Joining in with the newly re-awakened The Session beer bloggers prompt challenge
“The Session” is a monthly prompt-based writing challenge aimed at getting more people writing about beer. I couldn’t take part last month for the first edition of this newly revamped season, so I’ve made doubly sure I submitted something this time around.
Everyone is encouraged to join in. If you have time today, scribble down a couple of hundred words based on the topic and share it via the instructions here.
I drink more at home than I used to, and that’s 100% down to budgetary requirements. I’ve got a lot of travelling to do this year which means trips to Manchester for afternoons on the booze have been stripped from the finance spreadsheet (a fully metaphorical spreadsheet you understand, money is more a concept based on vibes and hope in this house.) Instead I’ve found myself drinking at home when I’d normally be at the pub, becoming one of the people within that grey, faceless mass that are implored to Support Local. Use it or lose it. Well, I’m afraid I did lose it — have I mentioned recently that my bar closed down a couple years ago?
Sorry, I digress. What I mean, really, is that instead of buying overpriced pints of lager or Guinness by the round in pubs near me, I’ve been saving my pennies for one or two really good pub pints per weekend. This leaves Friday and Saturday nights free for watching old Alice in Chains concerts on YouTube and drinking bottles of beer we brought back from Cologne, or bottles I’ve had stored in the cupboard for a rainy day.
My favourite beer to drink in my living room while Layne Staley rips another vortex into my soul has been Reissdorf Kolsch (no surprises there) and Sobremesa’s stout. Full disclosure, Sobremesa sent me a box of their beers and ciders because I’m starting working with them next month (MONDAY???) but I was wholly impressed by the stark bitterness and depth of their Farmer’s Dark Ale. It’s an oatmeal stout made with their farmhouse yeast (go on their website, it’s really interesting) and during a time where everyone is complaining about the ubiquitousness of Guinness and wondering what’s next, it was refreshing. I don’t expect Sobremesa to become a global concern — they are too bothered about the environment and their lovely fruit orchard for all that — but I hope some of you try their beers after reading this. Or visit their tap room in Wales. Because while supporting local is important, the parroting of this phrase has stripped it a little of its intent. I’d rather support independent breweries and bars who are doing actual good in the world, and making great beer, than pouring my coppers into the tills of places I can only really see myself drinking San Miguel in.
This piece was originally written for Ferment, and published in issue 112: Love Your Pub in December 2024. You can sign up for their monthly beer club and magazine here.
In he comes, round feet and chunky legs first, bursting through the front door of our local pub. Conversations halt mid-sentence, dogs look up from their sleepy carpet naps — the baby of the pub has arrived. There are many children that frequent this pub, but only one baby who commands the attention and respect of his people so totally. His ginger hair like lit birthday candles, his hands grasping and waving, he is the pub’s favourite patron, and this evening, everyone is blessed with his presence.
As his mum carries him to the bar, men of all ages gather around to tell him how well his toothypegs are getting on. He smiles beatifically at his audience, grinning gummily, the pearly-white objects of approval getting a real airing. Clever boy! Stunning boy! A group of birthday party celebrators in glittery blouses and smart shirts form a circle around him, taking it in turns to kiss his outstretched hands as though they are gilded in sovereigns and a figaro chain. At the bar he reaches chubby fingers out at other people’s pints, amazed by the shiny glass, the bubbles, or the beer inside. He is big for his age, but he’s nowhere near old enough for one of his own, no matter what he tells you in convincing baby dialect. He likes to chew the beer mats, so we have to hide them. He likes to grab the beers, so we have to keep hold of them. He wants to be a part of everything, and so we place him at the centre of this little universe, happily dancing in his seat to the tune of an entire pub full of people joining in to sing “Wind The Bobbin Up,” including three men stood at the bar who would ordinarily stay stoic and silent in the face of small talk.
There are people who think children shouldn’t be in pubs, but I couldn’t disagree more fervently. I think that not only should children be actively made to feel at home in pubs, people should take it upon themselves to show them how to use a pub properly—it takes a village. Pubs are unusual spaces in 2024, there’s nothing else like them in our society. They are places of enjoyment and relaxation, where strangers talk freely and the world of work is far away. People speak differently in pubs, they act differently too, and the sooner a little one can learn the implicit rules and manners of the public house, the better. The kids you don’t like in pubs are the ones who don’t know how to act in one — maybe they’re loud, or they “run around,” a common complaint from patrons which I rarely see happening in real life. It’s important to remember that nobody knows anything unless somebody takes the time to teach them. That pub goers expect children to sit silently in a corner while everyone else is having a grand old time is ridiculous. Get them involved in conversation, teach them how to play dominoes. The better they enjoy a pub thanks to your kindness, the more often their parents can visit and let their hair down a bit, and truly, that is the noblest deed.
