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WRITER, CONSULTANT AND BROADCASTER SPECIALISING IN BEER, PUBS AND CIDER. BEER WRITER OF THE YEAR 2009 AND 2012

What's new?

What's new?
Next beer book - now called 'Miracle Brew' - is finished! You can still subscribe to it here.
You can still listen to The Apple Orchard on BBC iPlayer radio
I'm taking the pub on tour - four dates between now and Christmas.
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Monday, 20 February 2017

Remembering Lunchtime Drinking

So Lloyds of London announced last week that it is banning its employees from drinking at lunchtime.

Under strict new rules, anyone found to have enjoyed a pint between the hours of 9 to 5 faces the prospect of being fired for 'gross misconduct.'

Having frequently been in City of London pubs at the same time as some of these often boorish drinkers, my first thought was not to spare them any tears. The move comes in response to 50% of disciplinary incidents at the firm apparently having to do with staff members being over-refreshed. 

But whatever your views on our financial colleagues, just let that phrase roll around for a second: drinking alcohol during your lunch break is 'gross misconduct'. Not getting drunk. Not failing to complete your job because you're pissed. But having one drink. 

This ban is symbolic of the ever tightening stigma of drinking alcohol - and of changing public opinion - and I fear it's the first of many similar measures to come.


But according to YouGov, Lloyds are in line with public opinion. I guess I'm not. 

I started my first job in 1991, at an advertising agency in Central London. At that time advertising had a glamorous reputation, but that wasn't the reason I joined: I just wanted a job that would be different every day, one that would be interesting and intellectually challenging, and accountancy (which is what my university tried to push everyone into) didn't seem to offer that. 

I started as a graduate trainee in the middle of a recession, and to most of the people in advertising, this was the first recession they'd noticed, because it was the first that had had a serious impact on the south east. (Coming from Barnsley, I'd just assumed the early 90s recession was simply a continuation of the early 80s recession - I had no idea that some parts of the country had enjoyed a boom between the two.)

So advertising in the early 1990s was like turning up to a splendid mansion on a Monday morning and finding a Rolls Royce in the swimming pool, fag butts stubbed out in champagne glasses, TVs still smoking from having their screens smashed in, and my new bosses minesweeping empty bottles and greeting me with, "Man, I can't believe you missed the eighties. It was so great here then. We had such a party, a party like you wouldn't believe. Where were you? Now get this mess cleaned up, the place is a tip."

(Don't feel sorry for me. When I tell this story to people who work in advertising today, their reaction is along the lines of "There were parties here once? Bollocks, I don't believe you.")

But there were various hangovers of different kinds from that decade of excess. At least once a week during the 90s, the 'Jolly Trolley' would be wheeled down the corridor connecting our veal-fattening pens. It was someone's birthday, someone was leaving, someone had got a promotion, we'd won a new piece of business - there was always an excuse. Me and the other graduate recruits were usually too busy to join the festivities, but when we finished work around 8pm, long after the party had moved on to the pub, we'd scavenge the Jolly Trolley for unopened bottles to take home. For my first 18 months in London, I practically subsisted on stolen crisps, warm Budweiser and cheap, shitty champagne. 

Often, we'd have a mild buzz before the Jolly Trolley even appeared. Frequently, client meetings would run over lunch, and at 1pm a trolley that was only marginally less jolly, loaded with crisps and sandwiches, would be wheeled into the meeting room and unloaded onto the middle of the table. Behind this first trolley, a second full of wine and beer would follow, and people would crack open the booze without even breaking the flow of whoever was presenting acetates on the overhead projector. This was normal. No one even commented on it. From that point, we would drink steadily and moderately until the meeting was over. (I don't remember anyone ever finishing the meeting pissed.)

