COVID-19: We Aren't Gathered Here Together

Last weekend it was Easter. I am a 'wishy-washy Anglican' (not actually my words, but I have been called thus) and only really attend Church at the major religious festivals - Christmas, Easter and Whitsun being the big dates in my calendar. Of course, this year I could not go to Church - no one can - and I missed it. I missed singing the songs and saying the prayers; I missed turning to my fellow members of the congregation and wishing them peace and good will. And I missed them doing the same for me. I missed that communal feeling.

For the same reason, I love watching sports and theatre; I enjoy a shared experience. Knowing that you feel the same thing as others is a wonderful thing. When I breathe in the hallowed turf of Anfield, it is a spiritual moment; all the home players and supporters know what I mean - we stand and sing together and no one cares how out of tune we are; we are in time. Our time. Any true fan will tell you the same (although they will worship at a different shrine). 

When the curtain raises on the stage and everyone takes a collective breath, we are all waiting to see what unfolds together. This moment will never be repeated - every performance is different - and we know we are privileged to witness it. And when the curtain falls and people applaud, they do it together. I have been part of a cast that received a standing ovation. It was magical and unforgettable. We did it for the audience and the audience appreciated us; and we were one. It was incredible.

I like listening to a band, but I prefer going to a gig or a festival. I don't need to then hear this gig again; I'm not a fan of live albums because generally the sound quality isn't as good, and the whole point is the being there. I am pleased the National Theatre, The Globe and the RSC are screening some of their performances so we can all enjoy things that we couldn't otherwise see - but we are still watching them alone. The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd is missing. (Yes, that was deliberate.)

'Queen Elizabeth viewing the performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, at the Globe in Merrie England' by David Scott

I like a drink as much as the next person. But there's a reason I go to pubs and clubs, even if the beer is often ridiculously overpriced. I like the atmosphere of sharing things with like-minded folk. Restaurants and cafes are better when they're busy (not cramped and heaving full, but with a low-level hum of noise). Silence is good when it is shared. Have you had a moment's silence in public? Then you know what I mean: there is nothing more moving than a collective memorial. 

Over the last few weeks I have held many on-line conversations and 'attended' conferences and meetings; I have done group trivia quizzes and play readings; I have watched re-runs of football matches and 'live' theatre. But I have missed the physicality. I will stay at home, and I will practice the physical distancing, because it saves lives and that's what matters. But when all this is over, I will find my flock and I will join them again, and we will sing our songs. 

Because it may be elitist; it may be exclusive; but being there is everything.

And Why Not?

Mustn't Grumble by Joe Bennett

(Simon & Schuster), Pp. 280

Joe Bennett lives in Christchurch, New Zealand where he writes columns for syndicated newspapers and books of witticisms and comment. In the introduction to this book he writes, “I am English, but I have spent most of my adult life abroad. When a publisher asked me if I would like to come back, travel around England for a bit and write a book about it, I said yes.” Well, who wouldn’t? Inspired by the 1927 work of H.V. Morton, In Search of England, he decides to follow his footsteps, but by hitch-hiking his away around the country. He soon falls out of love with both Morton and the attempt to hitch-hike as he finds no one stops.

Although he has lived abroad for nearly 25 years, Joe Bennett still identifies with his home country. “I remain English and will die English. And I am happy with that. In a primal way over which I have no control, I still love the place.” He relishes peculiarities and idiosyncrasies, from the way accents indicate class as much as regions, to the courtesy of motorway driving (he borrows a friend’s Audi to tour the country) or “the remarkable ability of the English to eat ice cream in chilly weather.” He even enjoys the climate, the delight in bemoaning which lends his book its self-deprecating title.

Most of his daily excursions finish at the pub. “I am often asked if there is anything I miss about England. There isn’t. I have lived so long abroad that I don’t yearn. If I did, I’d come back. But there are some things that I relish when I do come back and one of those is pubs.” He is definitive about what constitutes a good pub. “People come in to talk to whoever happens to be there… They laugh a lot. There is nothing that cannot be discussed... It’s a coincidence of paths, a random intersection of lives that will never come again. We meet, we laugh, we go away again. I like that.” As anyone who has left England and returned, he notices the lack of space and the sense of history and culture, “There are few parts of this cramped country that have not been written about. It’s going to be hard to escape literature on this trip. I don’t think I’ll bother to try.”