The baby of the pub is one year old. He has been coming to the pub since he was old enough to be wrapped in a blanket. Because he’s been a regular for the entire first year of his life, he is treated as such. When he isn’t with us, people ask where he is and what he’s up to, as though he’s staying late at work, or he’s had to travel into the city. He isn’t our baby, I should point out. However, as close associates of his, we are often asked about his whereabouts, and told to pass on love, as though he will understand. Which, of course, he will. “Ah, lovely to hear from Gregg,” he’ll burble from his car seat. “Glad he’s doing alright.” There’s a wholesome friendliness that baby pubgoers elicit from almost everybody in the room, and I have to say, I take full advantage of it for my own benefit too. Even when I am without a baby sidekick, just saying his name gets me on everyone’s good side. I immediately have friends to talk to, and some cute common ground to discuss. Faces soften and anecdotes about his chubby cheeks are shared. It makes me wonder what else could possibly get people connecting like this. Pub dogs are great, but I’ve never seen one revered as a Don, as blessed as a saint, and with so many people eager to discuss them at length — their weight, height, how many words they can say (okay, the last one is unfair for the dog in this comparison, but you understand.) Perhaps I’ve been going to the wrong pubs.
I have photographs of him high-fiving random visitors to the pub, and of him taking early steps on the classic pub carpet. He will happily sit on my knee and wave across the bar at his fans—people I have seen for years in this pub but have never spoken to before. He claps his hands at the sight of a pint, even though none of us taught him this. It’s always funny, every single time. He enjoys the busy atmosphere and the twinkling fairy lights, the knick-knacks and the attention. I’m quite jealous of his pub experiences, since every single visit is a perfect one. He’s only ever felt love and cosiness here. As a child I also loved visiting pubs on occasion, but sometimes it was a drag. On quiet days I sat silent and as still as possible, possibly colouring in, or sipping lemonade through a straw, while the adults talked about boring adult things and time seemed to slow to a stop. Later I would be commended on my behaviour, for being such a good, quiet girl. There are many people who still believe this is how children should behave. I disagree. Some of the best conversations I have are with the kids I know. I’m glad the baby of the pub is never expected to blend into the wallpaper.
The baby of the pub is growing up in a world where the pub is a normal part of his life. It’s teaching him to treat the pub as a natural meeting place, rather than a posh restaurant or an illicit drinking den. He’s being taught to enjoy hanging out here. And why shouldn’t he? This was our favourite place long before he was born, and now it is his. It’s a pleasure and an honour to teach him the ways of our local pub, and as he grows we’ll have new milestones to celebrate — his first packet of Scampi Fries, his first lime and soda, the first time he flips a beermat. One day he’ll be getting the rounds in and teaching his friends how to properly order at the bar—what a thought! To bring our youngsters into the pub is to raise a new generation of pub-lovers, and help secure the future of our pubs. It’s essential and difficult work, carrying a cute baby around so everyone can get a cuddle, but somebody has to do it.
The beauty and importance and comfort of fictional food, from Serviette Magazine
A closer look at Titus Kaphar’s “Enough About You” (2016)
My Stuff
I’m heading to Stockport on Thursday 20th to pack and post the pre-ordered zines you’ve all ordered. There are nearly 200 of them! So thank you very much, I’ve never been happier to be so busy with envelope stuffing.
And I need one of you rich wine people to buy it for us
When I first visited L’Etiquette, the night ended with me and a fellow “wine person” drinking pink pét nat from the bottle on the banks of the seine.
I wrote about my experiences there for Pellicle — it was my first journey abroad after the pandemic, and I was deeply troubled, as I’m sure everybody was at that time. However, in L’Etiquette, owners Hervé and Elaine were steady hands at the rudder, bringing me in and pressing glasses of delicious natural wine into my hands. It was an important time to remember that life existed before Covid-19, and it would exist afterwards too. The grapes that made my wine grew before any of this had happened, of course, and I was in another country, no longer restricted to my house in the bleak heatwave of 2020.
I’m not alone. L’Etiquette means a lot to a great deal of people. It’s enviable position on a cobbled road just moments from Notre Dam on the Isle de Cité makes it a perfect place to visit on your tourist walking route, and it’s always busy, with fold-up tables and chairs spilling out over the pavement and into the street. Reason one why this wine bar needs to be snapped up quickly.
Not just by anyone. I want to run it with you, fictional rich group of fellow natural wine fans. And I’m going to tell you why I deserve to be brought in to help run such a beautiful little wine bar in the heart of Paris.
I really “get” the vibe here. There’s something underground and punky about the place — not in a James Watt way, in a genuinely subversive way, the way only a truly, authentic alternative person can be. Hervé and Elaine aren’t different to be contrarian. They are different because they just are. And I love that, and I can carry on that legacy.
I’m fun, and I know how to get excited about old rocks and roots lying around a shop.
Every single wine in the shop is worth waxing extremely lyrical about, and I’m not afraid to go entirely galactic with my descriptions and tasting notes.
