Short, dark night of the soul

To the St Teresa of Avila (my patron saint) social club in Birkdale yesterday and a free bar and buffet to celebrate the First Holy Communion of my wonderful nephew.

When there’s no cask beer, I normally make for the Bloody Mary’s, but as this was a kiddies party, getting hammered wouldn’t have gone down well, so Tetley dark mild was given a go.

This is a beer I love on cask, but it disappointed badly on keg. First of all, it comes out ice cold, with all the subtle flavours bashed into a box under the stairs. What you’re left with is something a bit like a weak Guinness but without the redeeming creamy mouthfeel and full-bodied middle.

Wondering what sort of person drinks this night after night, I decided to delve deeper into sin, getting crack-house-whore dirty and ordering a Carlsberg Extra Cold.

The beer has no flavour other than a dry and chemical hit of alcohol. It’s ice cold and gassy and leaves a ‘chips and scampi’ aftertaste. It’s terrible, feckin terrible, not even as good as a can of barbecue lager.

Yet, why is there a moreish quality?

Is it the alcohol-kick? The lab-rat mucking around that leaves you thirsty after finishing a pint? The secret addition of cocaine in the brewing process?

There was a time when pub opinion had it that if you could only educate people about the joys of real ale then we’d see off the lager filth for good.

But as I made inroads into a second pint, the people told me Carlsberg extra cold is a “great pint”, with a “beer is beer and does what beer does” attitude.

These people don’t want Sheep Lifter ale or Old Cawliflower Hen, as they see the real ale choice, they want adult Coca Cola, cold, fizzy, dry with an instant alcohol cock-slap to the chops.

Real ale missionaries have really got their work cut out.