Great British Beer Festival

Me and my brother worked as volunteers in several years when it was held at Alexandra Palace. One year, after he’d left for Jamaica, I worked there alone.

It was a nightmare year. There had been a fire in the palace and, at short notice, they set up tents instead. Which have been OK, if it hadn’t been wet. Despite the duckboards, mud oozed everywhere.

On the other hand, the first year at Alexandra Palace was: on the stage, bring your own sleeping bag. Being young and stupid, I didn’t realise how unacceptable that was.

The food provided was obviously on a very tight budget. Instant mash, really cheap sausages. There was plenty of free beer, though.

Each bar had a beer assigned as “staff beer”. As the name implies, all staff got that for free. Quite often it was a poor seller or unexciting beer. Not always. It depended on the bar manager.

At some bars, they couldn’t care less what the staff beer was and would serve you anything. Other than rare stuff they didn’t have much of. And on your own bar, you often got to drink pretty much what you wanted.

After the end of the evening session, one of the bars would become the staff bar and you could help yourself to whatever you wanted. Other than rare stuff. I think we got around an hour. Maybe a little bit more. It wasn’t that long.

Then again, I didn’t usually need that much more beer. Three pints maybe in the afternoon session. A pint with lunch. Or maybe two while we’re closed for the afternoon. Another three or four in the evening session, unless it gets too frantic. Which it often did.

A sea of faces. Who ordered what I just poured? Whose turn is it next? I’ve no fucking idea. It could be any one of the people waving a glass or a fiver in the hope of getting my attention.

The relief of a few minutes break and the chance quickly knock back a pint of Mild. Before returning to face that wall of hopeful faces.

After the end of the final session, all the beer left was fair game. That might be beer from unpopular breweries, that had gone off or simply been overordered. Or just unpopular styles. Like the Mild that I drank. I could usually find something pretty good.

I had my first taste of Belgian beer in the finish it all up after the last public session inside Ally Pally. Lambic, from a plastic barrel. I thought it was off. And was glad that I hadn’t paid for it. How wrong I was. Just ignorance, really. Not knowing what to expect and drinking it with no explanation.

Nowadays, there’s information about styles and individual beers all over the place. And a good beer bar will have examples of all sorts of different styles. It wasn’t like that at all in the 1970s. At least in the UK. Which is what I’m really talking about here.

There was quite a bit of camaraderie amongst the staff. Despite the long hours, it was lot of fun. And gave me the chance to try so many beers. Which otherwise wouldn’t have been possible without spending a fortune on travel.

I’ve been to the festival since as a drinker. But it’s not the same as the vibe of working behind the bar.