I can resist booze, but not the beer names of old England
The hypocrisy is sickening. All those articles I’ve written down the years, railing against the closures of pubs, and imploring readers to support their local boozer. And then, after all that, I go and give up drinking.
I know. It’s shameful. But, as I explain in today’s restaurant column (see Telegraph Magazine), I felt I had to lay off, at least for a bit. As a matter of fact, it was because of the restaurant column. All that rich food and booze wasn’t exactly ideal for my health. And, as it wouldn’t be much of a restaurant column if I gave up the rich food, it had to be the booze.
So far, it’s going pretty well. I don’t miss wine. I don’t miss gin. I don’t miss whisky. Or cider, vodka or cocktails. I can happily sit in a restaurant or bar, and not feel the slightest urge to order any of them.
But there is one thing that gives me pangs. Sad, fond little pangs. And that’s the names of English beer.
I’ve always loved the names of English beer. To me, they’re almost a kind of poetry. A poetry that evokes a warm, cheering nostalgia for a longlost world.
What a strange, eccentric, gargoyle beauty they have. Theakston’s Old Peculier. Duck’s Folly. Fuggle-Dee-Dum. Goacher’s Dark Mild. Badger’s Tanglefoot. Cadgwith Crabber. Musket Trigger. Figgy Pudding Porter. Nelson’s Blood. Betty Stogs. Ruddles.
I read those words, and in my mind I’m transported to a different, earlier England. An England of pipe smoke, poachers, blacksmiths and smugglers; of gaslight, stagecoaches, cobbles and coal. Farmers’ lanes and city slums; rolling smog and roaring hearths. I can see it. Hear it. Smell it. I’m there.
It isn’t a pretty England. It’s dark, gruff, murky and damp. I couldn’t date it exactly, but it definitely feels Dickensian. (Betty Stogs and Ruddles. Those could easily be characters from David Copperfield.)
Sentimental nonsense, I know. But they mean something to me, the images those peculiar names conjure – and they always added a small extra pleasure to drinking. They gave the beer character. They were part of its flavour.
The best pubs, I often think, are ones where you feel that the world outside has ceased to matter. That time has stopped, and may even be starting to wind slowly backwards.
Backwards, to a land that vanished before you were born, and yet you’ve somehow known all your life.
We hear a lot, these days, about the importance of respecting democracy. I admit, it’s a noble ideal. But look at it this way. Recently, someone I know was talking to a friend. The two of them don’t normally discuss politics. But on this occasion, the friend had a question. It was this. “Is Theresa May,” she asked, “going to run for President?” President? Of the United Kingdom? “Well, there’s going to be an election,” she explained. “Gordon Brown resigned.” Now, you may be thinking: Be fair. Some people, outside the reviled Westminster bubble in which you, Mr Deacon, so smugly dwell, have long been disillusioned with party politics, and for perfectly good reasons. Years ago, in all probability, this person simply decided to turn her back on the whole business – and withhold her vote.
Well, let me set you straight on that. Because the person we’re talking about – the person who thinks Gordon Brown recently resigned as President of the United Kingdom – is a regular voter. And not only that – she’s a Labour voter.
Look. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Democracy was a wellintentioned idea, and we gave it our best shot. But in the end, we’ve got to hold our hands up, and admit that it hasn’t really worked out.
Absolute monarchy. Traditional. Tried-and-tested. It’s the only way.
Then again: in one area at least, democracy is more vibrant than ever. It’s the petitions section of the Parliament website. Only this week, MPs were obliged to hold a debate on whether Donald Trump’s state visit should be cancelled – after 1.8 million people signed a petition saying it should, and 314,000 people signed one saying it shouldn’t.
These petitions to Parliament don’t have to be about politics, though. They can be about anything. Try browsing the list of petitions that have been rejected. It’s fascinating, addictive – and a reminder of what a nation of oddballs we are.
A few recent examples. Bring Back Waterloo Road to Our Screens on Wednesdays. Make Monday a Part of the Weekend. Make Red Bull £1 Instead of £1.19.
My favourite petition to Parliament, however, was launched two weeks ago. Its title: “All Food Should Have a Flag In It So We Know What It Is.”
The petition doesn’t elaborate on this demand – beyond adding that it “should be a mandatory requirement” – and so I suppose we have no option but to take it at face value. It’s a demand that all food – all food – should have a flag in it. So we know what it is.
Take bananas. They should have flags in them, so we know what they are. A little flag, sticking out of each banana, stating clearly and legibly: “BANANA”.
And potatoes, they should have flags in them. And coconuts, and pears, and chips, and baked beans. Not just the tin – obviously that needs a flag on it – but also each individual bean, inside.
I appreciate, of course, that some foods are harder than others to stick flags into. Peanuts, say. It’s not easy, sticking a flag in a peanut. They just split in two. You try it. With peanuts, therefore, we’d need a bit of lateral thinking. Maybe some Blu-Tack. Blob of that on each peanut, that should hold the flag in place. The flag that says, in big bold letters, so it’s easy to read: “PEANUT.”
I know, the cynics will scoff. But think what a boost it would be to our tiny-flag manufacturing industry.
Post-Brexit, this could be just the shot in the arm our economy needs.