Friday, March 21, 2008


It's the post modern fusion of drinking and blogging.... formerly known simply as pissed-up-blogging, and like pissed-up-texting is usually something to be avoided at all costs.

I fly in the face of convention and bring you a drunken rant.

Attending a beer festival is always a mixture of pleasure and pain. The pleasure is quite transparently the delicious and varied range of ales readily on offer. The pain, probably a bit less obvious to non-frequenters of such events comes in the shape of strange people with plastic bottles and funnels and reams of printed literature, scrutinising the half-pint measure lines for the slightest discrepancy.

I even saw one myopic lady tapping her glass with a pen to make the beer reach that elusive half-pint measure line.

I could swear at this point.

The other side of beer festivals is people like me.... ready to talk to people, ready to enjoy drinking the beer instead of sipping it and bottling it and weighing and measuring its specific gravity..... a beer festival to me is about more than beer, it's a festival too.

And so.... I wanted to give you a simple flavour of my tasting notes from today.... they made me smile.... perhaps they will work on you too....

Beer No. 1: Brewdog's Hop Rocker - Delicate, refreshing, hoppy, almost like lager.

Beer No. 7: Derwent's Local bitter - Like being mashed around the gob by a bag of hazel nuts.

There seemed little point in trying to further analyse beer other than to just drink the bloody stuff.

Suffice to say....

Hooray for Fred.... a good beer festival companion.

Hooray for Folly the Star Inn's resident dog (aged 6 tomorrow).

Hooray for Tizzi, the Star Inn's aloof tabby cat (age unknown).

Hooray for beer.

Hooray for the Star Inn, Huddersfield.


  1. The time to move on, Fox, becomes obvious to all when men, sporting beards flecked with yesterday's cheese and onion pie, shod in open toe sandals with socks inside and with their barrel shaped torso's cocooned in the kind of hand knit fishermen's ganseys that real fishermen long since exchanged for dayglo Goretex jackets, cup a single hand to one ear and, with a slightly crazed and glazed gleam sparkling in their unfocussed bloodshot eyes, begin a monotone rendition of Ewan McColl's ode to the joys of a romantic liason on the canal towpaths of some northern, soot stained, industrial metropolis.

  2. Glad to hear someone paid attention to the festival part of the Beer Festival!

    They do weird festivals here. Any excuse for a party, I swear. Check out It's a festival near here in honor of a chicken who lived for 18 months without his head. No kidding.

    :o) BJ