I can't remember when the drinks trolleys stopped. I didn't notice them becoming rarer and finally disappearing. But some time in the early noughties I was in a lunchtime meeting with Pret sandwiches and cans of Coke and I remembered the lunchtime booze trolley for the first time in many years. I realised that not only had it disappeared; if anyone suggested bringing it back now they would be censured for suggesting something so inappropriate. Somewhere along the line, without it being discussed, the idea of drinking alcohol in a daytime business meeting had become completely unacceptable. Everyone simply knew it was, just as everyone had known a decade previously that its was fine. 

Back when advertising was boozier, the ads were much better, and people enjoyed the job more. I'm not going to argue that the presence of booze was the main reason for this; all I am saying is that when people were drinking, the job still got done. Good ads got made and those ads did good business for the clients. The standard of work did not dramatically increase when the booze disappeared. People were made to work harder and longer, but if anything, the quality of the work they produce has declined. Just watch a commercial break if you don't believe me.

You should be able to trust grown adults to occasionally go to the pub at lunchtime without coming back to the workplace sozzled. If people drink at lunchtime to the point where it affects their work, then they should be reprimanded for it, but the crime should be the sloppy work or unacceptable behaviour, not the drinking itself.

Workplace drinking has beneficial effects as well as negative ones, and while there's no measurement of them, I suspect they're more widespread than the bad behaviour. A quiet pint can smooth things over, avoid problems, thank someone, share problems or create bonds. 

When I visited Japan for my book Three Sheets to the Wind, I discovered that beer solves an apparent paradox in the Japanese workplace. Japanese salarymen tend to give little of themselves away in the workplace, but will only do business with those they know and trust. How do you get to know and trust someone if the shields are always up? Beer symbolizes a switch from 'on' to 'off', a ritualised movement from formality to informality, to a time when they are permitted to bond and share. 

Maybe they don't do it at lunchtime, so it's not quite the same as the plight of Lloyds drinkers. But to ban lunchtime drinking outright, rather than punish any negative consequences of it, stigmatises drinking in general. And if you're lucky enough to still get a lunch break, it's your own time. If drinking is wrong at lunchtime, then surely it's not ideal at other times either? What next: a ban on evening drinking from Monday to Thursday to get rid of the detrimental effects of weekday hangovers?

I have no desire to get pissed with city boys. But thinking about it, and mangling a quote traditionally attributed to Voltaire, when it comes to their drinking, I disapprove of their twattish, drunken behaviour, but I will defend to the death their right to be drunken twats.

Monday, 16 January 2017

Tasting Beer: Some Thoughts and Reflections

Being faced with a flight of beers I had no desire to drink made me think philosophically for a bit, and wonder if there's a different narrative to tasting and enjoying beer.

I love judging the Brussels Beer Challenge. It's one of my favourite competitions, because it's global in scope, but it happens in Belgium, which means the beers you're tasting during judging sessions have to measure up to the beers you drink in a typical bar round the corner. Last year I had to judge 24 Belgian-style Tripels in the morning, and then we visited the Trappist brewery at Westmalle in the afternoon, and drank Westmalle Tripel and... well, it would be rude to the breweries entering the competition to complete that thought. Some of them tried really hard. 

Last November, I was judging again in Brussels. You never know what category you're going to get. You accept you're going to get some that you're not best friends with, but hope that it'll balance out and that you'll get some good ones. Sometimes - as I found with the Tripels the year before - getting a style you love can be a mixed blessing. But can it work the other way round? Can you find something wonderful in a category you think you hate?

At 9.15 that Saturday morning, I found out: 47 fruit beers were waiting to be sipped, savoured and scored.

These were not Berlinerweiss with added fruit, nor fruit IPAs nor krieks. These were beers where fruit (or fruit syrup, or concentrate) was the main flavour. I rarely, if ever, drink these beers. The whole table was trepidatious about the promised assault on our precious palates. How to judge them?

There were style guidelines, and in many competitions, judging to style is the most important point: you can find the best beer you've ever tasted in your life, but if it has more colour units or hop character or a lower or higher ABV than the guidelines say, you have to mark it down, so I always prefer the competitions that give some leeway as to whether it's a good beer or not. But with a style I reject as a drinker, how should I judge its appeal beyond whether it was 'to style' or not? 

