So the pint is done with we’re told!

Well what would they say in Prague, where refreshing pilsners stand proud in tall half litre glasses, quenching thirsts almost with their looks and frothy gusto alone.

Tell the football fans sinking a pint of bitter before the well trodden march to the ground that their beer will be served in flutes or tulips or whisky tumblers. “Like hell” they cry!

The ugliness of a nonik pint glass aside (does anyone use one at home?), the pint, and the pint glass, is an important measure of beer and heritage that should not be done away with.

The Humble Pint

The two third measure – and add to that beers of 2-3% ABV which are seeing a resurgence – will fill an important piece of the drinking puzzle in the UK, where a half never suffices and a pint can be crammed too easily into too short a space.

And we should firmly encourage the open embrace these opportunities extend to us, just as we should openly embrace a more diverse and appropriate appreciation of glassware. Any trip to Belgium will reveal the theatre and enjoyment of a beer drawn in it’s own peculiar glass served with the aplomb of an expensive long cocktail.

But beer isn’t wine or whisky or a white russian.

Beer is unique in its ubiquity and its diversity. And its price range too. There’s a beer for every occasion – refreshment, celebration, reverence, gastronomy, solace and lubrication.

A Belgian triple is undeniably better in a angular chalice with a volcanic head lifted by the incessant bubbles of strategically placed nicks in the glass. An aromatic IPA, strong and robust, requires a voluptuous curve to protect the aroma and limit the portion. Cherry beer fizzing and frothing in a flute would lose all it’s charm and pizazz transferred to a conical pint glass.

But none of these requirements demand the extinction of the great pint, all five hundred and sixty eight millilitres of it. It would be like recalculating the marathon, famously stuck at twenty six miles three hundred and eight five yards since the British tweaked and tangled with the route in the lead up to the 1908 Olympics in London.

Not all things are worth saving in the name of habit or nostalgia, but neither should we do away with something so useful and iconic when the pint is such a well worn part of our daily drinking.

Half pints at the Grove

With handle and I

Chalice or pint?

Two pint take home?

Tonight I went to 3 pubs I’ve never been to before. I’ve lived near them all for over 3 years, but tonight was the first time I’d ventured over their thresholds.

I’ve long believed that much more than the smoking ban has caused the British local to wither to it’s current state. I’m right as well, I know it. I don’t doubt the smoking ban has exasperated problems that some pubs faced, but there are many more issues that have led to bars, clubs and people’s living rooms beating pubs to share of wallet.

Tonight is a micro example, a tiny embodiment of how things have changed yet not changed in Britain. I will write about this another time and in greater detail, but to summarise my thoughts, the demise of British pub is finite, it’s a numbers game and it won’t end in extinction, merely a change of nomenclature and form.

The first pub we visited tonight, I will never go back to. It was rubbish. They promote local music and serve local people, which should be applauded, but it smelt and the music was shite (it may keep me up all night, up all night…) The band played Van Halen and Bon Jovi badly.

The second pub looked twice as good from the outside. It was lively: impromptu darts and possibly impromptu karaoke thrived. There was a nice lounge but a decrepit bar. The bar staff were downright ignorant. We felt completely unwelcome. Newcomers? How dare they come in here and spend money.

The third was the liveliest of the establishments, with a full on disco visible only when you hit the front porch. Remarkably, it was the most amendiable to conversation. Perhaps we’d just warmed up, lubricated with two pints previously. Or perhaps signs of human life simply woke us up. And possibly the bar staff, who were all remarkably attractive.

On a less positive note, midway through our first pint of cooking lager, my good friend was told “I’d nut you, but I can’t be arsed.” We drank two pints each there and chatted enthusiastically between us. Apparently that’s enough to piss off some of the twats that live in this country.

If you think I’m being snobby, at one point police officers were called to quell the increasingly tense mood. Just prior to this, 6 chaps had left the pub in a particularly argumentative moment, and only 3 came back. I can only presume the other three left with broken pride if not broken noses.

The British pub is alive and well in many places. Despite probably 1/3 of pubs around my area being boarded up, the ones that aren’t are doing a fine trade. There’s little in the way of cask ale, there’s little in the way of customer service, but the people love and hold dearly these locals that are their preference over heading into the city centre.

These locals won’t die out soon, but they will diminish in numbers. And the reason? They are bloody horrible places to go to. Increasingly they will serve a smaller audience, and, unfortunately, where better pubs could historically do well, the image of worse pubs will mean that the public house is an inferior alternative to the modern living room.