His attitude is generally affectionate, but he doesn’t love everything. He dislikes the council buildings of the 1950s, thrown up in haste and unfortunately permanent. Like many before him, he bemoans the utilitarian modernity and there is a hint of axe grinding in his scathing assessment, “Cathedrals strive so hard to deny that they’ve become theme parks.”

He is a good writer, able to make the commonplace interesting. Squirrels “ripple across the grass, their spines undulating like waves along a skipping rope…” While mainly direct, he occasionally becomes verbose when he warms to a theme, such as when he writes of the lack of response received at the breakfast table.

Joe Bennett has asked many people (usually in his pub conversations) what it means to them to be English. While many are proud to be so, they have struggled to define it. Some can only express their identity by knowing what it is not, and what it is not is European. (This book was published in 2006; ten years before Brexit). The image of Englishness perplexes him, as he notes that Morton was harking back to an England he expected his readers to want and so he delivered it to them. 

Bennett is frequently told that the old way of life has changed due to progress and immigration. He concedes he is in no position to judge whether England is overrun by migrants, as he has mostly seen the England of the shires. “Yet I have heard any number of middle-class, middle-aged whites, most of them living in towns that are ninety-eight per cent white, telling me that immigration is ruining the country.”

He soon grows weary of H.V. Morton and his elegiac prose, which he feels is calculating and was propagandist even when written. Bennett begins to deliberately stray from Morton and his beaten track because he feels he is being manipulated. “I don’t want stuff packaged. I don’t want my way to be eased...” He would rather drop in unexpectedly on places and take them as they are. 

He is a curmudgeon who won’t be patronised. He thinks of himself as a free spirit, wandering the countryside at will, while most at home propping up the bar and chatting to strangers without commitments or consequences. He finds humour in adversity and fascination in mundanity. If H.V. Morton went in search of England, then Joe Bennett probably found it.

Friday Five: Clubbed on the head

Apparently the number of clubs in the UK has halved over the past decade. In 2005 there were 3,144 nightclubs in Britain: now there are 1,733. 

I used to love clubbing, going to gigs and going out dancing - often after the pubs closed at 11pm, but then I lived in Manchester between 1990-1996 when it was good to be alive.

The pub was a great place to catch up with mates, talk utter nonsense and drink good beer. Sometimes there was a pub quiz or a football match to watch if you couldn't afford SKY TV, or get a ticket to the game, or just wanted to be sociable.

Bands in pubs (unless they are specific music venues, or feature an acoustic set in a corner which doesn't dominate all else) completely kill the atmosphere as you can't hear a word anyone says. If I walk into a pub which has karaoke, I walk straight out again (there are perfectly good karaoke bars for that sort of exhibitionism).

I understand pubs and clubs must change to keep up with changing times, but must they all just become the bland and boring same?

5 Favourite Clubs from Manchester Days:

1. The Hacienda - it's a cliche but it's true; it was a top night out, with 'banging tunes' and a side-serving of edgy Mancs
2. The Ritz - that bouncy wooden floor from the days of ballroom dancing; that balcony viewing for looking down from above; the way you knew it was time to cop off or clear out when they started playing Sympathy for the Devil
3. The Academy - simply rave-tastic
4. Jilly's Rockworld - sticky carpets and all: four floors to suit any musical taste from long-haired prog-rock (apparently; I never went to that floor), to 80's kitch, contemporary jump-around beats, and the cool kids techno in the basement
5. Home - the night after the bomb when they played nothing but Manchester music, I even danced to The Fall. I've never felt so much affection for a city. 'If it's not love then it's the bomb that will bring us together'.