In thinking this through, I started to think about how we taste and enjoy beer. The vast majority of people who drink beer don't spend too much time thinking about what's going on in the mouth, and that's fine - beer is a social lubricant, and while you're drinking it, most of your attention is focused elsewhere. Just like when you read half a page of a book and realise you haven't taken it in because you've been thinking about something else, or there's music playing and you can't recall what the last few songs were because you were listening to your friend talking, there's a big difference between sensory stimulus being picked up by your mouth, nose, eyes etc., and your brain actually paying any attention to it. When we taste beer, as opposed to drinking it, the biggest difference is not in the size or shape of the glass, the sniffing and swirling; it's in the simple act of directing your attention to the beer itself rather than anything else. 

I've seen many craft beer fans necking beers they've paid a lot of money for and which they profess a deep understanding of. There's nothing wrong with that - even if you get stuck into the sensory impressions on the first couple of sips, you'd look a bit of a dick if you continued to focus on it throughout the entire glass, to the exclusion of everything else happening around you. 

But sometimes, those of us who do love beer really do want to interrogate what's going on with it, and not just when you're judging. A huge chunk of beer writing consists of tasting notes of different beers. But here's my problem, informed by reading Beer Advocate and Rate Beer, and by sitting with beer experts judging competitions: too often, tasting beer can descend into a pissing contest about who can pick up and identify what different elements are in the beer. Whether that's correctly identifying the hops or malts used, or being able to 'get' notes of hibiscus, salted caramel, cuban cigars or whatever, I always worry that tasting notes along these lines are more about the taster than the beer. Here's an example I picked at random, years ago, from Beer Advocate, to make the point:


“After swirling a bit I am getting some creosote, faint hop background, malt wort. Taste is bitter and dry, strong roasty presence, a bit like old coffee grounds. Finishes out with some astringency.”

If you're into your beer these days, and you frequent sites like this, that probably makes a lot of sense to you. But what's it doing, really? I honestly can't tell from this description whether the taster actually likes the beer or not, and from this, I can't be sure whether I would or not, either. Is identifying a series of disparate parts and impressions the same thing as describing a beer, or appreciating it? 

I don't think so. 

Think about literature, about reading the introduction of a new character. When did you last read a description along the lines of "She was about five feet four, with mid-brown hair. She was caucasian, approximately thirty years of age, wearing a navy blue skirt and jacket over white blouse, finished with a Laura Ashley scarf and black shoes."

This is what you get in a police report, not a piece of creative writing. It describes a person, but gives me no idea of who that person is, whether I would be interested in talking to her, or why I should be interested in meeting her. A good novelist can give you a brilliant picture of a real person without mentioning any of these details. 

But I'm meant to be talking about tasting, not writing. The thing is, if we accept that this identity parade of flavour notes is what tasting beer is meant to be like, we feel pressured to simply spot as many and unusual constituent parts as we can rather than thinking about the whole. 

Faced with my fruit beers, I realised this would be no good. Here's a strawberry beer. "I'm getting strawberries." OK, thanks. That would be it. But the thing is, in that tasting session, I tasted good strawberry beers (well, one) and bad. What was the difference between them?

The good one tasted like a beer that had strawberry flavour in it, rather than like strawberry soda. You could still tell it was beer. And the strawberry tasted of strawberry, rather than strawberry syrup. And the strawberry part and the beer part harmonised and felt like they belonged together. 

By the end of the morning I'd enjoyed several of the beers, and I'd scribbled out some thoughts on how, if I'm in an analytical mood, I might get more from tasting beer than I do from the prevailing spot-the-flavour-note model.

APPEARANCE
In an age of cloudy craft beers, this is problematic, and we allocate it too many marks in beer competitions. Some truly revolting beers look clean, bright and sparkling, and score better than they should because of it. It's also dependent on the context of the beer you've ordered. Does it look like you expected it to? Does it look like you want it to? Does it make you want to drink it?

