26 A pint of Old Profanity

Thursday night used to be quiz night at the Farrier’s Arms. The questions were never too demanding; a lot of them you could answer in your sleep. Let’s be straight, the “comet” is always Halley’s. The “literary prize” is always the Booker. The “art prize” is always the Turner. The “medieval writer” is always Chaucer. The “famous diarist” is always Samuel Pepys. The “medical journal” is always The Lancet. And the “garden designer” is always ‘Capability’ Brown.

Landlord Brian abandoned The Big Book of Pub Quiz Questions - they were too trivial, he said - and started to compile his own. He decided it was time to ask his customers some of life’s more challenging questions. He didn’t get further than number one, "Why are we here?": a subject that’s preoccupied mankind ever since we started walking upright. A discussion turned into a heated argument, which, in that combustible, beer-fuelled atmosphere, degenerated into a fist fight. That evening’s prize, a mixed grill, was trampled underfoot; the pile of pennies on the bar, earmarked for the brave (but under-employed) men of the Whimsey Mountain Rescue Team, was knocked over prematurely.

That unfortunate episode marked the end of quiz nights. Brian keeps a pepper-pot and a pick-axe handle behind the bar these days, but he hasn't needed to use them. Thursday nights are convivially conversational... well, until a stranger strides up to the bar. Brian sweeps his hand across the beer pumps with proprietorial pride. “What will you have?”, he asks. “A pint”, the stranger replies. Brian sweeps his hand across the pumps once again, for dramatic effect, cocks his head to one side and raises one quizzical eyebrow. “Which one?”, the stranger says, impatiently. “Oh, it doesn’t matter”.

The room goes quiet. The locals shuffle uneasily along the bar. Old Bert, aiming for double top, misses the board entirely and throws his dart into the wall. Beer, you see, is taken very seriously at the Farrier’s. If the choice of beer doesn’t matter then the lives of most of the pub regulars are rendered meaningless at a stroke.

Brian has beers to suit all tastes. The budget option is a cheap ‘cooking bitter’, so weak it’s almost homeopathic. It arrives already watered down, which saves him the trouble. He’s got premium beers, with daft names, from local micro-breweries. He’s got fancy foreign lagers (all brewed in Warrington). He’s got a range of Belgian fruit beers, brewed by monks (who are bound by a vow of silence... especially about where the beers are actually made. Yes, Warrington).

So go on, nip down to your local. Pick a quiet night - so you can enjoy the satisfaction of shouting “drinks all round” at the startled regulars - and get the party started. Order a pint of Old Profanity, without regard for the consequences. Strong beer only attacks the weakest brain cells (the stragglers, cells that probably wouldn't have survived anyway) so a pint or two will actually help to make you more intelligent. Or, at the very least, more gullible. Cheers!