Friday Five: Getting High

  

Pink bubbles at Madame Brussels

One of the many things I like about Melbourne is her buildings. Old sandstone edifices erected in the wake of the gold rush are given new life with steel and glass designs while maintaining their classic integrity. The skyline reflected in the river; the Shrine of Remembrance hailing from the end of the avenue; the bustling and strangely elegant Flinders Street Station opposite the unashamedly flamboyant Federation Square with its focus on tourism, events and hospitality; and the sprinkling of churches and town halls on the tram thoroughfares all add up to a vibrant, eclectic and appealing cityscape.

And those Melburnians aren't afraid to take their buildings to new heights. While I was there recently, I discovered a 'thing' for rooftop bars. I know they're nothing new, but around the city pubs and bars have decided to maximise space (and sunshine) by putting patrons on the roof. And because some of these buildings are relatively high compared with their neighbours, if you're lucky you will get both views and fresh air.

5 Melbourne Rooftop Bars:

1. The Rooftop - Seven floors up (the lift wasn't working when we visited) it serves fine views along with champagne, cider and cheeseburgers. From December to March it also operates as a cinema complete with stripy deckchairs. 
2. Madame Brussels - Inspired by a German brother-keeper, the theme is pink and white stripes with sparkling rosé, cocktails, punch, cheese plates, fondues and an innuendo-laden menu.
3. Palmz at the Carlton - Kitsch and cheerful with faux flamingos and other exotic beasts, and plenty of palm trees as a backdrop to your piña colada. Fortunately, the bar also stocks a range of good beers, so you don't have to drink the eponymous brew.
4. Campari House - Wood-fired pizzas and an extensive wine list make this tucked-away corner down a land and up the stairs a wonderful find. The distant lights of the city hum and shine as you relax with plastic turf beneath your feet.
5. Aer Bar, European Bier Cafe - Well-stocked with Belgian and German favourites, this bar could be pricey but we stumbled (literally) across half-price European beer night and so had Leffes, Hoegaardens and Erdingers with a cool breeze after a hot day - a 'misting system' keeps temperatures down during the daylight hours.

Join the Rebellion!

The Rebellion Beer Company have an open day on the first Thursday of the month – for £10 you get five pints and a talk/tour of the brewery. My Dad and I were some of the first there, but eventually there were a few hundred people present; when it rained we all huddled among the brewing equipment to drink our beer without getting wet.

I began with a Blonde (4.3%); ‘using only pale and lager malts, giving the beer a very light golden colour’, it is a fair and refreshing ale, smelling of hay and tasting of summer meadows. I moved on to Flagship (4.2%), a stimulating amber number with strong notes of toasted hazlenuts and a smooth mouthfeel that I considered to be very sessionable. So did many others, apparently, as it was soon sold out. The mild also sold out early on, so I didn’t get to try it on this occasion.

The IPA (3.7%) was so much better than one I had previously had at a pub (I won’t mention the name as I think it may just have been a one-off). It was nutty and tasty with complex flavours. This and the Mutiny were my favourite. The Mutiny is more malty and darker in colour, but the hops add a nice balance and it’s stronger at 4.5%.

(Admission – I was drinking while note-taking through this talk, so some of this may be not entirely factually correct – i.e. made up. Feel free to send in amendments.)

The tour was taken by Mark Gloyens, one of the brewery founders, and, although we had had several beers by now, it was still entertaining and informative. In the 1970s, Britain went from having 7,000 breweries to 200. The big breweries took over (80% were owned by the conglomerates) and it was all about the pubs. In 1989 Margaret Thatcher’s government introduced the beer orders, restricting the number of tied pubs that could be owned by large brewery groups in the UK to 2,000, and required large brewer landlords to allow a guest ale to be sourced by tenants from someone other than their landlord. (Shock – she actually did something decent!) There are now around 400 microbreweries in the country.

Rebellion makes 70,000 pints a week – they use this figure because people can picture it better than 200-300 brewers’ barrels. Next year will be their 20th in business, so a little history...

Two boys from Sir William Borlase’s Grammar School used to perk up to the smell of brewing from local Marlow brewery, Wethered’s (on Wednesday afternoons as I recall – I used to make the detour on my way home from school). The earliest record of a brewer on the site is from Thomas Wethered’s brewing of 1750. However, due to some of the reasons stated above, Wethered’s closed down in 1987, and the town (and local drinkers) suffered. For example, The Hand and Flowers (well-known haunt to all Borlase pupils) had to get their beer from Cheltenham (more than 100km distant).

