

It’s quite a weird shop, with a seemingly random assortment of goods. But they do have paper cups. Thankfully. I don’t fancy drinking the Famous Grouse straight from the bottle. Then mixing in some cola in my gob.

We’re watching a travel programme on Aussie TV.

“I’ve been on that.”

“What?”

“That near vertical railway. It’s in Katoomba.”

“When?”

“30-odd years ago.”

“You’re so old, Dad.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“It’s not a great sign that you forget how old you are.”

“Fuck off.” Master of dazzling repartee, me. 

We do some more intense empathising to while away the remainder of the evening. Sipping whisky.
 

Singapore simmering

I don't rise that early. I'm feeling much better after a good, long kip. Andrew is going for an even longer kip. One which may last until dusk unless I intervene.

Not much planned today. Around one we walk down the road to the 7 Eleven for some more suff. It’s very hot. Which is sort of to be expected when you’re this close to the equator.

We’re an interesting neighbourhood, built in the 1930s. With an art deco vibe. Not necessarily something you associate with the tropics. The buildings look a bit like a pre-war London blocks of council flats.

After chilling in our room for a little, we head for the hawker market again. It's pretty interesting. Mostly Chinese food. But also random European stuff, like Italian. And any Asian cuisine you can think of. And a few more than that. Quite a few more.

There are only fans and soon Andrew is overheating So much so, that we have to go in search of air-conditioning. He’s doing his turning grey, sweating and looking ready to collapse thing.

We dive into Hello Arigato, a coffeeshop, over the road to cool down. And I drink coffee. Ironically. Andrew has a beer. A real shocker, that.

"How could people live here without air-conditioning?" Andrew asks.

“No idea. I suppose those who couldn’t just died.”

“That’s a cheery thought.”

“I’m a cheery sort of bloke.”

“Self-delusion is a terrible thing, Dad.”

When we've finished our drinks, the place is starting to close. We return to the market for some takeaway food. For me, at least. Andrew isn’t hungry.

I go to the place with the enticing roast meat smells and the long queue. Roast pork and roast duck with rice. It's hideously expensive: $6.50. Which is a bit over 4 euros. 

“The robbing bastards.”

“I know, Dad. How dare they charge those prices.”

“The pricing here is weird.”

"They must have a high tax on alcohol." 

“They must. I can't think of any other explanation.”

I eat back in our room. My food is dead good. The roasty Chinese stuff I love. Crunchy and fatty.

“Do you want to try some?”

“No.”

Andrew isn't hungry. He must be getting all his calories from the rum.

“Dad, did you know this also operates as a love hotel?”

“Really?”

“I heard someone asking at reception how much it costs for three hours.”

“They must have needed it for a short kip. For a love stay you’d need twenty minutes, tops. Thirty if you have a shower before and after.”

“Daad.”

“What?”

“I don’t need to know that.”

It’s always fun embarrassing your kids.

What to do this evening? It's back to the Magpie. Where we sit at the bar. Rye whiskey for me. Crafty Lager for Andrew.

They're playing reggae on vinyl records. Which is pretty cool. It goes well with the heat. A waitress recognises us from yesterday and says hello. Which is nice.

We go crazy and have three rounds. 120 Singapore dollars. Or 80 euros. Fuck me, that's expensive. Even by Amsterdam standards. I hope Australia is going to be cheaper.

We’ve still duty free, luckily. Already paid for. Accompanied by some YouTube. Such cultured bastards, we are.

We don't stay up too late. Got a plane to catch tomorrow. And a wallet of limited capacity,



Hello Arigato Tiong Bahru
58 Seng Poh Rd, 
#01-15, 
Singapore 160058.
http://helloarigato.com/ 

Magpie
57 Eng Hoon St, 
#01-88, 
Singapore 160057.
http://www.magpie.city/ 

 

Singapore Sling

It's a late start. Our flight is at 20:50. Meaning we don't have t0 leave until 17:30. Don't want to miss out on that lounge time.

Alexei looks a bit sad as we pull away. I think he's regretting his decision not to come along with us.

We run through the formalities quickly. And are soon in the lounge. The airport is quieter than I expected. But I guess most of the flights have already left.

Returning from the bar, I tell Andrew:

"They asked if I wanted singles or doubles. That's a new one. They usually only let you have singles. "

“And you said singles?”