AROMA
This is where we create the competition to see who can spot what, and wine is no different from beer. It's also where any taster opens themselves up to accusations of pretentiousness. 

It's flawed to give aroma too much attention all the time, because humans actually get most of our aroma sensations from 'retronasal olfaction,' meaning you really get it when it's in your mouth/when you're swallowing, and it passes up to your nasal cavity from the back of your throat, and past your olfactory bulb as you breathe out through your nose. 

Instead of thinking of this stage as an identity parade of flavour notes, what if you think of it as a courtship? Is there any aroma at all? If not, why not? 

Despite the retronasal thing, this is a big indicator (though not a foolproof one) of the main event. Aroma should entice you. Does it put you off instead? Or does it make you want to plunge in? With some great and powerful beers, the aroma makes me want to carry on sniffing, almost forgetting to drink. On a few rare occasions, as with fresh coffee or freshly baked bread, the delivery may not even live up to the aroma's promise. But overall, I'm looking for aroma to increase the anticipation and desire of drinking. However it might do that, if it isn't doing it, it's not working.

TASTE
Obviously, this is the main event. In the first second in which the beer enters your mouth, there's an initial flash of flavour sensation, before your rational, analytical brain kicks in. Can you capture that and appreciate it? How does it make you feel? I'm increasingly of the opinion that to really get this, you should start by taking a generous swig rather than a dainty sip. 

Once it develops, is there a journey across the palate? Does it develop as it moves around your mouth, or as it sits there, or is it just a quick flash of something that quickly disappears? Is it complex or one-dimensional? 

Here, I then start to think about whether I'm actually enjoying the beer, and depending on your level of comfort with this kind of reflection, this is where we get either pretentious or we separate good from bad: Is there a point to this beer? What's it trying to be, and does it succeed? 

If it's trying to be simple and direct and refreshing, does it do that job well or are there odd bits sticking out? (I've nothing against a clean, crisp lager, but if there are incongruent flavours due to poor technique or short lagering, they spoil what it's trying to do.) 

If it's trying to be complex and rewarding, are all those constituent parts that beer-spotters love identifying so much working together or do they jar with each other? (I sometimes find complex craft beers to be a flabby collection of elements in search of an idea). 

FINISH
Aftertaste is a sensory experience - partly due to that retronasal thing, partly because some beers linger. How do you feel once you've swallowed that first sip? Are you satisfied? Do you want to drink more? This is revealing - how many times do you not feel this to be the case, but you force it down anyway, because you've paid for it? How many flabby beers do you finish with grim determination? And how many times does the finishing buzz compel you to raise the glass again, to try to complete a circle, to nag away at the desire the beer has created?

By the time I got to the end of my flight of fruit beers, I'd enjoyed a few of them, and found the experience of tasting them - even the ones I didn't like - to be thoughtful and revealing. And I had some thoughts that help me appreciate beer rather than just tasting it. 

What do you think? How do you appreciate beer? Do you intellectualise it at all or just judge it by how quickly you finish a pint and how much you want to order another? Because after all that, when I look at a tasting flight in competitions, usually the easiest way of spotting my favourite is to look at which glass is nearly empty. 

Sunday, 18 December 2016

Beery Books for Christmas

Obviously you've already bought mine (or dropped strong hints to have it bought for you) but it's been a bumper year for beer books. Here are my three favourites of 2016.


The World Atlas of Beer (second edition)
Tim Webb and Stephen Beaumont, Mitchell Beazley, RRP £25


 Michael Jackson's first World Guide to Beer (and its vinous forerunner, Hugh Johnson's World Atlas of Wine) set a template for coffee table drinks books that has slowly mutated over the years, and spawned off-shoots in the 'how many beers to drink before you die' mould that seem to be hitting the shelves daily. I question the need for books like this, partly because there are so bloody many of them and they're all essentially the same, and partly because if you want beer reviews, the internet is a much more up-to-date and accessible way of getting them. But these books work because people love having them all in one place and ticking them off - or some people do, at any rate. 