So one day as the ex-Borlase boys were having a drink after a game of cricket, they promised to re-start Marlow’s brewing industry. 1993 was not a good year for the brewing industry, and the banks wouldn’t give them a £2,000 unsecured loan, so Mark sold his house and used the capital to start the business. He explained that they could double as a brewery museum, since most of their equipment comes from other local breweries which have closed in the last 30 years. Their test-batch was made in second-hand equipment from Courage’s brewhouse in Reading.

They started employing three people and making 5,000 pints a week. Now they produce 70,000 and employ 50 people. As there are about 400 people in attendance at the tour, it’s fair to say they are popular and successful. They sell 20% of their beer in the shop, 20% in bottles, and 60% in pubs. Their recent growth is 15% (through word of mouth, mainly), and they are now at 110% capacity and don’t want to grow any more.

Hence they have made a concerted effort to cut down on ‘exports’, which they consider to be anything outside of Buckinghamshire, Berkshire and Oxfordshire. This is because the closer to a brewery it is, the better the cask-conditioned real ale (made with yeast and sugar) will be. To this end, they have stopped selling to supermarkets (except Waitrose) by pushing the price up until the supermarkets stopped buying it.

Ideally they don’t want to sell Rebellion further than a distance of 30 miles from the brewery. They maintain that if you go to Yorkshire there will be a microbrewery within 20 miles selling beer as good as (or possibly even better than) theirs, and they would rather you drink that and keep the local microbrewing industry alive.

They paid the same duty rate as big breweries, which almost caused them to close ten years ago, and then Gordon Brown as Chancellor introduced progressive beer duty relief for small breweries in 2002. The measure halves duty tax for brewers making less than 50,000 litres a week, and tapers duty up to 300,000 litres. Rebellion now pays 60% of the duty, and all their profit comes from duty saved.

Twenty years ago the boys took a strain of yeast from another brewery (RHC Brewery in North Somerset, I think) and kept it alive. It has naturally mutated over the past two decades and has become specifically Rebellion Yeast, which has been put in the DNA bank so that it will remain the same and result in consistency of brewing.

At Rebellion the water is ‘Burtonised’ – a process by which sulphate is added (often in the form of gypsum) to bring out the flavour of the hops. Many minerals have been removed by the chalky Chiltern water and need to be replaced. (Burton-on-Trent brewed what was deemed perfect pale ale in the early eighteenth century, and people have attempted to recreate that water ever since.) The calcium reduces the pH which should be about 4 for beer (wine is 3); if it is too high the beer will be soapy, so sulphate is added. The final fermentation of the beer is completed at between 10-12°, and then an opened cask of beer needs to be drunk in two days – happy to help!

Quiet Zones

I am sitting in the library trying to work. Until our internet connection is established at home, this is the only place I can do so. And yet I am struggling, because of the deafening screams of children. Yes, that’s right, in the library.

There is a glass rectangle marked ‘quiet zone’. It looks like some sort of modern art installation or version of a torture chamber where prisoners are contained in the see-through cage with the sun beating down. It is opposite the ‘play area’ and it is not sound-proofed. It is deafening, and my idea of hell.

Inevitably questions arise: Why is there a ‘play area’ in a library? I understand the need to introduce children to the wonderful world of reading and even for the horror that is story-time, but why isn’t this separate, maybe in a windowless basement? Shouldn’t these children (and their parents) also be taught the need to respect others; for their privacy and their desire for silence? To read or study (and this library is next-door to a large college) in peace?

It’s no secret that two of my favourite things in life are books and beer/ wine. It follows, therefore, that two of my favourite activities are reading and drinking, and by logical consequence that two of my favourite locations should be libraries and pubs. Until recently, this was indeed so. Now they are all but ruined by children.

Okay, so I know that people think I don’t like children. This isn’t true. What I dislike intensely is rude and inconsiderate behaviour by people of any age. Children appear to display this more and more frequently with the tacit (and often open) approval of their parents. If you don’t believe me, just try complaining when a child shrieks in your ear as you try to type in the library or runs into you and spills your pint in the pub.