“Of course, I fucking didn’t”

“I know, Dad. I’m aware of what a pisshead you are.”

“Enthusiastic drinker is the term I prefer.”

Andrew is on Heineken Pils. He does like his beer.

When the whiskey has livened me up, I go and have a look at the food. Beef Rendang, again. Which is fine by me. It's a bit sloppy, but tasty enough. I have it with spuds. Andrew is just sticking to beer.

“Are you eating anything, Andrew?”

“Later, maybe.”

I get stuck in. Both to the food and the whisky. Simple flight preparation. And because it’s there.

After a couple of rounds: I suggest:

“You should eat something, Andrew.”

“OK, OK I’ll go in a minute.”

He’s really turning into a teenager. Weirdly, as he didn’t behave like a teenager when he was one.

Eventually, he goes to the buffet. Probably because he knows how unappetising the food on the plane will be. He gets himself some bread and cheese. Which I also do a little later.

After several rounds, we're quite relaxed when we stroll to our gate. Which isn't far, as it's on F pier. The closest pier to the lounge. We've timed it well and don’t have to wait long to board.

We depart about 30 minutes late. Late arrival of the incoming flight is the reason, they say. I don’t really mind. 30 minutes here or there is nothing on a 12 hour plus flight.

Once in the air, I unfold my screen and put on a film. Micky 17. Which isn't too bad. And passes some time until they bring around the slop. Chicken or vegetarian, obviously. I go for the chicken. Though I don't eat all of it. Andrew goes for the veg. Hippy that he is.

Next film is Anger Squad. I must have dozed off because it suddenly ends. The following film, Crazy Rich Asians, I only get halfway through. Realising that I've slept through most of it.

I don't have the best of sleeps. Constantly waking up. I'm relieved when the lights come back on a couple of hours out from Singapore. I only eat the fruit from the breakfast they serve.

Arrival is a doddle. Electronic gates and no queues. Soon we're in a taxi rocking down the road.

Once checked into our hotel, we drop by the convenience store next door to pick up some drinks and snacks. The drinks being mixers for our duty free. Tamnavulin for me, Havana Club for Andrew. Andrew also gets a couple of cans of Strong Zero. While I get two cans of Guinness FES. 

“The cheating bastards. This FES is only 5.5% ABV. It’s supposed to be 7.5%.”

“Just add some whisky to get it up to strength.”

“That’s not a bad suggestion. If I had vodka. I’m not wasting a good single malt.”

Suitably refreshed, we stroll down the road to a nearby hawker market. Contemplating getting some food. But it’s a bit late. 

Instead, we drop by the pub over the road, the Magpie. It's a bit full and we have to wait to get in. I say in, we actually sit outside.

The prices are eye-watering. I get a Singapore Sling. For which I'll need to remortgage the house. 

“What do you want, Andrew? And don’t say cocktail.”

“A beer, Dad. As usual. That craft Lager will do.”

It’s one of the cheapest options. Which doesn’t make it actually cheap. Just slightly less expensive.

I switch to rye whiskey for my second drink. Which is a little cheaper than the cocktail. We only stay for the two.

Four drinks come to 90 Singapore dollars - 60 euros. 

“Fuck me, that's expensive. You need to be a millionaire to go out on the piss here.”

“That’s even worse than Amsterdam city centre prices, Dad.”

Back in our hotel, we're feeling a bit peckish. Andrew heads to a 7 Eleven for some sarnies. 

“You can’t go wrong with convenience store sarnies, Andrew.”

“Especially if you’re not fetching them yourself.”

“I’m a weak and tired old man.”

“When there’s anything that needs doing.”

“The fatigue comes and goes.”

“Comes when there’s work, goes when there’s beer.”

“Or whisky.”

“Or anything alcoholic. Whether it’s fit for human consumption or not. Remember that stuff you got on the Mexican border?”

“You’re very cynical, Andrew.”

“Realistic”

We revel in each other’s company over some duty free. And crisps. Not forgetting, the lovely sarnies.

After a bit of Youtube, we turn in. God, I'm feeling knacked.



Magpie
57 Eng Hoon St, 
#01-88, 
Singapore 160057.
http://www.magpie.city/ 

Let's Brew - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. 8K

I was mistaken about Ale being Truman’s weakest Mild. Because this version of No. 8, is weaker.  While in 1883 No. 8 was a little stronger. Not sure what’s gone on there.