What's surprising when you go back to Jackson's first book now is that there isn't a single page of bottle shots and tasting notes, just longer, highly readable articles about different countries, regions and styles. 

In this second edition of their guide - the first of which established Beaumont and Webb as the natural heirs to Jackson in the format he created - the authors managed to convince the publishers to get rid of the pages of bottle shot and tasting notes that have crept in over the years, and use the space instead to actually write about beer rather than simply cataloguing it. That makes this book a blast of fresh air in a format that's become stuffy.

The world of good beer has expanded greatly since Jackson first mapped it out, and that's why a book like this today needs two authors, one on either side of the Atlantic, if it is to be as authoritative as it needs to be. Both Webb and Beaumont have been writing about beer for decades - they have about sixty years experience between them. They still travel regularly to both the obvious beer countries - the US, Belgium, Germany, UK - and those that are rapidly emerging as new craft beer stars, such as Brazil, Spain, Japan. 

At times the book's scope is stretched a little too thin - some of the minor countries get a page with a nice photo and just enough room to list three or four up-and-coming craft brewers - but in the countries you really want to read about, no one does it better than these two. They combine their knowledge with a very dry wit, and don't suffer fools gladly. The tone is calm scholarship rather than breathless enthusiasm, and they're unafraid to be critical. But on every page you feel like you're in the company of experts who love their subject.

(Like big, epic beer tomes? You should also check out the gargantuan Belgian Beer Book by Erik Verdonck and Luc de Raedemaeker, Lanoo, RRP £45.) 


Beer in So Many Words
Adrian Tierney-Jones (editor), Safe Haven Books in association with The Homewood Press, RRP £14.99


It's not just beer writers who write about beer, and not all beer writing is good. To pull together an anthology of the best writing about beer (as opposed to 'beer writing') requires an extensive knowledge of the subject as well as being well-read much more broadly. 

The contents page of the book is a delight to read in itself. As a community, beer geeks and writers need to be reminded fairly regularly that beer doesn't belong just to us, that it's a popular drink that is appreciated by a wide range of people. And here, names like Boak and Bailey, Roger Protz, Jeff Evans, Melissa Cole and, well, me, rub shoulders with Dylan Thomas, Ian Rankin, Ernest Hemingway, Graham Greene and Charles Dickens. 

This is a book to lose yourself in, to wander back and forth through, to put down briefly and take a sip of something dark and rich while you ponder. It's themed in sections: The Taste of Beer, Beer in Pubs, Beer People, Brewing, Beer Journeys, Beer and Food and The Meaning of Beer. It reminds you of what made you fall in love with beer (and reading, and writing) and is highly likely to give you fresh perspectives and insights on a subject you thought you knew all about. 

(Like anthologies of writing about beer? You should also check out 
CAMRA's Beer Anthology: a Pub Crawl through British Culture, edited by Roger Protz, CAMRA, RRP £9.99)

Food and Beer
Daniel Burns and Jeppe Jarnit-Bjergso, Phaidon, RRP £29.95


Of all the avalanche of beer books being published right now, the most dramatic trend is in books about beer and food. Within the last couple of years, I've acquired a whole bookshelf full on this subject alone.

I'm a keen cook, and am always looking for inspiration. I use some of these books often, but am often frustrated that most of them seem to consist mainly of big hunks of red meat, of burgers, wings and pulled pork, of melted cheese and stout-braised ribs and sticky puddings with rich glazes. I'm sure it's all very nice, but I'm already bored of the kind of food because it seems to be the only thing you ever get served in craft-centric pubs and bars. When I get home, I want to eat more healthily. At the same time, I want to push my cooking skills, taking time out of writing to do something absorbing and satisfying, learning new techniques and skills. 

