Sat once again in his office, in a different location to last time. The writer of this blogpost takes on the persona of a narrator, allowing him to describe a fictional situation in which the writer and a fictional editor discuss the wrters lack of professionalism recently. The writer sits, typing on a netbook, with a pint of Bowman’s Quiver beside him. Selfishly, he doesn’t even consider buying a pint for his editor, who doesn’t sit across from him, due to the editors non-existence.
“Now that you’ve finally written a post about the Birmingham Beer Bash, can you finally start writing Friday Pint posts with a bit more regularity” The fictional editor asks the writer. The writer ignores him as he thinks of what the editor, for who he is writing the dialogue, will say next. The editor looks at the writer, or at least would if he actually existed and was actually in front of the writer.
“huh?” uttered the writer, vaguely aware of some sort of conversation.
“The quality of the blog has been slipping. I know it, you know it, the readers know it. I mean, half the time it’s not even about beer any more. Do you know how many posts in the last year have been about a lack of posts, or about needing some sort of editor to force you into writing more often” The editor asked, with a gap of silence where the writer half expected him to go “hmm?”
“Erm, no”, replied the writer, hesitantly”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the editor, “I don’t know how many it is myself, but I do know it’s too many, it’s in danger of becoming a cliche.”
“So you’re saying I should write more, and not just about the fact that I haven’t been writing recently” asked the writer, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“Exactly,” exclaimed the editor, “You can start by writing a post about this festival that’s set up over there”
“I could do, I suppose” replied the writer, still sat in front of his netbook, typing out the fictional conversation that was currently taking place between himself and the fictional editor that sat opposite him.
In reality, the writer’s office was a pub. A small, warm coloured pub near the water in Southampton. It was a pub the writer had used as his office many times before, and today, a beer festival began. The pub had a name, and that name was The Platform Tavern. A short walk along the road and the writer would pass The Wool House, where outside, fences have been put up, with building site safety notices hanging from them.
A few hours sit between the writer and the ten festival beers sat on a stillage in the part of the pub that looks onto the brewery. In the meantime, he sits with his beer, and decides that here would be a good place to stop writing. In a few hours time, he will return, and beer will flow.
Halfway between last writing and the start of the festival, the writer returns to the half written post that he is working on. Beside him is an empty glass. Does he really want another beer now when there’s at least ten he could be drinking later on? To the other side of the writer’s netbook lies a copy of Boak and Bailey’s Brew Britannia. Having read the physical comics the writer picked up before walking down to the pub in which he sits, the writer has now begun reading that, alternating with issues of the 1985 DC comics series Crisis on Infinite Earths on his tablet.
“There must be something I can write about to pass the time” the writer thinks to himself. He looks up for inspiration and sees the wind blowing the branches on the trees across the road. When he entered, the writer had noticed a gathering of grey clouds in the sky, which made him wonder if rain was due soon. As long as it doesn’t rain as he’s walking back to the train station, he should be fine.
Throughout the pub, blues music plays over the speakers, as it usually does. This time however, it feels a tad on the loud side. There was a period of silence inbetween albums. It seemed nice. The writer thinks to himself “I don’t mind music in pubs, as long as it suits the time, location, and most importantly, my mood.”
“I don’t think I’m in the mood for music with my beer this afternoon”
With the main part of the pub getting busy, the writer decides to move out to what he would call the restuarant part of the pub. He is planning on eating some of the sausages on offer after all. In front of him sits the stillage, with last minute preperations being made to have it ready for the start of the festival.
To the side, a pile of A4 sheets of yellow paper have the list of beers available, with notes on each one. The writer peruses the list and sees a few that stand out. Quantock he recalls as being the brewery that won the overall gold at the Maltings festival back in April. Nightjar wasn’t the beer that won though, and as the writer didn’t particuarly like any of the Quantock beers that weren’t Wills Neck, he’s not going to bother with this one.
There are three Dancing Man Brewery beers on the stillage. Geiger’s Tanz, a version of Fiddler’s Jig brewed with a German wheat yeast, Sea City Gold, the beer brewed to celebrate Southampton’s 50th year as a city, and winner of first place at the Southampton Beer Festival in June, and Organ Grinder, a 6% IPA hopped with Chinook, Centenial and Amarillo. The writer plans on having all of them.
Elsewhere on the stillage, Arbor are also represented by three casks. Triple Hop, Beech Blonde, and Why Kick A Moo Cow. Derventio Brewery’s Et Tu Brutus, Bristol Beer Factory’s Independence, and Bowman Brewery’s Sarva make up the rest of the offering for the weekend.
Having finsihed describing the list, the writer now sits and waits, wondering what to drink first.
The festival begins, and the writer returns to his table with his first half pint of beer, and a menu of the sausages on sale. The beer in question is the Dancing Man Geiger’s Tanz, a beer the writer isn’t particuarly a big fan of (Fiddler’s Jig), brewed with German wheat yeast. To the writers palate, this version is much nicer than the regular version.
The writer looks at his watch. About 15 minutes away, his friend should be arriving into Southampton Central. The writer ponders over what he should buy his friend, so that he doesn’t have to wait for a drink when he arrives. He’ll come to a decision eventually. For now though, there is undrunken beer on the table.
The writer finishes his beer and places his netbook away in his bag, not wanting to be distracted from the conversation and beer with his friend, who by this time had arrived. As a result, everything the writer describes from hereonin is in his past, and so he adjuists his use of tense accordingly.
The two of them start with a half of Dancing Man’s Organ Grinder. It’s nice, but not overly memorable. The writer followed this with a Sea City Gold, during which he tried to remember if he had actually had it on draft before. He’d definitely tried it from a bottle, and had rather enjoyed it, as he did this half pint of it.
At some point during the evening, the writer and his friend shared a sausage platter, with Bison, Elk, Springbok and Zebra sausages. The writer’s favourite was the Springbok. The platter came with bread, and cheese, and a selection of pickles. For £12.50, it was a good accompaniment to the beer.
As well as the three Dancing Man Beers, the writer also drank two Arbor beers. Triple Hop, which on reflection was probably the beer he’d drink again, and Beech Blonde, which the writer can’t remember much about, other than it being the last beer, and it being pale and drinkable.
Inbetween those two beers though, came a ruby ale from Derventio brewery called Et Tu Brutus. The description made it sound quite nice. The reality though was something much different. The writer tried the beer and felt disappointed, there seemed to be something not quite right with how the beer tasted. He passed the beer to his friend, who commented that it smelt like a sour, and had a strawberry aftertaste. The writer took the beer back and put it to his nose, this time realising that it smelt like a Flemish Red. Was this how the beer supposed to be, or was it, as he suspected, off. In these situations where you have no frame of reference, it’s difficult to know. It had a taste you could get used to, but when there were enough beers there that were enjoyable from the start, is it really worth bothering about?
The writer sat in his flat pondering over how to finish the post. Did he finish with an inspiring final paragraph, one that would perhaps provoke discussion, or did he just let it ramble out into a disappointing conclusion before siging off.
Maybe, he should just let it come to an abrupt stop.