Beer history

Book Review: The Pub and the People

Is this post a good idea? Our review is late by either four years (the edition we have was published by Faber in 2009) or seventy (it was first published in 1943). The thing is, it’s made us so giddy with excitement and amusement that we’ve got to tell someone, and you, loyal reader, are in the frame.

The Pub and the People: a Worktown Study by Mass Observation.
The Pub and the People: a Worktown Study by Mass Observation.

Mass Observation’ was a social research group founded in 1936 founded by an anthropologist called Tom Harrisson, along with filmmaker Humphrey Jennings and poet Charles Madge. It ran, in its first incarnation, until the nineteen-sixties, and the ‘Worktown’ study was its first major piece of work. It saw Harrisson and a team of observers (some locals, others from academia) descend on the Lancashire town and, for three years from 1937, watch and record everything, however apparently inconsequential.

Time travel

If you were to attempt to recreate the experience of visiting a pub in Bolton in 1937, this book would give you everything you could possibly need. Pub architecture, the drinks on offer, the clothing and manners of the customers, the behaviour of the bar staff, and the nature of conversations in the saloon, lounge and taproom are all recounted. Graphs and tables tell you how much people of each ‘type’ drank in a session, on each day of the week, in what measures, and at what pace. (63.8 per cent of drinks were consumed in between 6 and 10 minutes on a Sunday.)

There is also information on how much they smoked, and what they did with the fag ends; as well as how often they spat, where, and to what reaction from their friends — ‘He is called a “filthy bugger”’.

The various pubs are analysed and mapped — what’s the difference between the saloon, lounge and taproom? How many pubs have music rooms? What’s a ‘vault’? There are even statistics given for the distribution of pot plants.

Though at first it seems absurd — where will the obsession with minutiae end? — it eventually leads to an almost hypnotic sense of ‘virtual reality’.


Mass Observation had some of the trappings of a scientific study and had pretensions of objectivity. The fact is, though, that the personalities and prejudices of the editors, writers and observers comes through quite clearly. This often results in funny lines, either intentional or otherwise. This ‘observation’ (anecdote) is not only amusing in itself, but also because the writer is so coy about it:

Navvy type of person aged about 35, says ‘If I get three pints down me I can…’ (What he said is the sort of thing considered ‘unprintable’. It amounted to the fact that when he went home he was able to have sexual intercourse with his wife with the maximum of efficiency, and when he woke up in the morning he was able to repeat the process with the utmost satisfaction.)

Those under observation also often express themselves wittily or at least pithily: ‘You can do almost anything you bloody well like in the vault, short of shitting on the place.’ Entire pages are given over to illustrations of stream-of-consciousness, rambling banter, full of free associations and Pythonesque silliness which we recognise from pubs with ‘regulars’ who know each other well.

At one point, in an attempt to measure the social makeup of clientele in certain pubs, the authors use headwear as a proxy, and thus invent ‘the bowler hat index’. That really tickled us. What’s the modern equivalent?

Assume nothing

The pint, as we all know, is the one true measure — the only proper way to drink beer — and it has ever been thus. Except that’s not true, and The Pub and the People in fact devotes quite a bit of time to the strange phenomenon of those few oddballs who drinks pints, especially Irish navvies in their dirty, spit-and-sawdust, near-segregated pubs. Most Boltonians in 1937, especially the manliest of men, in fact drank ‘gills‘.

Binge drinking and town centre ‘no go’ areas are a new thing, too, right? Part of the collapse of our society? We already know about 1958 and 1927, but the lengthy description in The Pub and the People of a weekend in Bolton reads like an episode of Cops With Cameras in a period setting. (Bobbies with Cinematographs?)

Passing down the street observer saw a man of 30 running across the road, through the entrance of this pub, up the steps and shouting. The next second the sound of breaking glass. The man then comes tumbling down the steps with another man on top of him. They begin to fight in the middle of the street… [Later] a sergeant with a stick and  P.C. came up… ‘What’s the matter? What’s it all about? Now then, come on there, get out of it, get out of it!‘.

The pretentious bit

(OK — the more pretentious bit.) There are times when the observers’ prose reflects the poetry of its time. Some passages could pass for a lost bit of T.S. Eliot, such as this list of ‘things people do in pubs’:

A passage from the text illustrating its resemblance to poetry.

There are lots of moments where an otherwise clinical description is enlivened by a startling piece of imagery or turn of phrase, which perhaps devalue the text as ‘observation’, but make it much more pleasant to read.


We’re not sure why this book isn’t talked about more. Anyone with an interest in the history of beer and pubs in Britain ought to read it, but don’t let that ‘ought’ make you think it’s an ordeal: it’s engrossing, compelling and amusing, despite the academic framing.

Blogging and writing

Book Review: The Lost Beers & Breweries of Britain

Beer label: Fremlins County Ale

We covet Brian Glover’s experience almost as much as we envy his library.

This 160-page ‘trade’ paperback tells the story of fifty beers and/or breweries that no longer exist. The author, whose 1988 New Beer Guide is one of our go-to research texts, is a CAMRA veteran and long-time beer writer and so, in many cases, is able to draw on his own recollections, or those of acquaintances, such as CAMRA-founder Graham Lees. (The latter recalls drinking Chester’s ‘Fighting Mild’ as a 13-year-old and finding it ‘dark, hoppy and lip-smacking’.)

The Lost Beers & Breweries of Britain by Brian Glover.Where he doesn’t have first-hand experience of a particular beer, he turns to newspaper articles (he seems to have read all of them, ever) and what seems to be a particularly complete collection of brewery publications. We’ve got a few of the easy-to-find ones — Whitbread, Watney, and so on — but Glover’s years spent digging in second-hand bookshops means that he is able to refer, for example, to Seventy Years and More, an official history of the Barnsley Brewery published in 1960, as well as various beer mats, leaflets, labels and advertisements.

While certainly no coffee-table book, it is also generously illustrated, with 32 pages of colour illustrations (mostly beer labels and posters) and many more in black-and-white.

Whether you enjoy this book as much as we did will depend upon your appetite for nostalgia, but even those who prefer to live in the now might find inspiration here: Meat Stout is surely due a revival, and why do more Yorkshire breweries not make a ‘Stingo’? The story of the oddity that was Davenport’s ‘beer at home’ — delivered to the doorstep by float, done for by supermarkets — reminds us that entire business models are also waiting to be rediscovered in the age of the ‘veg box’.

Any complaints? As ever, we’d love footnotes and a bibliography, but sources are cited throughout, and the claims about the development of IPA — fast becoming the test of any beer book’s mettle — seem sound to us. (But we stand ready to be corrected if some subtlety has escaped us.) And, in contrast to Chris Arnot’s very similarly titled hardback, also published last year, there is perhaps a little too much emphasis on dates and details at the expense of people and stories.

That’s nitpicking, though. We expect to spend many years dipping into this book until it falls apart, and recommend it highly.