I’ve had the full Hervé sulphur talk and understand it. I breathed in the rock and everything.
As a northern English person with an un-pin-downable accent that dresses like a 12 year old nu-metal boy, I can be an oddity that brings influencers over the river to call us a “hidden gem”.
Hervé gave me a corkscrew and I put it in my cabin luggage without thinking about it. I was stopped and searched for so long at Paris Charles de Gaulle I nearly missed my flight. When they took out the waiter’s friend, which had a sharp little knife on it too, of course, I said “oh sorry, I’m a sommelier” and the security guard went “Oh. A sommelier? Okay” and let me go pack my things back up and be on my way. I feel like this is a relevant story but I can’t remember why.
I love serving customers. I’m actually really good at it.
I love putting on events.
I’m really great at making friends with winemakers, because I’m happy to help with all the shitty winery jobs nobody else wants to do. Read: GRAFTER.
I might have no money to invest in the project, but you’ve never met someone who can happily live on less. Read: WILL NOT EMBEZZLE. WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT.
You can be the experts if you like, and swan around in red pants talking about volatile acidity, and I’ll do the stock counting, service and comms; as long as I can choose the playlists. Read: ZERO EGO. NO POWER GRABS. GREAT TUNES.
I hope this information has been useful to you, and to anyone I may have convinced, please email me directly to discuss our plans moving forward.
The city of Bangkok is a beautiful, mad place that I think about all the time. This piece by new writer to Pellicle Joey Leskin on indie beer in Thailand is based around the Chao Phraya river
In the corner of the New Inn, I deal cards. I’ve never been a master card player, but I’ve married into a family who take cards very seriously — don’t touch the discarded pile like that, keep your eyes on your own. I have a pack in my bag all the time, and we have our favourites. Mine, bought on the ferry back from the Isle of Man. Tom’s a pack of “standard “air cushion” Bicycle cards, the type poker players prefer. I’ve always wanted to shuffle like a croupier, but I’ve never actually practiced or tried. Story of my life.
We play Rummy. I have no memory for any of the other rules, despite my father in law trying to teach me Stop The Cab every few months. At high school, I used to play a game called shithead in the common room, we doubled the pack so the games would last forever, dragging on into lessons we should have gone to. These are some of my favourite school memories.
We bought a cribbage peg board, but I don’t know how to use it. I’ve seen people play it in the pub, but it seems like a lot of counting. I don’t like to count. I play cards the way I do everything in life — match the colours and shapes, bluff, act on the spur of the moment. It’s a part of my drinking experience, not the main focus of my attention. I would be terrible at Blackjack. I’d just keep hitting. Give me more cards. I want to see what the next one is. I passed my target a long time ago, but I’m still waiting for the King of Spades.
I can’t think about anything other than my zine at the moment, so that’s what you’re getting this week. I had a vague plan to write a researched rant about Eurosport fucking me over personally this year, but as with most things at the moment, the rage has subsided into a vague sense of resignation. I’ll pay the extra and take it out of the food budget, and they know I will. Watching sport on TV is one of my last remaining guilt-free pleasures in life. I was indignant at first, but they have well and truly got me over a barrel bench. Girl’s gotta have her Paris-Roubaix.
What I actually care about right now is getting the print copies of my zine back from the printers so I can stop worrying they’ll get printed back to front and inside the spine like Mark Corrigan’s Business Secrets of the Pharaohs. I’m also really excited about doing some events for it, which have mushroomed out of nowhere from one or two scattered little readings to what is tantamount to a tour, in small zine terms. I’ll have more information about that soon, I just need to finalise some dates and give my head a wobble.
I’m excited about the zine coming out because it’s the first piece of published work I’ll have out there that’s all made by me. I wrote it, I designed it, it was all my idea. It’s also really weird, and I love that for me. I didn’t go into my first print project feeling like I should be professional and reserved. Why not write a bunch of strange little stories and staple them all together? Who’s going to stop me?
Nobody, it turns out. In fact, I was actively encouraged by Matthew Curtis, editor of Pellicle, who edited each piece and has been leading the publication details. Does the world need my odd thoughts? I was worried for some time that in this time of devastation, misrule and violence there was nothing more pointless than my stories about beer and wine — but I’ve decided I don’t care. So the world doesn’t need my thoughts on drinking alcohol? Tough titties, babe! You’re getting them anyway. Enjoy!
Do you know why I’ve decided not to care about my own irrelevance? It’s because doing this makes me feel good. My zine gave me something to motivate me through the whole of last year while I was writing it, and it’s giving me a reason to excitedly wake up at 5am and check my emails to see if any more orders have come in now. Does the world need my writing? No. But I do. And that’s why I’m doing it. So when I announce my events, please come so we can cavort and celebrate irrelevance together. I will tell you some stories and we can forget everything for a little while, with our drinks and our lives and our moments all bundled up in a moment of fun, for no reason other than we deserve it.