Certain areas should have designated behaviours. I wouldn’t go to a park and be annoyed by children squealing on the swings. Noisy participation is all to be encouraged at a Wiggles concert. Brightly-coloured plastic toys and high-pitched appreciation of rubber food are what I would expect at fast-food outlets. And as far as I’m concerned you can do pretty much whatever you want in your own home.

But please, just stay out of my space. And if we really have to interact in it, can we do so by the rules? Quietly? I’m not alone in this. The poor young woman opposite me, who has been trying to study, has given up and packed up her books to go somewhere more peaceful – the airport, perhaps. She sighed as she departed and wished me good luck, before suggesting I should invest in a pair of headphones if I wanted any silence in the library. Good advice, perhaps, but should I really have to?

What is England?

Wells & Young's advertise their Bombadier as the drink of England and they have some fantastic posters featuring all things English from bowler hats to pantomime horses. I particularly like Les Dawson dressed as Queen Elizabeth, although the Kiwis might get a bit upset about the rugby ball. It made me think about - What is England? What represents it? What do I miss about it? Apart from the people - it's the pubs, the football, the scenery, the history, the drama, the music and the humour - not necessarily in that order.

Wells & Young's have been campaigning to have St George's Day declared a national holiday for the past 15 years. So far they have had no luck, but their beer is still quite nice. I shall be sure to have a pint, and partake of a few other English ales on my national saint's day. Bottoms up!

Thanks to Neil Miller at The Malthouse blog for drawing my attention to these posters.

Oysters and IPA

The Arrow Brewery is one of our favourite things in Arrowtown – in fact, one of the reasons we moved back to Arrowtown was so that we could walk to the pub. And what a pub it is!

To coincide with the Bluff oyster season, which begins on 1st March, the good folk at the brewery have launched (quite literary) a new beer. This is their take on the IPA (one of my favourite styles). They claim the beer perfectly complements the tangy taste of the oysters. Well, we’ll be the judges of that!

Because IPAs were originally transported from England to India they needed to survive the long sea journey without spoiling. Many hops were added and the gravity was lowered resulting in a strong, bitter ale with high alcohol content.

It’s not quite a passage to India, but the Foveaux Strait has challenges of its own and the barrel was hoisted onto an oyster boat to endure a mini sea journey, accompanied by brewers Darryl and John keeping a close eye on their precious cargo. They also kept out of the way of the oyster catchers (Marina Fish and Oysters of Invercargill) who were working hard to provide everyone with a little (shell)fishy when the boat comes in.

And when the boat did return to shore, the boys got the beer and a giant sack of oysters and made their way back to the pub in Arrowtown where we waiting for this inspirational combination. There was no shortage of helpers to remove the barrel from the back of the ute and the beer was delivered to the hand pump inside where it flowed freely to the punters on the other side of the bar.

The conclusion is that it is better warmer – and it was served at the right temperature here; many Kiwis can’t get their heads around the fact that you don’t have to freeze all the flavour out of beer it it’s any good. It’s got an intense nutty essence and the bitter hops balance the sugary malts perfectly. Almost like barley wine it is 8.1% strength (‘I think’ said Greg) but it is soft and gentle with a velvet mouth-feel that belies the alcohol content.

As for whether it goes well with oysters? Move over sauvignon blanc: this is the new perfect accompaniment. Those plump Bluff beauties were being shucked in the courtyard by a trio of blokes who seemed to know what they were doing (this is not a metaphor; they really were opening the oyster shells and pulling out the meat – that’s not one either).

Each glass of IPA came with a fresh oyster glistening in its shell. You could have them served in a tempura batter, but that would seem almost like overdressing them – they were simply sublime as nature intended.

There is no better way to start the week (and we’ll be back regularly to check on the progress of that ale). Now, that’s the sort of Monday I really do like!

This story was featured on Campbell Live. Check out their footage here.

You lucky, lucky...