There’s not much difference from the Ale recipe. Just less sugar – only around half the amount. Once again, there were four types of pale malt, two made from English barley and two from American. Though the latter only made up a little less than a quarter of the total.

The hopping was a little heavier than for the Ale. Once more there were three types of English, in this case all from the 1899 harvest. There was also a small quantity of Pacific hops, also from 1899.

Don’t be fooled by the K in the name. This wasn’t a beer for ageing.
 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. 8K
pale malt	10.25 lb	98.20%
No. 2 sugar	0.1875 lb	1.80%
Fuggles 150 mins	1.25 oz
Cluster 150 mins	0.33 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.25 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.25 oz
OG	1046
FG	1013
ABV	4.37
Apparent attenuation	71.74%
IBU	54
SRM	5
Mash at	154º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

UK Imports of Hops 1889-98

As I've told you many times, the UK imported a shitload of hops in the second half of the 19th century. Here are some numbers to confirm that.

We'll kick off by looking at how many hops were being used by UK brewers, how many were home-grown and how many imported.

You can see that domestic production of hops varied enormously - from 280,000 cwts to 637,000 hops. Which, as consumption of hops averaged 623,000 a year, was clearly insufficient for the needs of UK brewers. Hence the need for large volumes of imports. Running at an average of 184,000 cwts. Or around 30% of the hops used.

Next, we'll look at the source of those hops.

You'll see that the vast majority came from just five countries: the USA, Germany, Belgium, Holland and France. With small quantities coming from all other countries. The principal suppliers being the USA and Belgium. I'm surprised that Holland was supplying so many hops. Well, any at all. As Holland isn't exactly renowned for hop cultivation. Incredible that it was providing more than Germany.

In most years covered in the table, more than 50% of UK imports came from the USA. Peaking at 70% in 1895. Given what I've seen in brewing records, that comes as no surprise. Though, for the same reason, it was shocking how few came from Germany. Perhaps my thinking has been distorted by all the time I've spent looking at William Younger records recently. They seemed to have a liking for German hops.

And that's it. This is the last post of more than two dozen that I've queued up to cover my trip to Australia with Andrew. Hopefully, I haven't broken anything while there. 

Consumption of Hops in the United Kingdom
	Area.	Production.	Net Imports of following Year.	Consumption.	Proportion of Foreign to Total Supply.
	Acres.	Cwts.	Cwta.	Cwts.	Per cent.
1888	58,490	281,291	181,343	462,634	39.20%
1889	57,724	497,811	175,584	673,345	26.10%
1890	53,961	283,629	185,526	469,165	39.50%
1891	56,142	436,716	170,834	613,550	28.80%
1592	56,259	413,259	185,716	598,975	31.00%
1893	57,564	414,929	168,316	583,245	28.90%
1894	59,535	636,846	204,087	840,933	24.30%
1895	58,940	553,206	193,738	747,134	25.90%
1896	54,217	453,188	148,610	601,848	24.70%
1897	50,863	411,086	223,747	634,833	35.20%
Average	56,370	438,215	184,350	622,565	29.60%
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 36 1900, February 15th 1900, page 127.

 

Imports of Hops 1889-98 (cwts)
Year	USA	Germany	Belgium	Holland	France	All other Countries.	total	% from US
1889	77,529	20,492	38,858	47,463	14,401	641	199,384	38.88%
1890	73,448	25,129	40,498	38,527	10,383	2,043	190,028	38.65%
1891	80,226	17,199	42,637	35,355	15,893	3,956	195,266	41.09%
1592	80,829	11,691	39,044	38,384	12,206	5,353	187,507	43.11%
1893	141,819	3,785	37,351	15.214	2,481	3.742	185,455	76.47%
1894	109,731	12,053	33,622	26,164	5,980	1,606	189,156	58.01%
1895	153,046	15,400	25,411	19,564	2,816	874	217,111	70.49%
1896	135,822	13,011	32,984	19,912	3,996	1,316	207,041	65.60%
1897	84,905	15,881	36,787	20,667	5,160	755	164,155	51.72%
1898	101,535	8,280	30,151	9,169	1,644	3,357	154,136	65.87%
Source:
The Brewers' Journal vol. 36 1900, February 15th 1900, page 127.