Sorry sir, the beer barrel now standing at platform one is out of service

The beer writers’ bean feast and a beery look at our great railway heritage



I recently had the pleasure of joining fellow members of the British Guild of Beer Writers in our annual back slapping jamboree. Great ale is supped, good food enjoyed, stories told and various ‘gongs’ handed out for services to beer writing. Yes, we do take this business somewhat seriously.

It’s a very jolly event, supported by the leading regional brewers Shepherd Neame, Cains, Wells &Young’s and even Budweiser Budvar . It means we get to taste some terrific ale as we ruminate on the state of the beer market. And again this year the beers were matched with the excellent dinner devised and prepared by celebrity chef Brian Turner CBE (more of this in a future blog).

I noticed there was a curious ale ‘opt out’ clause in the invite, so if you were perverse enough to attend a beer dinner but don't like beer you could order wine! I didn’t witness anyone taking up this offer. As far as I could see everyone was on the ale, albeit most of it from bottles rather than cask; but then it was held in the Millennium Gloucester Hotel, Kensington, an excellent venue of its type but not, I’m afraid, listed in the Good Beer Guide. Nevertheless, it was a great example of what can be done with beer outside its natural habitat – the pub.

Anyone attending the dinner for the first time might believe they had stepped into some strange parallel universe. This is a place where beer drinkers talk beer, sip the stuff (well a bit), swallow it criticise it, praise it – and then have another. Not that we were binge drinking you understand, this was work after all. One of the special joys of beer tasting is that, unlike with the wine buffs, there is no spitting – a rather unpleasant practice I always think – as beer is best savoured with the taste buds at the back of the tongue rather than the front bit used for El Vino.

National scandal
But I digress. The point was, as the awards went whizzing out to the great and the good in an ‘Oscars’ type ceremony, at a casual glance you would have thought all is well in the world of British beer. But is it? Is the Guild getting the message across to those outside our universe we might well ask?

What prompted this serious bit of naval gazing was my unfortunate experience the following day. I’m sorry to report another national scandal, but one that maybe Mr Brown is not responsible for. The morning after the Guild do, I decided to visit to the much lauded St Pancras International - now home to the Eurostar - to view the revived £800m splendour of this Victorian railway icon and maybe have a wee livener. It is a hugely impressive bit of refurb. Anyone in the licensed trade who watched the station’s TV documentary and has ever opened a pub would empathise with the last minute hassles –albeit on a slightly different scale - as everyone frantically prepared for Her Majesty to do the official opening bit.


Well, when I arrived, the imposing and romantic statue was firmly in place, the roof looked amazing and the trains seemed to be running OK – the Eurostar is regal indeed – and ‘The Longest Champagne Bar in Europe’ (this description is slightly dodgy as it is only the tables that stretch down the concourse) was bouncing with the cheapest glass at eight quid plus. I am quite partial to a glass of the sparkling stuff at the right time – but on a cold early December day with nowt to celebrate ( I didn’t win the night before) I thought a pint of wallop was more in order.

So what about finding some tasty ale in the Baby Betjeman bar? Sounded promising, named as it is after the legendary poet laureate, a man who treasured British heritage. But, oh heck, as I approached it did not look very enticing.

Standing proud and loud was the usual Euro fizz fonts, but where was the hand-pull? Well, better take a look – purely in the line of duty you understand. And then I spotted it: sitting forlornly on the other side of the bar was – yes, yes, yes…. a firkin (nine gallon cask) bearing a famous beer badge and apparently being drawn straight from the cask. Phew, we’re in.

But no, it was, of course, a mirage. ‘Pint of London Pride please,’ I uttered confident in my anticipation. ‘Sorry sir, its empty’ was the inappropriately cheery reply from the female bar-person (I’m learning PC speak). A little further explanation came sometime later- as I sipped my Budvar (not a bad lager beer in itself, but not cask ale) - when two thirsty punters turned up to catch a train to the Midlands. ‘The guy responsible has just left,’ the young lady told them still rather sweetly but enigmatically. They hesitated, muttered and ordered an Amstel instead. Oh dear, oh dear.

There was one alternative in the ale range – and I stress the singular – which was, rather oddly I thought, a bottle of Lancashire’s Thwaites Bomber. The German’s will enjoy that.

Now, to give the management the benefit of the doubt, it may be that my experience here was just a blip; perhaps 72 people had already popped in for a quick one that morning and it really was just the fault of a feckless bar manager.

But I fear a greater malady. It seems to me that a major opportunity to showcase our national drink has been sadly missed. Image the fantastic media coverage for the British Beer Industry if it had been ale and not champers that filled the 95m long bar. And yes, there is some very suppable sparkling beer around these days.

Perhaps it’s the failure of the beer industry itself in not getting to grips with those rather curious - and presumably champers imbibing – city types running the ‘Europe’s Destination Station’.

Ghastly gastro
So, I ponder, will things get better? Following further enquiry, I remain rather discouraged. It would appear that along-side a ‘brassiere’, sushi bar, a posh Italian nosh outlet and French cafe we are promised that the historical epitome of British catering culture –the ‘Traditional London Gastro Pub’ – will open sometime next year.

Well, this may improve drinking prospects enormously, but it is the ghastly ‘gastro’ bit in this rather fatuous title that seriously worries me. I like my tucker as much as the next man, but what is wrong with making the place a ‘Traditional British Ale House’ (with good simple food) where people stand around, chat to strangers or read the paper? ‘Gastro’ misses the point; a regular station bar is for drinking a swift one or two and maybe grab a swift snack as you wait for the delayed 17-45 to Derby or, at St Pancras anyway, even take your last or first pint pre/post foreign travels.

I’m not advocating the return of the legendary ‘British Rail’ stale pork pie – though I fancy they did me no harm. But if we really want to celebrate our brewing heritage, the way the French do their wine industry, this wonderfully revitalised Gothic treasure should be showcasing ‘The Longest Cask-Conditioned Ale Bar in Europe’ -if we are going in for the longest bar titles - complete with taster glasses. Catchy, don’t you think? Now that really would have been something to give Europe.


Ends