The road to Wigan Beer
Post number 401 in this nonsense. Ain't that amazin'. Do I never shut up? Is anybody still reading this guff? Who knows.
And what's also amusing is that beer made in Wigan really does taste of meat pies. No, really. TWM suggests the aftertaste is actually reminicent of a combination of certain illegal herbal substances widely available in the UK, and cooked pork; I say it's just a taste of hot meat pie (I'd not know what the other funny stuff tastes like, obviously) but neither of us are convinced of the claim in the program that it's Ginger, Spice and Lemon and stuff. Why would they put Ginger Spice in a pint? Wouldn't her Union Flag dress pollute the beer? Anyway, we were in Wigan on Friday night, the occasion was the 21st Beer Festival, the beer in questoin was Allgates Bright Blade and yes, we did enjoy, although I completely crapped up my evening organisation and failed to notify my old buddy D in time for a meet and a pint. More of why my organisational skills were wobbly in a moment, but he's called Arthur. Anywhere that you can get a entire hot cooked black pudding for your supper is alright by me, I shall do my damnedest to get back next year.
Anyway's up - obviously, considering my presence in Wigan, I've been on my travels to the west again, this time via the automated systems of the local Traffic Police. Bastard GATSO's. Damned sneaky place to put it, twenty feet inside a 50mph zone right at the end of one of the longest motorways in Britain. Was fuddled somewhat on my PieTown travels by popping into the aforementioned Prince Arthur in Scouse earlier in the day; as I'm now Fitandmobileman again, I can do these things on foot. It's an idiosyncratic boozer in the "old boy's Mild drinking pub" tradition - racing on the telly at three in the afternoon, Tetley Mild and Bitter on handpump and decor that's not been refurb'd since 1905 when the clientele weren't exactly plebeian. Tastefully art deco interior, a triangular bar to fit the shape of the building, gigantic over engineered pissoir's in the gents. Frankly, my sort of place. I enjoyed. The pub, not the gents. Let me make THAT clear at least. But not much more was clear for long because afternoon drinking on an empty stomach isn't the best way to prep for a beer festival. But it worked last time, didn't it? And the time before that, now I think of it. Anyway, here's what the Liverpool Historic Pub Guide, an especially fine publication says "...would rightly be considered an irreplacable gem situtated in any city centre. As a humble street corner local it is little short of miraculous". Of course, the guide is out of date as at the time, the pub didn't serve real ale, and now it does... a nice touch was the afternoon barmaid providing an extra quarter of a pint of bitter gratis, because of the perceived amount of head on our pint... which honestly wasn't excessive, and not really necessary.
Hey ho. Public transport's the order of the day here, but arses were not gotten into gear in good enough time and by the time we got off the train in Pietown, it was too late to visit The Anvil, their local pub of the year, or organise anything with my buddies. Bother. Another time. On to the festival, and it's time to procure another of those nice little half mugs that seem to be in vogue with CAMRA organisers at the mo, and away we go. Only time for a couple of hours of supping, and my tastebuds are jaded from the afternoon, so I alternate local beers with proper flat cider to keep my taste buds frisky. Managed to get the aforementioned "Bright Blade" down my neck, along with Allendale "Wolf", and Yorkshire Dales "Brassed off" on the beery side of the house, and "3 Cats", "Potters Mental Ward" (from just over the Mersey in Cheshire) and "Parson's Choice Yarlington Mill", from the Appel'y mania, before it was time to carefully stow the glasses safely for the trip home, grab a very reasonably priced Festival polo shirt to replace the ones I've trashed this month and head for the complimentary bus, which as it turned out, didn't have enough seats for both of us. So the taxi takes the strain, getting us to the station with no minutes left to spare. So close in fact I thought my train back was leaving already... as it turned out it wasn't, it's just that the timing board on the front of the station told lies, and the driver of the train to Preston that was leaving as I ran onto the platform looked me in the eye for two full seconds before he put his foot down anyway. Swine. Thus endeth the tale with a happy ending, and a wobble back to Scouse to drink more beer in The Swan wisely leaving the Sambucca alone. And as my literary hero used to write, when he was short of a snappy ending "this is all ye know and all ye need to know, for now. Mahalo".
