GBBF 2013

I've felt better. In fact pretty much any morning, serious illness excepted, I've felt better. Bloody Imperial Stout.

At least I had all my possessions, camera, phone, trousers. That was a good sign. Fortunately, a full English breakfast was included with the price of the room. Rarely have I been more in need of one. Two eggs, tinned tomatoes, toast and a pile of bacon. A mountain of bacon. Loads of orange juice and some tea, too. Had to rehydrate.

It's pretty easy to spot the British at this type of buffet breakfast. They're the ones, like me, with heaps of bacon. The foreign vistors mostly stick to cereal or nibble on toast. The girls. (Admittedly many of them were girls, so I guess that lets them off.)

I'd some time before checkout after stuffing my face. Time for a little light napping. I hoped it would make me fell a little less shit. Not sure it worked.

At Euston, I was keen on picking up a Metro to see how many runs Australia still needed to win the test. I was shocked when I got one in my sweaty hands. The game was over! The Aussies had indeed collapsed miserably again. Starting just after I'd stopped watching. Bloody typical, missing all the best bits.

Olympia is a far superior location to Earl's Court for the GBBF in every respect except one: accessability. It's on a stupid little spur of the underground that only has a service when there's an event on. They were only running a train every half hour, which explained the crowd of T-shirt encased bellies on the platform at Earl's Court.

I was tempted to follow the advice on the board to take a Wimbledon train to West Brompton and then an Overground train from there. But, not knowing that route, I stayed put. I ended up waiting 25 minutes. The festival had already been open 15 minutes when the special train finally trundled in.

After arriving at Olympia, it wasn't just a question of strolling in. Due to my own stupidity, I'd arranged to meet my shoolfriend Henry at the first session of the festival. Having forgotten that it was the trade session, not open to the general public. I remembered a few days before the festival started and realised that I needed to get press accreditation . . . but it was too late to go through the normal online process. In a panic, I emiled the Writer's Guild chairman, Tim Hampson, who was able to sort it out for me. It did mean that I had to pick up my pass at the press office.

I soon had my pass, a glass and a programme. Cool. Then I looked at what it said on my badge:

"Ron Pattinson
Beer Advocate Magazine Shut up"

Mmm. Looked like I was making a statement about BA Mag.

My brilliant idea for a meeting point was the Wells & Young bar. You haveto meet somewhere and I'd heard they had cask Russian Stout. Sadly, it turned out they weren't selling it until 15:45. Just when I was scheduled to leave. I had to make do with their seasonal beer instead.

Henry didn't arrive at 12:30 as promised. But several other people I know drifted past and stopped for a few words.

About an hour late, Henry made an appearance. Clutching a pathetic little third of a pint glass.

"Why the hell did you get that? You can always get a third pulled into a pint. You can't get a pint in a third."

Henry had no logical explanation: "I thought I'd be able to knock back a load of quick thirds."

"Couldn't you just as easily do that with a pint glass?"

As I'd been standing around for an hour waiting for him to show up, I suggested we found some seats. My old men feet can't be doing with too much standing. Sets off my gout. And my grumbling. By the time I hit pensionerhood, I think I'll have the necessary moaning off pat.

We got to discussing Henry's plans for a brewery. He's got the premises and planning permission, but is still a little daunted by the amount of cash needed to buy the brewing kit. I can understand enitrely. I'm not sure I'd want to sink my savings into something as risky as a brewery. Not that I tild Henry that:

"You should go ahead and do it. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I lose all my money and my house."

"See, it's not that bad."

They were serving Harvey's Imperial Stout. I thought I'd best have one as I couldn't remember whether I'd had one at the writer's Guild do.

"You can only get only get thirds." Henry said, explaining the gobfull of beer lurking at the bottom of my pint glass.

"Probably just as well after last night." I've made a mental note never to session Imperial Stout again.

The chairman of Newark CAMRA, sitting at a nearby table, spotted Henry and came over to insult his girly glass. Well, that and have a bit of a chat.

Large numbers of people inexplicably came and crowded around where we were sitting. Inexplicable only until Roger Protz appeared on the stage and we realised they were about to announce the Champion Beer of Britain. The sound quality was shit and I struggled to understand him. Though I could discern the overall winner: Elland 1872 Porter.

I looked it up in the programme. "6.5% sounds too strong for a Porter of that date. 5 or 5.5 % would be more like it." I'm always like this when the topic of historic beers comes up. It's a miracle anyone still drinks with me. "I wonder where the recipe comes from?"

On my round, Henry suggested "Get that strong Stout from Greene King."

I couldn't see a strong Stout, but there was 5X. I assumed that was what Henry meant. Funny he didn't realise what it was. Especially as just 10 minutes earlier we'd been discussing Strong Suffolk and bemoaning the fact you couldn't normally buy straight 5X.

A very pleasant drink, with the sherry notes typical of an aged beer. But I was a little taken aback by its lack of extremeness: "I expected it to be more sour. The brewery says the reason they don't sell it straight is that it's too sour. Seems that's bollocks."

