Ales Ain't Ales...

First Published in The Skinny, September 1, 2009

The rustic surroundings that are so very thrilling to all who drive among them can raise a bit of beer lust around midday but, given that your designated driver issues have been amicably resolved for the day, here’s the thing – the level of inebriation acquired very much depends on the establishment in which one imbibes.

The Edwardian ‘Family Hotel’ features a fierce matriarch with all the bonhomie of a Temperance Society secretary who will kill, with a glance, all those who attempt to take two beers at luncheon.

Or avoid being decapitated by the silver platters held aloft by a jeté of ex-ballet students named Felicity at the newly renovated Georgian inn and you will find a bar festooned with every ale from Alaska to Zimbabwe, but your partaking will be impaired by the amount of time taken to choose one and the size of the mortgage required to buy it.

Meanwhile, the chances of getting even slightly tipsy at that pub down a side street off another side street are negligible as not even the locals know that it’s there and so it makes up for lost revenue by serving a heady blend of stale Carlton Draught and tap water.

Or there is a young people’s idle hours alehouse just on the edge of town full of good food and good humour that is a guaranteed good time if, however, you don’t mind waiting until everywhere else is shut for the good time to start.

That leaves the micro-breweries nestled out there in the leafy undergrowth run by fanatics who will keep you riveted to the spot both with stories of specific gravities, the extract point of American six-row malt and a selection of their product – beer strong enough to immobilize livestock.

Or maybe you would prefer wine…?