According to the new Guinness ad, it takes 119 seconds to pour the perfect pint. This revelation has come as a great shock to the bar staff of London, most of whom can pour one in the time it takes Maurice Greene to run 100 metres. 119 seconds? they scoff. That s pathetic. Sure, I can do it in less than 10. And all this without the aid of drugs, performance enhancing or otherwise.
You can see their point, though, if you look hard enough. If I was a barman who spent his life pouring pints for other people, I wouldn t strive for perfection either. However, I like to think I d make some pretence of going about it the right way, if only because I m something of a philanthropist. I ve always been of the opinion that there are too many miserable people in the world, so in order to rectify the situation, I do what little I can, when I can, to improve the lot of my fellow man. It s easy. For example, occasionally you find you ve discovered a new album, book or film that is so good you want to share it with everyone. You re so desperate for all your nearest and dearest to hear it, read it or watch it that you bore them into submission and afterwards, all going well, they thank you for it. In the hotpress offices, it happens all the time. For example, I remain eternally grateful to Stuart Clark for tying me to a chair one day and playing Screamadelica for my delectation with amps on 11; Liam Mackey insisted that Peter Cook s biography be included in my going-away present on the eve of my departure for Blighty and Craig Fitzsimons, the bollocks, once told me The English Patient was the greatest movie he d ever seen. As someone whose every foray to the cinema is plotted on the strength of this silver-tongued film critic s fortnightly recommendations, I took his word for it. Someday, I hope to forgive him. Still, two out of three ain t bad.
But back to the matter in hand. The truth of it is that in London pubs, every pint of stout is an adventure. Indeed, unless you sally forth to the ale house at 11am or hit the top shelf in the early evening, even drunkenness is a pipe dream. Bar staff in London are v-e-r-y s-l-o-w. It goes something like this. You walk into your hostelry of choice (which, for the sake of argument, we will say is relatively empty), catch the eye of the serving wench who is invariably drying glasses that aren t wet and ask for two pints of stout.
In a minute, I m serving someone, she ll invariably snap, even though a cursory glance up and down the bar reveals just two grizzly old men counting the spots on their dominoes. You bide your time until eventually she finishes her buffing, does a quick stock-take, replaces all the mixers, empties the ashtrays, rings her mother in Australia and finally deigns to wander over and ask what you d like to drink.
Two pints of stout, please, you repeat.
I beg your pardon?
Sorry, Guinness. Two pints of Guinness please.
Ordinary or Extra Cold?
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It s a question you wouldn t have the nerve to ask your best friend. You bite your lip, resisting the urge to caustically quip that if you d wanted Extra Cold you d have asked for Extra Cold. After all, you wouldn t go to Power City and ask for an extra cold fridge. No, you d just ask for a fridge, safe in the knowledge that when you bring it home and plug it in, it will be cold anyway. I can t speak for everyone, but where I come from, people who like their Guinness chilled order a plain old pint of plain. For some of the more rustic punters, though, even this is too cold, so they order a teapot of hot water in which to place it for a few minutes, in order to warm it up. But that s Birr
Meanwhile back in London, I patiently specify two pints of ordinary porter.
Within seconds, they are on the counter two big glasses brimful of dirty, viscous slop, not so much pulled by the barmaid as yanked, with all the loving tenderness and concentration of a Kings Cross hooker administering a #5 hand-job.
Um, aren t you supposed to let them settle for a while? I enquire.
So they say, she replies. But I don t really think it makes a difference.
There s no answer to that. Really, there isn t.
For the discerning lager drinker about London town, things are little better. You order your pint of Stella, pay through the nose for it and for your troubles get presented with a pint that is five parts lager, one part froth. Such is the sloth-like speed with which this transaction is completed that, by the time you receive your change, it is five parts lager, one part empty, the head having dissolved. It s no secret that vast swathes of London bar staff are encouraged to serve up beer in this slipshod manner as small pints = big profits. Amazingly enough, though, Johnny Brit seems to have accepted this arrangement as one of those things, in the same way that Dubliners stoically put up with their city s dearth of taxis. Paddy Irishman, on the other hand, has not accepted this arrangement at all, at all, to such an extent that the phrase: I m sorry, could you top that up please? has become an integral part of saloon bar spiel in SW12.
You read it here first boys and girls Barry Glendenning is getting too much head.