It was another that only came in thirds. Though mine was near as dammit to the half pint line.

"I told you that a pint glass was a better idea."

With a 7 PM Easyjet flight at Stansted to catch, I daren't risk lingering past 4 PM. So that's when I duly buggered off on the tube/train/flight/taxi trek back home.

My taxi driver from Schiphol tried to overcharge me by 12 euros, cheeky bastard. Having taken exactly the same route just a week before, I was having none of it and paid him the correct fare. First time that's ever happened to me in Amsterdam, have a taxi drive try to rip me off. What is the world coming to?

Three special beers

Three very special beers that I got to try in London. Ones based on stuff I've found in the archives. Other than that, they had little in common.

First was Devil's Backbone London Dark Lager, based on a Barclay Perkins recipe from the 1930's. You must have heard of it. I've been banging on about it for months. It's the beer I helped brew while in the USA in May. If I'm honest, the chance of trying it was one of the reasons I went to the GBBF.

First thing I did, once inside the hall, was to ask at the US cask bar when it would be on.

"There's a tick against it, so it'll be on at opening time."

Music to my ears. There was my first pint decided. "First pint? You drink pints at a beer festival?" I hear you ask. Yes. I do. Not only because of my hollow legs. Also because of my aching legs. I hate having to fetch beer every 5 minutes. And a half pint doesn't give most lower-strength beers a fair chance. The only time I regret it is the odd occasion I get a duff beer. This year, my only half was the only crap beer I had. Must be ESP.

Despite the distance it had travelled, the Dark Lager was in wonderful condition. Throwing itself into the glass, it formed an attractive, fine-beaded head. The taste was roastier than a Munich Dunkles and a little bitterer. Nowt wrong with that. It never claimed to be in the Munich style, just dark. A beer I'd definitely drink again. Come to think of it, I did. I slipped back for another pint later.

I gave the GBBF a miss on Saturday and headed instead for South London. The Anchor Bankside, Market Porter and Royal Oak were all hit until they couldn't get up any more.

Dropping by Kernel fitted in perfectly with the crawl. I fancied trying their 1890 Export Stout on draught and Evin had kindly invited me along. Black, with a fine tan collar, it didn't disappoint. I love the London Porter taste. The complex mix of coffee, mocha, cocoa and chocolate that brown malt brings to the party and generously hands around all those present. The Stout had the London taste in spades, clubs, hearts and diamonds. Lovely, lovely stuff.

Delightfully quirky place, Kernel, in a tunnel-like railway arch that stretches all the back to France. I'd like to have spent longer there, but Mike has itchy feet. He couldn't wait to visit the Royal Oak after all the glowing reports he'd heard of it.


The Royal Oak provided one of the best pints of the trip. A maniacally suicidal one that repeatedly surged down my throat before I could stop it. Drinkability cubed. Yet some wankers whine: "How can a Mild be the best beer in Britain?" Tossers who think anything under 5% ABV is worthless. The blinkered prejudice of geeks is as annoying as it's depressing. Beer is not safe in their hands.

Sunday was reserved for Greenwich. A couple of pubs, a roast dinner and a visit to The Old brewery to try their Royal Wedding beer, Lovibond's XXXX. Rod Jones, the brewer, had kept back a couple of bottles for me to try. Turned out that he'd also discovered a forgotten keg, giving me the chance to try it draught and bottled.

We kicked off with the draught. It looked a treat, with it's fine carbonation and pale hue. Surprisingly dry, the malt was the potatoes to the hops meat. Using American hops as early additions for bittering transforms their character. (Though this is how they were intended to be used. C hops like Cascade were bred for big brewers wanting more alpha acid for their buck.) Just a hint of fruit subtly strumming rhythm guitar behind a screaming wail of bitterness. Not what I'd expected, but dead tasty. And scarily drinkable for its 10% ABV.

The bottled version was sweetier, maltier and more rounded, but with the American hops still playing their unfamiliar tune. The drinkabilty was still there, sitting comfortably at the table with its hat and shoes off. I'm so glad I brought a couple of bottles home with me to brighten some gloomy winter night.

Three special beers now with special memories to match. I'm a lucky git.

GBBF 2011

In case you haven't heard me bang on about it yet, I'll be at the GBBF this year. After an absence of about 5 years.

I just had to go this year. My last chance to breathe in the unique atmosphere of Earl's Court. No, that's not it. I need to sell more books and I've the chance to tag along on Tim Webb's book stall.

I'll be there on Thursday and Friday, hoping to jam in the odd pint between the book sales. Most of my books will be available. Including a special paperback edition of "Porter!" that will only be available at the festival. There are only 10 copies, so I'd come early if you want one.

'Course, you're welcome to give me beer as well as buying my books. Strong and dark is how I like it.

Celebrate!

The GBBF means something to me.

