A quiet week please.....

I actually spent Friday night indoors because GMD was out on on the first of four (yes four) Christmas parties - One for her job, one for The Guides/Brownie leaders, one for the sheer hell of it with all the other members of the coven and then the "locals" do down .....errrr...the local. So I actually get to go to one solitary do, whilst she does four. I think somethings got a bit out of kilter here.

However on Saturday the Grumpy Old Dads Society (The GODS), a subsection of the GoGB went out for our "sort of" Christmas do. We don't have any food, mainly because a bunch of blokes sitting in any restaurant other than an Indian or Chinese is construed as being a bit "gay" down these parts. So all we do is visit the local Brewery pub in the neighbouring village. I'm not going to give the name of the pub, suffice it to say it sounds a bit like the Clip and Shell. We use a different pub to my local simply because ...well....my local is MY local and not theirs. The pub itself is actually a hotel with a dozen or so rooms, but it is physically attached to the brewery. The Landlady and Landlord are of the old school, friendly but quite strict on drinking up after the last bell. It has a public bar for the Chav/Yob/Shazza element, where the jukebox is nicely turned up and the lager flows freely. No-one over 30 drinks on this side, well no-one who could be reasonably considered as sane. Not because of the noise, but because it's very intimidating and the the younger blokes do like to be rowdy. There are often fights but the beauty of the place is that the Landlord simply asks them to leave and because they respect him so much, they do.

We, of course, inhabit the "lounge" bar. The furniture is old and slightly tatty, but a recent .......ahem....refurb saw the carpet cleaned, a lick of paint and some new upholstery fitted and the big leather armchairs situated by the roaring open fire and Christmas tree seem to have got the once over "clean and polish" treatment to make them smell leathery again. Structurally nothing was altered which had us all wondering what exactly had taken the three months for the refurb to be completed. The toilets are not close and they are shared with the public bar clientele. This often makes for humorous banter between the groups, but because you're in the toilet it is always good humoured. This bar is frequented by mainly local people ranging from 30-something upwards. From couples to singles, men finishing work, coming home from the Pompey game or just nipping out for a couple of quiet pints and a read of the papers. Somewhere they can freely smoke their ciggies, rollies, cigars or in the case of the kindly chap near us, a beautiful old pipe with the rich and gorgeous aroma that only pipe smoke can give.. If people were wearing the clothes of the thirties, you'd not think time had moved on apart from the distant boom boom of the jukebox.

Of course being next to the brewery you'd expect the beer to be good, but by God they surpass everything at this place and I can honestly say the Landlord, standing behind the bar in his shirt, tie and black waistcoat, grey hair and grey beard provides something so sorely lacking in pubs today. He cares about the beer he serves.......no he passionately cares about the beer he serves.. He grudgingly sells the ubiquitous Stella Artois and Carling lagers, plus Strongbow Cider (or...fizzy apple juice as he calls it - although the debate over whether it has ever actually seen an apple is always an ongoing one on our visits). But, the beer....well the bitter is served at such perfection you just have to gaze after it has been poured as the pint clears slowly but inexorably, to such a degree that you can see through the other side as if your eyes had merely had a light or dark red gauze put in front of them. The taste is glorious, and you find yourself talking like those wine connoisseurs, of such things as hints of chocolate, or a soupcon of treacle. There really is nothing like it and I include the beer I've drunk in Germany in this as well. I, though chose to stick with my preferred tipple of lovely dark, cool Guinness. In most pubs some insolent, ignorant 19 year old barmaid/man serves the Guinness by placing the glass on the drip tray, turning the tap on, serving other drinks and desperately rushing to flick the tap off before the glass overflows. This is then followed by the glass being hoisted to the bar, banged down, followed by the words "Three quid mate". The head is usually about and inch and a half deep, the top is covered in bubbles, and oddly enough they get a bit offended if you ask them to fill the fucking glass up.

But not at this pub, oh no. The Landlord holds the glass at an angle and pours the Guinness in. He slowly turns the glass as the black velvety liquid hits the side of the glass and swirls round like liquid liquorice. When the glass is about three quarters full, he stops and gently places the glass on the bar. Three of us were on the Guinness so he repeats this three times. Then he moves on to the rest of the round, pulling the bitters with genuine care and holding the glasses as if they were new born baby birds, each delivered to the bar with the softest of shimmy shuffle landings into the heart of the bar towel. No spillage. The Stella is then poured, with the hint of contempt for this foreign plastic invader beer and it's bland homogenised euro-taste of chemicals. One things for sure, the recipients hangover will be far worse then mine. Then follows the Strongbow cider, an even worse concoction of chemicals and cheap materials than Stella. The landlord jokes about the lack of apples ever being near this drink...."I think they might wave an apple at the vat, but that's about it"...and he follows this with the sort of chortle only Landlords can do. One things for sure Small Sykes (for it is he) will have the worst hangover of all, and the alcohol won't be the main cause. Then he takes the money and then he returns to the Guinness. Each one is then carefully poured until the head is about half an inch and just sticking up over the top of the glass in a convex meniscus shape. And each one has a shamrock drawn on the top and not one hint of one bubble. It is a hand crafted pint and one feels almost guilty in drinking it. I tried about 12 (yes 12) of these over the four and a half hours we were there and each one was as perfect as the first. All of this in great company with two new additions to the Grumpy Old Dads Society, talking, taking the piss, laughing, arguing, bantering, letching at women we have NO chance of getting and being just a little too sincere meant a great night out. The next one will be even better.

And did I have a hangover on Sunday.

Yep, a fucking huge one!

As a footnote, my local serves my drink well, and the bitter is looked after as well. On the rare occasion that one hasn't been up to scratch there has never been the slightest dissent from the bar staff or The Governor about swapping it. That's why it's my local and that's the same in this pub, and it just shows what good customer service and actually caring about the product you sell does. That's why you get regulars who come back. They want good service, they want good company, they want good beer, and if they're eating they want good food. To have one pub that can deliver that is great, but to have two is downright fucking brilliant. And there are more apparently, so when the new digital camera for Crimbo arrives I might have to run an occasional series of Pubs I Like. No wonder our pubs are the envy of everyone else.

Later, GrocerJack