I have always wanted to be snowed in. It's a sort of ambition of mine. That time at Digbeth Coach Station doesn't count. Nor does the skiiing holiday in Norway - that's sort of expected, really, isn't it?

One New Year's Eve (2005) we went walking with Screy Sis and Mr Smartypants to the Old Lion Inn in Blakely. It was a cold walk (hence we were wrapped up warm).

As we began to thaw out by the fire, even those who don't drink (that would be Scarey Sis then) soon got a glow on.

As for those that do (and the Old Peculier was going down very nicely thank you very much) they were positively Ready Brek!

Sadly, although it was cold, there was no snow that night, and we were home and tucked up in bed snoring soundly by about two minutes past midnight. So I have nothing but envy for those stuck in the Tan Hill Inn (this fabulous atmospheric picture by Richard Quirk) - they got a three-day lock-in! Being snowed in over New Year's Eve in a pub must surely be a dream come true. The only danger is of the beer running out.

It was no surprise to learn that among those 'stranded' were members of DOSS AC - this is the club to which Him Outdoors belongs. They hail from Leeds University and are often to be found running up and down hills, drinking pints in or outside pubs and wearing a particularly virulent shade of yellow. That would doubtless help them be spotted in a blizzard. Whether anyone would then choose to rescue them or not is another matter... Here they are outside another pub; see what I mean!

What a way to usher in 2010 - now there would be a good reason for a sore head. I suppose there is a slight feeling of how can things possibly get better than that? As they say at the Tan Hill Inn; it's all donwhill from here. (Actually, I don't know if they do say that, but they should - highest pub in the country and all that).

Lake Hayes Mistake

A couple of weeks ago I had occasion to go to a newish housing development – Lake Hayes Estate – and it got me thinking about homes and communities.

This place was originally established as ‘affordable family housing’ although with an average sale price of $604,000, I’m not sure about their definition of the word ‘affordable’; a vile subjective term anyway.

Some of the houses are well-appointed and incorporate some intelligent examples of design. Others are simply hideous. And they are all lined up in neat little rows with double garages and tidy lawns.

They are surrounded by mountains and sunk down in a dip so you can’t see from the road, which means they can’t see the beautiful lake for which they are named. In fact, many of them can’t see anything except next-door’s fence.

So I suppose their occupants go to work all day in Queenstown, or possibly Arrowtown, while their children are at schools or kindergartens. They come home to their fortress, pull the curtains, and put their feet up, happy in their nuclear, suburban, Stepford Wives existence.

When I was there I didn’t see a soul, apart from the rubbish collector. There is a park where children can play, which is laid with Astroturf and fenced off from predators. There is no café, there are no shops and there is certainly no pub.

When we moved to our house, one of the reasons for choosing the location was so that we could walk to the local village and go to the pub. I realise this may not be everyone’s priority, but what happens when they run out of bread or milk? They have to get in a car and drive to the supermarket. It’s not the sort of place that encourages ‘thinking outside the box’ (another vile expression). Living in one? That’s another matter.

Neither does it encourage community. The propaganda calls it a township, which to me has sinister connotations of segregation and apartheid. There are walkways so you can pop round to your friend’s house, if they live in the same estate as you. As it is not on the way to anywhere, the roads are quiet so the kids could ride their bikes, if there were any in evidence. It is safe and secure and sterile. We used to call these sorts of places cul-de-sacs, or dead ends.

William Morris promoted the idea of community or fellowship – “Fellowship is heaven, and lack of fellowship is hell; fellowship is life, and lack of fellowship is death; and the deeds that ye do upon the earth, it is for fellowship’s sake ye do them.”

But there is no evidence of fellowship here. No laughter or conversation. But wait, I saw one – a tree house in a walnut grove. It was a prime example of youthful enthusiasm and breaking the rules in a totally harmless way. It will probably be removed soon. This is not a place for fun, learning, or exploration.

Sadly these days people are forming ‘communities’ with virtual strangers on their electronic antisocial networking pages. They would rather stay in their house with the metaphorical drawbridge firmly raised rather than meet folk for a pint down the pub. The clean, barren impersonality of Lakes Hayes Estate may well be the way of the future. I hope not. I think it’s a big mistake.