I was at its first incarnation, in Covent Garden in 1975*. I worked as a volunteer at Ally Pally, slept on the stage, built scaffolding, drank lambik for the first time, met some wonderful people.

It's a cumbersome, crowded, noisy event with too few seats, inadequate toilets and an arbitrary selection of beers. Imperfect. But a celebration. A celebration of beer.

Hundreds of beers from all over the world. Prices are lower than most pubs. Huge numbers of the general public. Organised and staffed by volunteers (which is why the prices are so low). US cask beers** you never see in Europe.

Yeah, rubbish festival.

Don't whinge about what it isn't. Celebrate the GBBF for what it is.





* With Martin Young. The second time I visited London.
** US brewers seem to have no problem sending cask to the GBBF.

American London Lager in London

Dreams do come true. I don't want the dreams to stop.

Last time in the US, I had a brew day in Virginia. I won't say I brewed. Professionals were in control of all the technical bits. I threw in a few hops and shovelled out some malt.

Barclay Perkins Dark Lager was the beer brewed. British Lager; the brewery on Park Street. Two obsessions bundled into one laundry basket. While brewing, Jason Oliver, the brewer at Devil's Backbone joked about sending a firkin to the GBBF. A 1930's London Lager, brewed in the USA, cask-conditioned at the GBBF. What a great idea.

A dream, too. Sipping a Barclay Perkins beer in London. Looks like a dream that's coming true. Jason is going to send a firkin.

I've just one fear: that it'll all be gone before I get there. Did I mention that I'll be at the GBBF this year? No? I'll be at the GBBF this year. Thursday and Friday. Trying to flog some books on Tim Webb's stall. Drinking the odd beer, too, of course.


Come along and buy some books. You can buy some beer, too, if you want.

Boring beer

I read lots of complaints about boring beer. Especially in regard to the GBBF. But what is boring beer?

Of course, it's a very subjective thing, boredom. What bores the pants, jacket, scarf, tie, shirt, hat, underwear, shoes, toupee, incontinence pads and socks off me might set your heart racing like a speed freak in a ferrari. For some, boring beer is anything you can get hold of easily. Stuff you don't have to sell your children into slavery to pay for, travel to Timbuktu to fetch or sleep on a pavement three months queueing for.

My perspective is different. I happily drank little but Tetley's Mild for almost for seven years. Living in Leeds, finding a pub without it was a challenge. Now I rarely stray from the holy trinity of St. Bernardus 6, 8 and 12 when drinking at home. Beers I really like never get dull.

If neither ubiquity nor ease of purchase set me yawning, what does? That's trickier to put my finger on. Lack of subtlety? Perhaps. But that's not quite it . . .

I need to have a think.

Shit. That was the last bottle of Abt.

My first taste of Belgium

Me and my brother used to volunteer to work at the GBBF every year, when it was held in Alexandra Palace. For those of you born later than 1960, I'll tell you that was in the late 1970's. It was my summer holiday.

It was hard work, but great fun. Being voluntary, the pay was zero, but they fed you, let you drink just about as much beer as you wanted and gave you a bed. I say bed, some years it was just a space on the stage in the hall itself.

We did the whole week. The first couple of days was setting up. Building the scoffolding for the bars and rolling the barrels into place. A day of hard physical work, rounded of with a couple of hours boozing.

When the festival opened to the public, the first few sessions weren't too bad. Friday and Saturday were something else. They'd be three or four deep around the bar. It was often hard to remember when you came back with the drinks who had ordered them. One of the reasons I've never considered running a pub is the huge amount of work. Serving at the festival gave me a good idea of just what hard graft it is. For a week, it's fun. Fifty-two weeks a year would be a living hell. I have nothing but admiration for landlords and their staff. That's why I try to be polite, patient and helpful (I always take my empty glass back to the bar).

During opening hours, each of the bars had a nominated "staff beer". This was free for all volunteers. You didn't have to limit yourself to the bar you were working at, you could fetch a staff beer from any bar. After the public had been kicked and the place tidied up, there'd be a staff session at one of the bars and you could have any beer you wanted from that bar.

After the final session, everything was staff beer. That's how I came to have my first taste of Belgium. This is long before the days of a whole foreign beer bar at the GBBF. But they did sometimes have a couple of foreign beers. One year they had Lambiek and Faro in little plastic containers. It had been quite expensive, so I hadn't tried it while the festival was on. I headed straight for it was the festival was over. Great - there was still some left. One of the staff from the bar was still there and he poured me a half of Lambiek. I took a sip. "Euuugh. It's off." "No, it's supposed to taste like that." "Surely not. It's sour." "I know, horrible, isn't it?" My first Belgian beer and I couldn't finish it. I threw most of it away.

I had some great times at Ally Pally. Even the year when it burned down a few weeks before the festival was due to start and it was held in tents in the grounds. If you're good, I may one day tell you of the special version of "I'm forever blowing bubbles" we sang one year. Perhaps.