'Food and Beer' may not be the most exciting title of a book about food and beer (I've already got three different books called Beer and Food, and one other Food and Beer) but this is the topic getting a higher end, classier treatment than it's ever had so far, and it's no accident that 'food' comes first in the title. Chef Daniel Burns has cooked at Noma and the Fat Duck, and gypsy brewer Jeppe Jarnit-Bergso founded Evil Twin brewing and also worked as beer director at Noma, routinely billed as the best restaurant in the world. 

What I like about this book is that there's stuff that is insanely ambitious for an amateur like me, with those kinds of recipe that are actually five separate recipes nested within one big dish that require two days of work. But there are also relatively simple things to test yourself out with - anyone can make a heritage tomato sandwich with cider-infused mayonnaise.

Having put this book through its paces in my kitchen, it has one major flaw. A friend of mine works as a recipe tester for various celebrity chefs, taking their ideas and cooking them in her well-appointed but strictly domestic kitchen, and working out the timings, quantities and temperatures that actually work in a kitchen  a little less awesome than Noma's. Like several other beer and food books I've acquired this year, this book really, desperately, needed her input. Some of the quantities in recipes are utterly nonsensical (Welsh Rarebit that contains ten times the volume of double cream to that of cheese? Really?) and whatever oven they worked out the cooking times on bears no relationship whatsoever to how mine works. 

But with that fairly significant caveat aside, this is a book that combines two elements I've always wanted from a beer and food book: one, it seriously elevates beer as both an accompaniment and an ingredient. There's nothing wrong with beer being allied with hearty pub and bar fare, but it's good to see it in haute cuisine, showing its adaptability and scope. And secondly, it inspires me to be a better cook, and makes me believe I can stretch and do some of the more challenging dishes. (Although it might be a while before I attempt the pork broth and smoked egg whites on chrysanthemum base paired with smoked wheat beer.) 

(Like reading about how beer and food go together? Also check out Mark Dredge's Cooking With Beer, Dog & Bone, RRP £16.99)


Disclosure: I'm good friends with the authors of the first book and the editor of the second one. One big reason we're good friends is that we admire each other's work. I genuinely love these books, and have tried not to let friendship bias me in my opinion of them.



Sunday, 4 December 2016

Beer Writer of the Year

On Thursday night the British Guild of Beer Writers named me their Beer Writer of the Year, for the third time. 


I even bought a suit.

It caps an incredible year for me and I'm obviously delighted. But I still wouldn't recommend three simultaneous book contracts to anyone, and won't be repeating this trick any time soon.

I won two categories before picking up the overall award. First was Best Writing in Trade Media, for my columns in the Morning Advertiser. Luck always plays a big part in any success, and I think this year I was particularly lucky to have some great stories fall into my lap. The rediscovery by Carlsberg of the earliest generation of modern brewing yeast, and their successful attempt to 're-brew' with it, was a unique event. And my chance to interview the man who invented nitro dispense - the technology that makes Guinness so distinctive and is now being explored by forward-thinking craft brewers - just weeks before his passing was something I'll always remember. The research for my forthcoming book on beer ingredients also led me to some stories that I could write up as columns without taking anything away from the book. 

In case you're interested, here are links to the pieces wot won it:




I also won Best Writing in National Media mainly, I think, for my new book The Pub: A Cultural Institution (which is currently being sold insanely cheaply on Amazon), but I also entered pieces I've written for Ferment and Belgian Beer and Food magazines. I'm not the only decent writer in these excellent magazines - if you haven't done so already, you should do yourself a favour and check them out.

As I said on the night, I owe the success of The Pub to Jo Copestick, a long-standing editor and publisher who specialise in food and drink and design, who has worked with and encouraged most good beer writers out there. We first spoke about the idea for The Pub ten years ago. She plays the long game, and she made this book finally happen. Even though it's my name on the front I'm only a third of the team. People's first reaction to it is that it's a very beautiful book, and that is nothing to do with me and everything to do with Jo and designer Paul Palmer-Edwards at Grade Design. Sitting around the table with these two and being perfectionist about layout after layout was a wonderful working experience.