And what's also amusing is that beer made in Wigan really does taste of meat pies. No, really. TWM suggests the aftertaste is actually reminicent of a combination of certain illegal herbal substances widely available in the UK, and cooked pork; I say it's just a taste of hot meat pie (I'd not know what the other funny stuff tastes like, obviously) but neither of us are convinced of the claim in the program that it's Ginger, Spice and Lemon and stuff. Why would they put Ginger Spice in a pint? Wouldn't her Union Flag dress pollute the beer? Anyway, we were in Wigan on Friday night, the occasion was the 21st Beer Festival, the beer in questoin was Allgates Bright Blade and yes, we did enjoy, although I completely crapped up my evening organisation and failed to notify my old buddy D in time for a meet and a pint. More of why my organisational skills were wobbly in a moment, but he's called Arthur. Anywhere that you can get a entire hot cooked black pudding for your supper is alright by me, I shall do my damnedest to get back next year.
Anyway's up - obviously, considering my presence in Wigan, I've been on my travels to the west again, this time via the automated systems of the local Traffic Police. Bastard GATSO's. Damned sneaky place to put it, twenty feet inside a 50mph zone right at the end of one of the longest motorways in Britain. Was fuddled somewhat on my PieTown travels by popping into the aforementioned Prince Arthur in Scouse earlier in the day; as I'm now Fitandmobileman again, I can do these things on foot. It's an idiosyncratic boozer in the "old boy's Mild drinking pub" tradition - racing on the telly at three in the afternoon, Tetley Mild and Bitter on handpump and decor that's not been refurb'd since 1905 when the clientele weren't exactly plebeian. Tastefully art deco interior, a triangular bar to fit the shape of the building, gigantic over engineered pissoir's in the gents. Frankly, my sort of place. I enjoyed. The pub, not the gents. Let me make THAT clear at least. But not much more was clear for long because afternoon drinking on an empty stomach isn't the best way to prep for a beer festival. But it worked last time, didn't it? And the time before that, now I think of it. Anyway, here's what the Liverpool Historic Pub Guide, an especially fine publication says "...would rightly be considered an irreplacable gem situtated in any city centre. As a humble street corner local it is little short of miraculous". Of course, the guide is out of date as at the time, the pub didn't serve real ale, and now it does... a nice touch was the afternoon barmaid providing an extra quarter of a pint of bitter gratis, because of the perceived amount of head on our pint... which honestly wasn't excessive, and not really necessary.
Hey ho. Public transport's the order of the day here, but arses were not gotten into gear in good enough time and by the time we got off the train in Pietown, it was too late to visit The Anvil, their local pub of the year, or organise anything with my buddies. Bother. Another time. On to the festival, and it's time to procure another of those nice little half mugs that seem to be in vogue with CAMRA organisers at the mo, and away we go. Only time for a couple of hours of supping, and my tastebuds are jaded from the afternoon, so I alternate local beers with proper flat cider to keep my taste buds frisky. Managed to get the aforementioned "Bright Blade" down my neck, along with Allendale "Wolf", and Yorkshire Dales "Brassed off" on the beery side of the house, and "3 Cats", "Potters Mental Ward" (from just over the Mersey in Cheshire) and "Parson's Choice Yarlington Mill", from the Appel'y mania, before it was time to carefully stow the glasses safely for the trip home, grab a very reasonably priced Festival polo shirt to replace the ones I've trashed this month and head for the complimentary bus, which as it turned out, didn't have enough seats for both of us. So the taxi takes the strain, getting us to the station with no minutes left to spare. So close in fact I thought my train back was leaving already... as it turned out it wasn't, it's just that the timing board on the front of the station told lies, and the driver of the train to Preston that was leaving as I ran onto the platform looked me in the eye for two full seconds before he put his foot down anyway. Swine. Thus endeth the tale with a happy ending, and a wobble back to Scouse to drink more beer in The Swan wisely leaving the Sambucca alone. And as my literary hero used to write, when he was short of a snappy ending "this is all ye know and all ye need to know, for now. Mahalo".
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 3:03 am
1 Comments:
Ginger in a half pint pot me thinks you must be mistaken Sir it would have been mine.
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