Tesco Drinks Challenge

Second day in London, I was judging for the Tesco Drinks Challenge. I did it last year, too. It's becoming a regular gig.

The judging takes at the Workx, in a room that looks like an operating theatre. Everything is white. The day kicked off with tea and coffee and a short talk on how we were meant to judge. "Just give your own opinion." No problem for me. I always give my personal opinion.

My group had 21 beers to judge. It should have been 22, but one wasn't there for some reason. It did sound interesting, the missing beer. Or rather, quite odd. It was a Stout with mangoes and other weird stuff amongst the ingredients. That was a change from last year. The tasting form included a list of ingredients. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. At least we weren't left wondering what the weird taste was in the beer with sherry.

Most of the beers were fairly well straight down the middle. Only one was really duff, tasting like celery. But nothing was really great, either. A couple were fairly decent. I would have had several glasses of a tasty strong Stout, but someone else had already polished it all off. There was plenty of the crap one left, though.

The social aspects are one of the reasons I travel to the UK for the tasting. At lunch I sat next to Martyn Cornell, a bloke from the Durden Park Beer Circle, whose name escapes me, and Dale. I'm so used to that glazed eye look when I start talking about old brewing manuals that it's a shock not only to get a response, but an interesting and informed one. I picked up a few good tips about books to look out for. Best not mention it to Dolores. They're likely to be pricey. I hadn't realised that Loftus had authored more than just "The Brewer". There was much praise for Roberts and it seems his is the earliest detailed description of IPA brewing. You lucky devils. I gave you an abridged version a couple of posts back.

Did I mention that the tasting took place in Parsons Green? All of 200 metres from the White Horse. No prizes for guessing where we headed after lunch. I get so little chance to have hardcore beer history discussions with real live people. I certainly wasn't going to pass one up. Once again, the gaps in my own knowledge were highlighted. I've said this before, but it's worth repeating: the more I learn about beer and brewing, the more I realise how little I know.

Most of my fellow judges had to rush off for other appointments. At least that's what they told me. It could be that I have personal hygiene issues. Robbed of fellow obsessives to obsess with, it was time for the second activity of the day. I set off for Clerkenwell.

I've come to know the area around Stonch's pub well, what with the London Metropolitan Archives being just a few hundred yards away. And the site of Reid's Griffin brewery is just at the top of the street. Exactly the sort of places I lurk around. But I'd never even noticed the pub before, tucked away off a side street of Clerkenwell Road.

Stonch wasn't there when I arrived. So I ordered a Landlord and got ready to wait. But first I needed a wedge. When I returned from the bog, Tim Hampson was in the bar. He'd been in the White Horse when I left. What a coincidence. It turned out there was a British Guild of Beer Writers committee meeting planned. Small world.

This may be coming across as an exercise in name-dropping. I guess it is. Funny thing is, during the four years I lived in London, I never bumped into anyone I knew. All drinking sessions with friends had to be meticulously planned several months in advance. Now I was falling over people I knew left right and centre.

Stonch looked surprised when he entered the bar. He'd forgotten about the committee meeting. I'd hoped to have chance for a decent chat after the committee disappeared upstairs to their meeting. I would have, if customers hadn't kept annoyingly insisting on asking to be served drinks. Where did they think they were? In a public bar? Oh shit, they were. Stonch as landlord takes some getting used to. Though he did look the part, leaning on the handpumps and bantering with the punters.

It's time to drop another name. James. James Whitbread. Yes, one of those Whitbreads. Standing next to a descendant of the family that had originally brewed my Porter and SSS was pretty weird. Seems he's a regular there. Soon the Old Puke was flowing and the conversation rambling. I suggested he started a brewery. Funnily enough, that thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Now I could start throwing around several more names. But I've juggled enough already in this post. So I'll leave it there. I doubt you would recognise many or care if you did. I left early, around 8 o'clock. There was a hard day's archiving ahead of me. I wanted to be up early and at my best. I know. I find it hard to believe, too.