Having won these two categories, the judges then decided that overall, I was their Beer Writer of the Year. 

It's a trick of the order in which these awards are presented that my two awards were near the end of the evening. Earlier, it had looked like Mark Dredge was going to walk away with the big gong after sweeping Best Food and Drink Writing for his book, Cooking With Beer, and Best Beer and Travel Writing for his book The Best Beer in the World. I really hope this isn't the start of a trend of publishing multiple books in a year because that way madness lies, but hearty congratulations to Mark for running me so close, and to the winners and runners-up in all the other categories. 

Some of the stuff you hear around all awards ceremonies gets so repetitive it sounds platitudinous, but when you're in the thick of it, phrases like 'the standard was really high this year' and 'the quality of entries continues to improve' get repeated because they are true. Having won this year, I'll be chair of the judges next year. I've done this twice before. It's always an interesting task, but the quality of work, often from writers I've never previously come across, scares me even as it delights me. No doubt this time next year, I'll be here writing 'the standard of entries was very high this year' and 'the judge's decision was an extremely difficult one.' 

I already know this will be true. As beer continues to excite greater numbers of people in all walks of life, many who fall in love with beer want to communicate their passion, and more and more of them are very good at it. 

For a full list of winners in all categories, and comments from the judges, see the full press release here.

Tuesday, 29 November 2016

The Pub - On Tour

My new book on pubs spans the whole of the UK. So it only seems fair to take it back to the places where it was researched.

Still need that elusive Christmas present for that difficult-to-buy-for person? Looking for an evening to kick off Christmas party season? I'm taking my new book (well, one of them) on tour. 




The Pub is a coffee table, illustrated book that celebrates the unique cultural institution of the British pub. But it's more than that. The main reason most people choose a pub is because of its atmosphere, but atmosphere is very tricky to write about. I've given it the best shot I can. 

In these events, I'll be reading a selection from the fifty short essays in the book that seek to evoke the atmosphere of the best pubs I came across - best in that respect anyway. These are not the best beer pubs or food pubs, nor the most historic or architecturally stunning (though many of them do score highly in these attributes.) They're the pubs that feel special when you walk in, that feel like home, even if you can't immediately figure out why.

But it would get dull if I just read out lots of short essays. 

So I'll also be illustrating my talk with a selection of the stunning photography from the book, giving you what I'm told is a fiendishly hard pub quiz to do, holding the Great Crisp Flavour Challenge, and contravening intellectual property rights with my travesty of Bullseye

These are the dates we managed to fit in before Christmas. There are some glaringly obvious gaps here which I aim to fill in the New Year. (Norwich, Leeds and London being among the main candidates.)




These events are in association with Waterstones, who will be selling books at the events, and each pub is, obviously, one that features in the book. Admission is free but tickets need to be booked in advance, and are available from eventbrite

I had such great times in these places while I was researching the book. Hoping to repeat the experience. See you there.

Monday, 7 November 2016

Book of the Week

The Apple Orchard - coming to a radio near you...


I'm enormously proud, and more than a little nervous, that this morning BBC Radio 4 will be broadcasting the first episode of the serialisation of my new book, The Apple Orchard. 

My last narrative book, Shakespeare's Local, was also Book of the Week, so I guess lightning can strike twice. It's an enormous honour to be chosen. Shakespeare's Local was read out by Tony 'Baldrick' Robinson, who made my words sound about 100 times funnier and more interesting than they read on the page. To follow that up, the producers decided they would like The Apple Orchard to be read by... me. 

I can talk on radio just fine, but reading out something scripted is an entirely different skill, one I learned quickly in a studio in Glasgow three weeks ago. You can hear the results at 9.45am each day this week, Monday to Thursday.


