Blogging and writing

Top Beer Tweets Of 2015

We’ve been bookmarking and saving these beer- and pub-related Tweets all year.

Some of them we Re-Tweeted at the time; others we included in our weekly round-ups.

We hope you find something here to tickle you and maybe also a few new people to follow.

Beer history pubs

A Quick Quiz Question

The Windsor Castle by Ewan M.
The Windsor Castle by Ewan M, used with permission. Thanks, Ewan!

Why would the above pub be a particularly suitable place to drink during November?

We’ll post the answer at the end of the day.


Well done, Andrew — the Windsor Castle is the current headquarters of the Handlebar Club which celebrates moustaches with ‘graspable extremities’. Appropriate, we reckon, for ‘Movember‘.

We first came across mention of the club in a 1947 issue of LIFE magazine accompanied by this picture:

The Handlebar Club, 1947.

The American magazine describes the venue for the meeting as ‘the Temple pub’ but we haven’t been able to work out where exactly that was. (Possibly actually a restaurant?) Jimmy Edwards is in there somewhere — third from left, or is that him at the far end of the table on the right?

Here’s another pic from the same article, captioned ‘Boozer’s Droop’, and featuring a cameo from a ten-sided pint glass:

A moustachioed man with a pint glass.

bottled beer

TOP TIP: Putting Life Back into Flat Beer

A while ago, we got involved in a conversation on Twitter about how to put a head on flat beer.

You can buy a fancy-pants sonic foamer (they tried to send us a sample, it got impounded by Customs, we never retrieved it) but what lots of people recommended was a syringe. There’s more on how it works here but, basically, you squirt a mix of air and beer into the glass which introduces nitrogen into the mix like the widget in a can of Guinness.

We struggled to get hold of a syringe, though — for some reason, Penzance chemists look askance at you when you ask for one — and forgot about it. Then we realised that a testing kit we’d bought for home brewing came with a load of these small plastic pipettes:

Plastic pipettes. CREDIT: King Scientific, via Amazon.

As you can see, they turned out to be a pretty effective substitute (no sound):

It might seem a bit daft but it’s really handy when you’ve just slightly misjudged the pour, or had to leave a beer for 10 minutes to take a phone call or something.

We so often get served headless pints when we’re out and about but, realistically, we wouldn’t want to do this in the pub. You could, though, if you’re without shame, and it’s not as if the pipette weighs much.

Plus it is kind of fun: WHOOSH!


Modern Pubmanship, Part 4: Nor Any Drop to Drink

The fourth in an occasional series of guest posts by our etiquette expert R.M. Banks.

We have, as our cousins across the p. like to put it, ‘all been there’: in the pursuit of some errand of great import, you come upon a public house handsome enough to lighten the dullest eye before which resistance crumbles, and in you stride, hands rubbing together and tongue lolling in thirsty anticipation of 20 fluid ounces of something piquant and wholesome. At which, like young Harker hoofing across the threshold of Castle Dracula, What ho!-ing freely, you confront a scene of infinite horror: there is not one beer on the bar counter worth your time, your precious coinage, or the strain on the old sock which serves in place of your liver.

‘Oh, you are being fussy again, Banks,’ you say, pooh-poohing, and, I dare say, wagging a digit. Well, I tell you, I am not – the most flexible of practitioners would struggle to limbo beneath my standards, which lie as close to rock-bottom as is possible without holing the hull. (Have I mixed my metaphors? No matter. We must plough on. (Oh, bother — there’s another one.))


Modern Pubmanship, Part 3: Broken Glasses

The third in an occasional series of guest posts by our etiquette expert R.M. Banks.

Having downed a goblet of Banks’s patented hangover cure, I find myself enjoying a moment of clarity in regard to a question that has been floating in the cranial ullage like a cellarman’s cigarette end: Should one, in this progressive age, emit a cheer when a glass is smashed by the barkeep?

‘Surely, Banks,’ you cry, haughtily (yes, I’m afraid these interjections of yours do strike me as haughty, and, there — now I’ve said it) ‘there are more pressing matters to which you might apply the newly-honed razor-like edge of the Great Brain? Affairs of nations, or matters metaphysical?’

To which I say: Many a mickle makes a muckle, and refuse to be drawn further on the matter.

Now, if you’ll only be quiet for a moment, let us away to the Red Lion, where we lay our scene: it is a busy Wednesday evening, shall we say, the usual crowd gathered around the quiz machine, and a hum of conversation almost equal in volume to the hum of the antique cheese rolls on the back bar. Then, in an instant, this idyll is disturbed: as if it were a greased aubergine, Bert the Hat’s favourite handled jug springs from the barkeep’s moist palms and onto the flagstones, whereupon it makes a sounds as of bells of gold, and retires from its long career as a vessel suitable for containing liquids.

For a sliver of a second, blessed silence falls, and then… well, what?