There are many different strands to The Apple Orchard. Most people who know me keep referring to it as my 'cider book', and I have to stop myself referring to it in that way still. There's a lot of cider drunk in the book, and cider production is addressed in detail towards the end, but it's mainly about the cycle of the apple year, the history and nature of apple cultivation, and the symbolism and significance of this fruit in our lives, what it tells us about systems of belief and how we make sense of the world. 

That's an awful lot to fit into four fifteen minute broadcasts, so the abridger at Radio 4 had to choose one thread to follow. He chose to focus on the cycle of the apple year and what needs to be done in the orchard at various times. So this week, you can hear about the origins of the apple and how it came to England, how I learn to prune and graft apple trees, and the joy of apple harvest. I think of it as a 'remix' of the book, with different elements shuffled around to create something new, simpler and leaner.

This seemingly ordinary fruit is in fact one of the most potent symbols in our lives. It was a life-changing joy to unravel its story.

If you're not near a radio at 9.45am, you can catch up on iPlayer by following the link in the screen grab above. The Apple Orchard will be available for about 30 days.


I've been asked a lot if all this means I don't write about beer any more. I can assure you that I do. I'm doing the final edits to my new beer book this week, which will be available spring 2017. After I've finished that, I'll be blogging all the stuff about beer I didn't have time to address while I was working on these books. I'm also writing regularly for the Morning Advertiser, Original Gravity and Ferment magazines. 

Monday, 24 October 2016

Budweiser: You Can't Rush Plagiarism

Seems like America's beer just can't stop stealing things from southern Bohemia...

I was shocked late Friday night to see a really good beer ad from Budweiser. No, stop laughing. I've seen plenty of good ads from Bud before - stuff about frogs and lizards and whazaaap, but this was a good beer ad: it's true, it's centred on the product, and it says something good about the broader beer category - good lager takes time to mature. 



Last I heard, Budweiser is matured for twenty days. That's not as long as the classic lagers of the Czech Republic and Germany are matured, but it's a hell of a lot longer than the 72 hours some leading brands allegedly spend in the brewery between mashing in and packaging. You may not like the (lack of) taste in Budweiser, but even now they do some things right, and deserve some credit for that. So I was pleased to see an ad that had made lager maturation look cool. 

I said as much on Twitter and Facebook, and very quickly Simon George of Budweiser Budvar UK shot back that his new strategy is to focus on the Czech beer's astonishingly long lagering time - five times longer than the American beer. Budweiser Budvar has been running this copy for about nine months, albeit without the huge TV ad budgets US Bud can afford:


The dispute between American Budweiser and Czech Budweiser Budvar is decades old. Bud founder Adolphus Busch told a court of law, on record, in 1894: “The idea was simple,” he testified, “to produce a beer of the same quality, colour and taste as the beer produced in Budejovice [the Czech name for the town known as Budweis in German] or Bohemia.” Even though that record exists, the company has since flatly denied that this it stole the name Budweiser from the town of Budweis, or even took any inspiration from there. (There's a lot more on this dispute in my book Three Sheets to the Wind.)

Budvar spent a long time capitalising on its David V Goliath relationship with Budweiser and has recently decided to move on and focus on its ageing process instead, as part of a new strategy to remain relevant in a market where craft beer means drinkers are more interested in product specifics. But it seems Budweiser are still hung up on their namesake. Nine months after Czech Budvar focused their marketing campaign on how long it takes to make their beer, American Budweiser focused their marketing campaign on how long it takes to make their beer:




Having stolen the idea, they've now gone the whole hog and even stolen the same copy. The Budvar headline above? 'You can't rush perfection.' Spot the difference in the Facebook link to the ad below.


Come on, Budweiser. You've already stolen your name from the town in which Budweiser Budvar is brewed. You've copied their advertising idea (albiet in a fine execution) and now even their copy, word for word. You employ some of the best and most expensive advertising agencies in the world (even if you do try to shaft them on costs.) Is this the best those agencies can do?